Chapter 2
VICTORIA
The apartment is quiet and colder than it should be, given the unusually warm spring we’re having.
My body moves on autopilot, going straight to the bathroom. The mirror doesn’t surprise me anymore. I look like I always do after a job: blank and emotionless. I got used to it.
I’m about to turn the faucet on and splash some water on my face when something catches my eye, stopping me in my tracks and drawing me a few slow steps closer to the mirror: liquid red, trailing down my cheek.
For a second, I’m almost…surprised. The fucker cut me. How did I miss it? Did he somehow manage to touch me? With what? Maybe I’m even sicker than I thought, and now, not only does my brain go numb, but my body also loses its senses. But that possibility quickly vanishes when I realize it.
It isn’t mine.
It is his.
It is the sticky blood he left behind. I raise my hand, drawing a line through it with my finger, smearing it like war paint. I bring it up to my lips, and I pause, my tongue nearly ready to savor it. You promised you’d stop this.
Despite my pleasure being cut out by my consciousness, a shiver crawls up my spine, and that deep satisfaction flares up again.
I marvel at the blood, fascinated by its presence. It is the living proof I was close, close enough to tear off pieces of him and claim them for myself. Proof I reached into his soul and pulled out the life. His blood is mine now.
I move on, resuming the post-kill ritual. It’s the reason my life is still held together, so I meticulously perform it after a job is done.
First, I let the bathtub fill up while I cross the apartment to the kitchen and go straight for the cabinet where the wine bottle waits. It’s dark red, almost black, and its weight in my hand is a tangible reminder of the night’s work.
With a sharp pop, I remove the cork, letting the scent fill the air. I watch the liquid pour into the glass, its color a match of what had been spilled tonight. They bleed the blood so my wineglass can be filled.
Walking back into the bathroom, I step into the tub, letting the water take me inch by inch.
What happened tonight should never happen again. I almost slipped. The self-control that was so easy to maintain in the past now hangs by a thread, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. It’s the battle of my brain against me, and I’m losing.
But what’s the alternative? Replace my life with the one I had fifteen years ago, before all that happened? Very realistic. Running again is also not an option.
Think, Victoria, think. How can your brain be reset?
Or at least, find something else worth fixating on, something that would entice any sort of entertainment.
I bring the glass to my lips, letting the warmth of the alcohol invade my chest while the warmth of the water envelops my body.
It seeps beneath my skin, easing the tension spreading through me and chasing away the last voices invading my mental space.
I close my eyes, allowing the calmness to claim me, just for a little while.
As I drift in my thoughts, the thrill of the mission comes back to me.
His eyes, when he first saw me, filled with carnal desire.
Surprise, followed by fear. Fuck, the fear in his eyes.
The blade, slicing through his skin, layer by layer, the blood leaving his inert body.
The godlike thrill of delivering death, the absolute power over his body.
I might not be in the right state of mind, but that feeling? I could never want it to go away.
Just like that, a familiar sensation rushes through my body, warming the core and aching right between the legs. Killing is physically exhausting, but it’s also the best type of foreplay.
I move my hand, tracing every inch of my body with my fingers, from the already hardened nipples to that spot behind my ear.
I take my time until the touch becomes unbearable, and my body begs for more.
The water around me feels like liquid silk against my skin, and I find myself moving, searching for the friction it cannot provide.
My other hand moves to my throat, wrapping around it as tightly as possible. It’s the pressure that centers me, invades my senses, and keeps me in control. I need the danger and the thrill, but my hand cannot take me that far.
Right in this moment, nothing about how I almost screwed up tonight matters anymore. How I almost let my demons take over. All that matters is this moment, when the water mixes with my arousal, and the only sensation I feel is my aching pussy begging to be stimulated. I feel a sense of liberation.
Slipping my hand down between my legs, I circle my clit tenderly, avoiding any firm pressure. It’s too slow and agonizing, but I’m still holding myself like self-induced torture is a control.
All I need is something stronger, something that will touch me with more than just a few brush strokes. How about a real cock from time to time?
Unfortunately, the closest thing to that is the vibrator on the vanity. I turn it on low, and now the room fills with a buzzing sound.
The hum sends shocks through my body as it replaces my fingers. For a moment, I forget my name as my brain is invaded by pleasure. The slow movement from my thighs to the entrance of my pussy does nothing to my swollen clit that is begging to be touched.
Every time I’m about to orgasm, I remove the toy, only to place it back a second later, turning up the speed. I’m not in a rush to finish this foreplay.
My pussy is still getting used to the sensation when I drive the toy down to my entrance, pushing it inside.
My sensitive inner muscles protest, then stretch to accommodate the size, but the unfamiliar pressure is not entirely unpleasant.
Considering how long it’s been since I allowed a man to touch me, it’s only natural that I’m not used to something inside me.
As the pace increases, stroking deeper, I’m getting soaked with my slickness. A thrill of excitement goes through me, and the only image I can focus on right now is the death in thirty-eight’s eyes.
The friction, touching the perfect spot, the intense vibration—it all gets my hips bucking, ready to fall off the deep end.
I’m almost there, and this time I allow myself to welcome the orgasm.
Waves of pleasure run from my stomach down my abdomen, until the hot, shuddering release pulsates out of my pussy.
“Fuck…God, fuck,” a screamed moan tears from my lips.
I thrash my head left and right, trying to find a position that would let the pleasure fully in. My chest moves up and down, gasping for the air that keeps me afloat while leaving my brain to sink into the rapture, lightheaded yet so clear.
I let my head tilt back against the porcelain, the steam slowly rising, dissipating in the air and lifting my tension with it. I’m unable to move for a moment while reality settles back in, my mind dropping from the high.
“Thirty-eight.”
The number sits heavy on my tongue. His name doesn’t matter anymore. None of the names I previously took do. What matters is that I’m always faster. Smarter. And I’m still here, while they are not.
The heat from the bath clings to my skin as I let the silence settle around me. After wrapping myself in a towel, I move through the quiet apartment.
Ritual after ritual, following the same pattern. Always.
When your primary activity mainly involves killing strangers, you need to stay up to date with all the possible news, gathering it from different sources, most of them on the dark web.
The websites I’m using are not your regular “Google it” type. Usually, they are just a series of random numbers or characters, protected by layers and layers of security. And tonight, one of those websites strangely points to an unpopular streaming platform.
I sink onto the bed, pulling the blanket closer, the screen lighting up the dark room.
The video that was mentioned in that sixteen-person private group is titled “Our Doctor.” Nothing more than your typical film-the-professor-without-their-knowledge type of recording.
I’m about to give up on finishing the video when something catches my eye.
Azrael Lennox.
The video opens with him in a university class, a couple of months ago, when the new semester started. Judging by the way the camera is pointed, he’s unaware that he’s being filmed.
“Welcome to Psychology 402: The Psychopathic Mind,” he states. “Here, we explore not just the traits that define a psychopath, but the architecture of control, manipulation, and detachment that shapes their reality.
A psychopath’s power lies in their ability to detach, to observe without feeling, to bend others’ wills without breaking a sweat.
Consider the mind not as a fortress, but as a complex lock. And for every lock, there is a key. Some are incapable of finding the key, so they resort to coping mechanisms.”
This sounds strangely accurate and borderline uncomfortable for my situation. Being dissected like this, unraveling, is not something I’m used to.
“However, when you use the same medicine for too long, the dose must increase for them to stay stable. There are those among you, perhaps even in this room, who understand this instinctively.”
Something he just said must be funny because the class breaks out in laughter. I don’t get it because he is right.
“But there are others out there who learned how to manipulate the desire. They push the correct buttons, follow the right steps, and understand the circumstances. The world for them is merely a collection of variables, ready to be manipulated for their…well-being, if you may.”
I find myself playing and replaying the entire fourteen-minute video, rewinding every time, until I could recite the speech by heart. The phrases blur into one another, and the sound becomes useless because everything is already carved into my brain.
I stare at the screen, unable to move or think about anything but what is on it.
What gives me unfamiliar chills is that he understands the situation, his predisposition toward understanding psychopaths and making them do…well, whatever. And whatever is exactly what I need, whatever is better than the state my brain is currently in.
If his words are not just random theories, this could actually work. The way he describes his subjects is a pure description of me, like somehow, through the screen, he cracked open my skull and read everything inside my brain.
I open my team’s private channel, typing in the message that will soon be the bane of my existence.
Victoria: Azrael Lennox. I want everything on this one.
Full profile. Class schedules, building access logs, faculty group chats.
I want to know everything, from his credentials to the side of the bed he sleeps on.
If he’s made even the slightest sound since the day he was born, I want to know what he said.
For a moment, I pause. What the fuck am I getting myself involved in? But I don’t care. This might be my last hope.