The room was silent, save for the faint hiss of a dying candle. Shadows pressed against the walls, long and liquid, as if eager to swallow the last flicker of light.
He sat at the desk, hands steady, movements deliberate. The tools lay before him in perfect symmetry—blade, needle, vial. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Precision was the only religion he knew.
On the table, a small brass compass lay cracked down its center, its needle twitching uselessly as though it, too, had lost its way. He traced the broken glass with a gloved fingertip. The compass was not an instrument. It was a creed. Order born from fracture. Silence born from chaos.
The feather came next—sleek, black, weightless in his hand. He laid it across an open book, pressing it flat against the yellowed page. Every signature needed a flourish. Every story, an ending.
He leaned back, eyes closing, listening to the rhythm of his breath. For a moment, the line between memory and imagination blurred. He could almost hear the victim's final exhale, soft as prayer.
Too loud, the thought whispered. The last one was too loud.
The candle guttered, drowning the room in darkness.
A whisper followed, low and certain, spoken only to himself:
"The work continues."