The night carried no wind, yet the curtains in the small apartment trembled. It was not the air that moved them, but something far heavier—silence.
A offal and crimson stain stretched across the wooden floorboards, glistening under the dim light of a flickering bulb. Beside it lay a porcelain teacup, shattered, its fragments scattered like broken truths. The room smelled of iron and sorrow, thick enough to choke.
The figure who stood over the body did not tremble. His eyes were hollow, his hands steady. Murder, to him, was not rage. It was release.
He whispered, almost tenderly:
"Every tear has a price. Tonight, you've paid yours."
And with that, the silent tragedy began