Dear Paper Frankenstein,
Patience is the most underrated tool in an artist's arsenal. A painter must wait for acrylics or oils to set; a sculptor for the clay or plaster to dry. Yesterday, I learned exactly how long I must wait for the human body to become a masterpiece.
It takes precisely thirty-one hours and forty-four minutes.
I discovered this because Alexandru Mirov, demonstrating the full extent of his resources, provided me with a live, encrypted feed of Withmore's garish, vulgar apartment. I sat in the pristine silence of the underground lab uninterruptedly for thirty-eight hours, occasionally sipping a cup of perfectly brewed espresso, and watched the final hours of Walter William Withmore unfold on a high-definition monitor from the comfort of an ergonomic chair. To be precise, I closely monitored his every breath from the moment he returned from tutoring me, until Victor made his charming appearance on the floor of my first actual exhibition.
It was an exquisite educational experience, Frankie. I observed the incubation period with a stopwatch. He arrived home two and a half hours after our goodbyes, and he remained his usual, repulsive self for the following three hours. Then, Frankie, it finally got interesting: I saw him frantically searching for his saturimeter and blood pressure monitor, taking vitals and reading parameters he could barely understand. It was so satisfying. He also kept calling people—probably doctors or his parents—in a complete panic, only to be bluntly ignored.
It entertained me to the point that I didn't notice a growling, guttural laugh escaping my lips until I almost spilt my beloved coffee on you, Franky. I certainly couldn't risk that. Sorry, bestie.
After being ignored, he paced around his living room, yelled at someone on his phone, and poured himself a glass of expensive scotch. He turned on the huge TV. MUBI, of course; he's far too pseudo-intellectual for standard TV shows or Netflix. How pathetic. Then, the refined creation of his did its job. The neuromuscular transmission became gradually more fragile, starting around 12:52 AM. By 2:00 AM, the unmistakable signs of peripheral paralysis were showing more by the minute. His hands failed before his mind. He dropped his heavy glass onto the cowhide rug. His eyelids were becoming chemically heavier, as if he were fighting an impossible exhaustion or a severe hangover.
Around four in the morning, I believe he wanted to go to bed, so he tried to stand, but his legs refused to receive the command from his brain. Instead, he dragged himself there and spent the rest of the day in bed. At 4:00 PM, he made a brief appearance at his golden toilet and then moved to his studio. He was essentially using every ounce of his willpower, because by now, every muscle in his body was working against him. Ah, by the way, Franky, he really does have a golden toilet... I am totally at a loss for words. I feel so bad for his interior designer.
The descending flaccid paralysis was a thing of terrifying beauty. It moved like a silent wave up from the periphery to his face and lungs. He slumped back into his red leather armchair. I could see the panic in his eyes—wide, darting, trapped. He was entirely lucid, fully aware of his surroundings, but his vocal cords were frozen. He couldn't scream. He couldn't reach for his phone.
His last thirty-three minutes were pure, unadulterated poetry: his chest stopped rising. His diaphragm forgot how to pull oxygen into his lungs. He became a living statue, and then, silently and without spilling a single drop of blood, he became just a statue. A flawless erasure.
This morning, at 1:08 AM, the exhibition was officially ready for the opening.
I was so proud of my curation project that I couldn't stop watching the feed. I saw the horrified public admiring my art, from the housekeeper to Victor, all acting terribly sorry for the unfortunate end of a young man. I wish I had been there selling tickets, Frankie!
The doctor arranged for a private viewing. He invited me to his personal reign, the city morgue, long after the standard shifts had ended. When I arrived, the sterile, metallic scent of the autopsy room felt like walking into a sanctuary. His sanctuary, to me, felt like walking through the labyrinthine archives of a prestigious art gallery hidden far away from the vulgar public.
Victor was standing next to a steel table, reading a medical file. On the table lay Withmore: pale, rigid, and still completely unremarkable.
"Ruptured cerebral aneurysm," Victor said, his deep voice echoing in the cold room. He didn't look up from his clipboard, but a smooth smile played on his lips. "A massive, sudden intracranial haemorrhage. Fast, catastrophic, unfortunate. At least, that is what the official autopsy report and death certificate will say. No one questions a clean aneurysm. I have already signed them."
He finally looked at me, his dark grey eyes alight with genuine admiration. "I searched his blood, his tissues, his stomach contents. Nothing. Whatever solvent you used broke the toxin down completely. There's no biological footprint left, Vera. You painted a masterpiece, and you left no brushstrokes."
Before I could accept the compliment, the heavy metal doors of the morgue swung open.
It was Chloe.
She looked nervous, her hands trembling slightly inside the pockets of a dark brown, oversized fur coat. Mirov had told her it was done, but she needed to see it. She needed to see the monster who had abused her reduced to nothing.
She walked slowly towards the steel table. Victor stepped back, respectfully granting her the space.
Chloe stared down at Withmore's lifeless face. I expected her to cry, or perhaps to spit on him. He deserved that, actually.
I watched the transformation happen in real-time. The trauma and the fear that had clouded her eyes for months completely dissolved. They were replaced by a cold, sharp, overwhelming sense of power. She looked at Withmore, and then she looked at me, her eyes shining with absolute reverence.
I didn't just give her revenge, Franky. I gave her an aesthetic salvation. I showed her that the chaotic, ugly noise of the world could be curated and silenced.
"He looks so... pathetic," Chloe whispered, her voice steadying. She reached out and traced a finger over the cold steel edge of the table, never touching him. "He thought he was a god. And you just... switched him off."
She turned to face me, her posture straightening, the chameleon-like socialite shedding her skin to reveal the predator beneath.
"I know everyone in this city, Vera," Chloe said, her eyes burning with a dark, newfound purpose. "I know the company owners, the bankers, the politicians, the billionaires, and the wives they cheat on. I know where the noise comes from. I can find you new, fresh canvases to paint on. I can weave the narratives to make sure no one ever looks in your direction while you work."
Victor stepped forward, adjusting his immaculate cuffs, standing shoulder to shoulder with us.
"And I will curate the aftermath," Victor added smoothly. "I am the gatekeeper of the dead. I will ensure the nosy police department sees nothing but tragic, natural causes."
I looked at the two of them. A medical examiner to control the science, and a social manipulator to control the stage. They were the perfect frame for my work. Mirov may be my patron, but Victor and Chloe... they are my sharpest instruments, my supporting structure. Without them, everything would collapse.
The Unholy Trinity is officially formed. The era of messy, loud experiments is over. We are going to curate this city, Frankie. One silent masterpiece at a time.
Bye Franky,
Vera