Gray left the office at exactly five. The elevator descended slowly, stopping at every floor, letting in people with tired faces and empty stares. Someone was talking on the phone, someone was looking at a screen, someone simply stood, staring into space. Gray stood in the corner, feeling the weight of the tablet in his jacket's inner pocket. In the tablet was everything. The file on Dorian Korvan. Seven names. Seven dates. Seven deaths that no one had seriously investigated.
«You are too calm,» said the Count.
The dog sat at his feet, pressed into the corner of the elevator. No one paid him any attention because he did not exist. But Gray felt the warmth of his body, heard his breathing.
"I am always calm before a mission," Gray replied mentally.
«No. Before, you were calm because you believed in your rightness. Now you are calm because you no longer doubt. These are different things.»
"Explain."
The Count lifted his head, his yellow eyes glinting in the elevator's artificial light.
«When you believe, you allow for the possibility of error. You check, recheck, look for weaknesses. When you do not doubt, you stop seeing details. And details, Gray, are what separate you from them.»
Gray did not reply. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped into the cool lobby of the Crystal. The security guard at the reception desk nodded to him; Gray nodded back. A ritual, nothing personal.
Outside, the wind greeted him. From the west came the scent of hot sand; from the east, damp earth and pine needles. Grayron lived by its contrasts, and tonight they were especially pronounced. The sky above the desert burned orange, while above the forests, blue shadows were already gathering.
Gray walked. Not to the subway, not to a bus stop. He simply walked, letting his feet carry him where they were accustomed. Along Arcona Boulevard, past glass storefronts and street cafes where people drank evening coffee and discussed their small affairs. He knew this route by heart. In twenty minutes on foot, he would reach the Cassiopeia Embankment, and from there the Crystal Heart was just a stone's throw away.
«Tell me about the first time,» said the Count, walking beside him.
Gray winced.
"You were there."
«I was. But I want to hear how you remember it. In your own words.»
Gray was silent. He passed a flower shop where a vendor was watering hydrangeas with a long watering can. The water smelled of iron and freshness.
"Aiden Crow," he said finally. "Former soldier. Five women. He killed the first in '29, the last in '31. The police knew. They had fingerprints, witness statements, even a surveillance recording showing Crow leaving the last victim's building. But the case was closed. Crow worked for the mayor's security advisor. The cover-up was solid."
«I remember. I didn't ask "who." I asked "how did you feel."»
Gray stopped at a traffic light. Red. He waited, watching the blinking pedestrian figure.
"At first, nothing," he said. "I tracked him. Studied his habits. He drank every Friday at a bar on Wind Street, came home around two in the morning, collapsed on his bed, and passed out. I entered through the back. He didn't even wake up."
Green. Gray crossed the road without quickening his pace.
"I stood over him and watched. I thought: "This man killed five women. He raped them, strangled them, dumped their bodies in the park. And he sleeps peacefully." I expected to feel anger. Or hatred. Or at least satisfaction. But I felt nothing. Just emptiness."
«And then?»
"Then I killed him. With a pillow. Quieter than putting down a sick dog. And when he stopped breathing, I dragged him to the roof, sat him in a chair, turned him to face the city. He always liked the view to the west, toward the desert. I decided, let him look at it one last time."
The Count was silent. They walked along the Cassiopeia Embankment, where the artificial canal glittered in the sunset, reflecting skyscrapers and clouds.
"And then," Gray continued, "I went home, took a shower, went to sleep. In the morning, I woke up, watched the news. They called it a suicide. I thought: "Good." And went to work."
«You felt no guilt?»
"No."
«No regret?»
"No."
The Count stopped. Gray took a few steps before also halting.
«You are lying,» said the dog.
Gray turned.
«You felt something. You felt fear. Not of the police. Of yourself. Because you realized it had been easy. Too easy. And you were afraid you had enjoyed it.»
Gray looked at the Count for a long time. The dog did not avert his gaze.
"Yes," Gray said finally. "I was afraid. I thought I was going mad. That I would become like Crow. That's why I waited almost a year before deciding on the second one."
«And what changed?»
"The second was different. Not a soldier, not a killer. A financier who embezzled a pension fund. Three thousand old people lost their money. He bought himself a yacht, a villa on the south coast, while people who had worked their whole lives couldn't afford medicine. Four of them died. I checked everything. Every number, every date, every death."
«And?»
"I didn't kill him. I gathered the documents, posted them online, sent them to the tax authority. He was arrested a week later. But he was out in two months. Lawyers, connections, bribes. He lost the yacht but kept the villa. And the old people never got their money back."
Gray turned and walked on. The Count caught up with him in a few steps.
«After that, you understood that the system doesn't work,» said the dog.
"I understood that the system works for those with money and power. Crow killed women and slept soundly because he worked for the advisor. The financier robbed the elderly and walked out of prison in two months because he hired the best lawyers. And Korvan's girls… seven girls, Count. The youngest was thirteen. Her name was Olga Morozova. She went to school, loved dogs, dreamed of becoming a doctor. And no one, do you hear me, no one punished the man who killed her."
Gray's voice broke on the last words. He fell silent, composed himself.
«That's why you do it openly,» said the Count. «You don't hide the bodies. You put them on display.»
"Yes. So they see. So they cannot look away. So that everyone who passes asks themselves: "Why?""
«And what do you want to hear in response?»
Gray did not answer. They emerged onto the square in front of the Crystal Heart. The enormous glass-and-steel building shone with thousands of lights. People entered and exited, hurrying to trains, to buses, to their lives. No one looked up at the sixth floor, where the Fuji restaurant was located, where in three hours Dorian Korvan would return for a forgotten folder.
---
Gray did not enter the building. There were too many people, too many cameras. He circled the complex on the north side, where the technical zone began. Here it was quieter, darker, smelling of concrete and machine oil.
He found the fire exit he had checked in the morning. The door was unlocked. Gray glanced around, pushed it open, and slipped inside. The smell of dampness, graffiti on the walls, pipes overhead. His footsteps sounded muffled, like heartbeats.
«You verified this route?» asked the Count, moving alongside.
"Five times. The exit leads to an alley behind the station. There are no cameras there. From there to Wind Street, and from Wind Street to Central Avenue. In the crowd, I won't be noticed."
«And the body?»
"Korvan will leave here on his own. Alive. Everything will happen where I can control the situation."
The Count stopped, sniffed the air. A strange movement for a hallucination, but Gray was used to it.
«Someone was here. Recently. Homeless?»
Gray examined the floor. Empty cans, cigarette butts, an old mattress in the corner. Yes, people slept here. But by nine in the evening, they would head to the square to beg. He had studied their schedule. Everything was accounted for.
«You think too much about logistics and too little about psychology,» said the Count.
"What do you mean?"
«Korvan. You've studied his habits, his schedule, his weaknesses. But you haven't thought about what will happen when he understands. When he looks into your eyes and sees that you are not the police, not a blackmailer, not an enemy he can buy or intimidate. That you are something else.»
Gray froze. In the darkness of the tunnel, the Count's eyes glowed yellow.
«You are not afraid that the plan will fail,» the dog continued. «You are afraid that when you look into Korvan's eyes, you will not see a monster. You will see a man. Frightened, pathetic, crushed. And then you will have to answer the question: do you have the right to kill a man, even if he is a monster?»
Gray exhaled slowly.
"I asked myself that question four years ago. When Siena was found in the park. The answer hasn't changed."
«What answer?»
"If no one punishes evil, evil wins. I do not want to live in a world where evil wins."
He continued down the tunnel, counting his steps. One hundred and twenty steps to the exit. One hundred and twenty steps, and he would be back on the street, in the city that knew nothing.
---
By nine in the evening, Gray was in the alley behind the Crystal Heart. He stood in the shadow of an old air conditioning unit, watching the fire exit door. Beside him, on a bench, sat the Count, enormous and calm as a stone statue.
"Tell me something," Gray asked.
«About what?»
"Anything. It's too quiet. I'm starting to hear my own thoughts, and that's dangerous."
The Count thought for a moment. Then he said:
«You know that after Korvan, everything will change. Before, your victims were insignificant. Crow, a small-time war criminal. Vale, a producer no one was protecting anyway. But Korvan… he has connections. Money. A name. When he is found, the police won't be able to pretend it was a suicide. They will start digging.»
"I know."
«Are you ready for what they might find?»
Gray was silent for a moment.
"I am ready for them to try."
«That is not enough. You think you are smarter than everyone. That your system is perfect. But a system, Gray, is something that collapses at the worst possible moment. Like a bridge built with love but built without accounting for wind load.»
Gray smirked.
"Are you comparing me to a bridge?"
«I am comparing your confidence to an engineer's mistake. You design perfect crimes, but you forget that in each one, there is a human factor. Your factor. You are tired. You haven't slept properly in three days. You have looked at photographs of seven dead girls for so long that they have become for you not people, but symbols. And when you stop seeing people, you stop being a judge. You become an executioner.»
Gray closed his eyes. Leaned the back of his head against the cold wall.
"You are right," he said quietly. "I am tired. I look at them and I don't see their faces anymore, I see numbers. Seven. Thirteen. Four years. I'm afraid that one day I will wake up and realize I don't care anymore. That I'm not killing for justice, but because it's the only thing I know how to do."
«Has that already happened?»
Gray opened his eyes. Looked at his hands. Calm, steady. The hands of an architect who built bridges. The hands of a killer who ended lives.
"I don't know," he said. "That's why I do it openly. So that every time I look at the body, I see what I have done. So that I cannot hide behind the words "it was necessary.""
«And what do you see?»
Gray was silent for a long time. The watch on his wrist ticked, counting down the seconds until the moment Dorian Korvan would enter the Fuji restaurant for his forgotten folder.
"I see Olga Morozova," he said finally. "Thirteen years old. She loved dogs. Wanted to be a doctor. Her mother still goes into her room every morning and sits on the bed, even though she knows her daughter will not return. I saw her at the funeral. She didn't cry. She just sat and looked at the coffin. I went up to her, wanted to say something. I couldn't."
The Count rose from the bench. Approached Gray, laid his heavy head on his knee.
«You remember. That's what matters. You remember why you do this. When you stop remembering, then I will tell you to stop.»
"You will tell me?"
«I always say what you don't want to hear. That's my job.»
Gray ran his hand over the Count's fur. Coarse, warm, real. Or perhaps it only seemed real to him.
"And if I don't listen?"
The Count lifted his head. His yellow eyes looked calmly, without a hint of a smile.
«You will listen. Because I am not a hallucination, Gray. I am not an illness or a symptom. I am you. That voice you try to drown out with work, calculations, plans. I am your conscience. And as long as you have it, you will not become a monster.»
Gray was about to reply when he heard footsteps. Someone was walking through the tunnel from the other side. Light, confident. Not a homeless person. Not a security guard.
He stepped deeper into the shadows, pressing against the wall. The Count vanished, dissolved into the air, as he always did when other people appeared.
A man emerged from the fire exit door. Middle-aged, in an expensive suit, with a leather briefcase in his hand. He stopped, looked around, took out his phone. The screen illuminated his face. Smooth-shaven, well-fed, confident.
Dorian Korvan.
Gray froze. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing calm. He looked at the man who had killed seven girls. Who was planning an eighth. Who slept peacefully every night because he knew: money bought everything. Even justice.
"Tonight," he said to himself.
Korvan dialed a number, put the phone to his ear. He spoke quietly, but in the silence of the alley, the words were distinct.
«Yes, I'm out. Forgot a folder, had to go back. No, everything's fine. Wait for me at the entrance, I'll be there in five minutes.»
He put away his phone, adjusted his tie, and headed toward the alley's exit onto Wind Street.
Gray did not move from his spot. He watched Korvan's figure shrink, merge with the shadows, disappear around the corner.
«Why didn't you follow him?» asked the Count, appearing from nowhere.
"Not the time. Tonight, I only watch. Memorize. Confirm."
«Confirm what?»
"That he really came back for the folder at eight thirty. That security doesn't accompany him. That he is alone. Tomorrow I will check again. And the day after…"
He did not finish. Stepped out of the shadows, stretched, working out his stiff muscles. The watch showed nine forty-five. He had time. A few days. Perhaps a week.
«The day after tomorrow,» said the Count, «you will do it. And then there will be no turning back.»
Gray looked at the sky. The stars over Grayron were pale, blurred by the light of the skyscrapers. Somewhere out there, to the east, across the river, began the real forests, where there were no lights, no cameras, no police. Where a man could be himself.
"There was no turning back from the moment Siena died," Gray said. "I have simply been walking that path, pretending I could turn off at any moment. But I never turned. And I will not."
He walked out of the alley onto Wind Street. It was crowded, noisy, safe. He blended into the crowd, let it carry him toward Central Avenue, toward home, toward the night that would change nothing.
But he knew: it would change. Soon, everything would change.
The Count walked beside him, silent and enormous, and only once, when Gray was already entering the doorway of his building, did the dog say:
«You asked what I see when you look at your hands. I don't see Olga Morozova. I see you. Standing over Crow with a pillow in your hands. Standing on the roof when you sat him in the chair. And I see you smile. Just for a second. But you smiled.»
Gray stopped. Did not turn around.
"You are lying," he said.
«Perhaps,» replied the Count. «But you will never know for sure. Because I cannot lie. I am you. And you do not know whether you smiled that day or not. You don't remember. And that is the most frightening thing, Gray. Not that you kill. But that you have stopped remembering what it was like.»
Gray entered the doorway. Without looking back. Because he knew: if he looked back, the Count would not be there. But his voice would remain. The voice he could not drown out, because it was his own voice. The one he heard every night when the city fell asleep, and he sat on the balcony watching the lights, thinking about what he had become and what he would become.
The apartment was dark. Gray did not turn on the lights. He walked to the window, sat in the armchair. Down below, Central Avenue hummed, neon signs blinked, someone laughed, someone argued, someone hurried home to where they were waiting.
But he sat in the darkness and looked at the photograph of Siena, which he could not see but knew was there. Smiling. Standing by the fountain. Living in that time which could not be returned.
"Would you have understood me?" he asked quietly.
The photograph did not answer. And the Count was silent. For the first time in a long while, Gray was alone. Completely alone, with his righteousness and his doubts, which weighed the same.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the face of Olga Morozova. Thirteen years old. Dogs. A dream of becoming a doctor. He had seen it at the funeral, in the photograph in the file, in his dreams. But now, when he closed his eyes, he saw only Korvan. Confident, well-fed, alive. And his own hands. Calm, steady.
"The day after tomorrow," he said into the emptiness.
No one answered. And that was the most frightening thing.