Just another night. Another case. Another breath pulled through clenched teeth.
The shrieking sirens split the silence of midnight, growing louder as the ambulances approached. The city held its breath. And we stood there....frozen. Detectives, trained and hardened by years of death and depravity, now rendered speechless.
Not one body. Not two. It was the 394th murder.
So brutal. So inhuman.
The apartment was chaos turned to art....shards of glass scattered like snowflakes from a nightmare, blood painted the walls in grotesque spirals and splashes. Yet... there was no smell of blood. Only the heavy, strange scent of roses lingering in the air, thick and unnatural. A scent that shouldn't belong here. A scent that somehow made the massacre feel beautiful. Sacred, almost.
No one spoke. We just started taking notes. Mechanical. Hollow.
Until we found it....
A note. A small, ivory paper curled like a flower petal.....sometimes under the bed, sometimes on the corpse, sometimes tucked beneath a cabinet leg. But always near the dead. Always written in that same shimmering silver ink, as if the words had been plucked from the sky and poured out through moonlight.
Each note held something different. Sometimes a confession. Sometimes a regret. But always, always the last thoughts of the victim....their final pain, their hidden truth, the agony no one else ever heard.....Each phrase resonated like a confession whispered in a graveyard...beautiful, tragic, and utterly damning. The voices of those crushed beneath her cold artistry, their darkest fears bleeding through the silver ink in haunting verse. The silent screams of the forgotten...
like:
"I looked around and found no one. I pushed myself to the edges, climbing a mountain made of shattered glass. I bled on my way, but at the summit... I was pushed back down, over and over again. Not caring how hurt I already was..."
Poetry of the broken soul.
And I knew. I knew who had done this. Who had crafted this.
I whispered the name, my voice barely audible over the quiet thrum of fear that gripped me...
"Veronica."
Her name alone could shake the air.
My thoughts spiraled. My mind was a labyrinth of adrenaline, confusion.... I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"Lucien! Snap out of it" one of the detective yelled.
But I wasn't listening anymore. My eyes had drifted to the window....and that's when I heard it. That voice. Her voice.
Soft. Lulling. Haunting.
Singing.
"Hush now, darling, close your eyes…
The stars have bled their lullabies…"
Chills crawled up my spine. My body moved on instinct. I unholstered my gun, checked the chamber, and without a word, climbed through the window like a phantom.
No one noticed. No one stopped me.
My boots touched the rooftop, and there she was.
Veronica.
Barefoot. Gliding. Dancing under the pale moonlight like a spirit that belonged to another world. Her long white hair floated around her like strands of silk woven by ghosts. The city was her stage. The rooftop her altar.... She continued singing
"Fall through mirrors, break the light…
Let the dark undo the night…"
I raised my gun. My hands trembled. I fired...seven times.
She dodged every bullet like she knew their path before I even pulled the trigger. She never looked at me. Not once. Her hand moved slowly to her heart, as if cradling it. She smiled. Peacefully. Devastatingly.
Her crimson eyes finally met mine.
And I froze.
I couldn't shoot. I couldn't breathe. My knees locked.
And then....she leapt. A silent swan dive off the rooftop's edge. Her white dress fluttered. Her song echoed.
"Crimson tears on porcelain cheeks…
Silence speaks where sorrow speaks…"
I crawled to the edge. My vision blurred. She was gone.
"ARGHHHHHH!"
I roared and fell to my knees. My fists slammed the rooftop.
She had escaped. Again.
My team reached me moments later. I barely heard them.
"SHE GOT AWAY! I COULDN'T SHOOT HER.....SHE GOT AWAY, DAMN IT!"
But no one said anything....
Because no one knew the truth..
That no one saw her or could shoot her except me.....