Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
INDIGO
Perched atop the worn leather seat of my Kawasaki Ninja ZX6R, I fixate on Elle as she moves through the morning haze below, completely unaware of my gaze dissecting her every move. From my vantage point—a secluded alcove between the downtown bustle and the quiet suburbs—I absorb the details of her routine, the small vulnerabilities she doesn’t even realize she exposes. The way she fumbles with her keys at the door, how her gaze flits over her shoulder without truly seeing anything. These moments are what I live for. The imperfections allow me to slip into someone’s life, rearrange it, and leave something far more meaningful in my wake.
Elle isn’t just a woman. She's a canvas. And I’m the artist.
The city hums in the background, distant and irrelevant. Here, there is only focus. Planning. The slow, meticulous process of shaping the inevitable. My art is not spontaneous; it is deliberate. The tools, the setting, the execution—every element must be perfect.
She locks her apartment door and steps onto the sidewalk, headphones in, head dipped slightly. A creature of habit. I know from checking her out on Spotify that she listens to the same playlist every morning, the same mix of indie pop and soft grunge, the bass line thrumming faintly from her earbuds when I am close enough to hear. The world around her is a blur, lost to her in favor of the curated soundscape she uses as a shield.
She doesn’t see me as I follow at a distance, my presence blending seamlessly with the city’s rhythm. Elle never senses the weight of my gaze as she crosses the street and heads toward the coffee shop on the corner.
I slip inside behind her, pretending to study the menu on the wall above the counter. The air smells like espresso and caramel, a warmth that contrasts with the crisp morning air. She orders a vanilla oat milk latte with an extra shot of espresso. The barista knows her name. They exchange pleasantries, her voice soft, her laugh light. She is polite but distant, existing in the periphery of connection. She doesn’t linger, her steps purposeful as she heads for the door, coffee in hand.
I watch from across the street as she steps back onto the sidewalk, cup in hand, lips pressing against the lid as she takes a sip absentmindedly. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes scanning the storefronts like she’s not really seeing them.
I follow at a pace just behind her own, letting her slip ahead when necessary, catching up when I can. I know the exact moments she’ll pause—at the bookstore window, her fingers ghosting over the titles in the display through the glass. Yet, she never goes inside. At the florist stand, she breathes in the scent of lavender but never buys a bouquet.
She moves with routine precision, predictable, down to the minute. This is what fascinates me the most. The unconscious patterns. The little details that make her real, that make her… mine.
At the office parking lot, she lingers. Her fingers trace idle patterns on her phone screen, scrolling but never really engaging. I remain at a distance, just another unseen presence in the early morning rush, close enough to notice the way her shoulders tighten when a colleague brushes past her on the way inside.
She’s aware of the world only when it forces itself upon her.
When she finally moves, she does so with the same quiet hesitance, slipping between the rows of cars and into the glass doors of the lobby. I don’t follow. Not yet.
Today isn’t the day.
Instead, I memorize the way she vanishes into the building, my pulse steady, anticipation burning slowly in my veins.
Soon.
For now, I have a different role to play.
By noon, the city shifts, the energy thick with movement, chatter, and life. I weave through the streets, the thrumming of my motorcycle beneath me grounding me in the present, even as my mind drifts between the lines of my double life.
Malik.
His name is a whisper in my head, softer than anything I should allow myself to feel, but persistent. He’s an anomaly in my world, a presence that doesn't fit the sharp edges I surround myself with. A builder, a healer. A man who crafts with his hands rather than destroys.
I park outside the takeout joint where the scent of spiced lamb and fresh bread seeps into the air, a stark contrast to the cold sterility of my basement workspace. I step inside, placing the order I know by heart. "Lamb gyro, extra tzatziki, side of falafel."
The cashier nods, already familiar with the routine. It is such a small thing, this exchange, but in a life built on illusion and control, these moments tether me to something almost normal.
As I wait, I pull out my phone, hesitating before letting my fingers glide over the screen.
Me: Where do I find my favorite bear today? Got something that'll make your day.
The response comes almost immediately.
Malik: 245 5th Avenue, near the old Willow Bookstore.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Be there soon. Prepare for feast mode.
It's a brief conversation, insignificant to anyone else, but to me, it's something rare—a connection that doesn't demand blood as its price.
The low growl of my motorcycle cuts through the quiet street, a steady, familiar vibration beneath me. I ease off the throttle as I approach the house Malik mentioned, my pulse steady, my mind sharp. The scent of damp wood and old paint curls through the air, carried by the breeze, but something else lingers beneath it—something stale. Something rotten.
I recognize this place before I even come to a full stop.
I killed a man here.
The realization slides through me like a slow drag of a blade against silk. Not jarring, not unexpected, just… inevitable.
Ramon had begged, of course. They always do in the end. But I had been so careful . His final moments were not chaos or brutality, but precision. Artistry. He had taken his last breath inside these very walls, and now—by some cruel trick of fate—Malik had unknowingly brought me back to the scene of one of my greatest compositions.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I kill the engine and let the silence settle around me. The house looms, stripped to its bones by time and reconstruction, but it cannot be cleansed. Not entirely. Blood has a way of soaking into more than just the floors. It lingers in the air, in the walls, in the echoes of what they witnessed.
I inhale slowly, letting the memory wash over me for a brief moment. My fingers flex around the handlebars, pushing it away before it can take root. That was then. This is now.
And now, I am simply a woman bringing food to her lover.
The thought is almost amusing.
I swing my leg over the bike, adjusting my gloves before peeling off my helmet. The cold nips at my skin, but I welcome it, letting it ground me as I move toward the house. The front door is ajar, the sound of low music and the rhythmic thud of a hammer spilling into the quiet morning.
Malik is inside.
The man who sleeps with his back pressed against mine. Who reaches for me in the dark without knowing exactly what he’s touching.
He doesn’t know what I am.
But that’s okay.
Because he doesn’t need to.
I step onto the porch, the faint smell of fresh wood and sawdust hanging in the air. The door creaks open as I push it, and I step inside. Malik’s already moving in the main room, the steady rhythm of his hammer meeting wood. He doesn’t notice me at first, but I feel his presence like a pull in my chest.
He looks up, catching my gaze, and the slow grin that spreads across his face is a sight I can’t help but return. It’s that grin— easy, knowing, like he knows exactly what this feels like too. And it makes my chest tighten in ways I refuse to name.
"You spoil me," he rumbles, his voice low and warm as he steps closer, taking the bag from my hands.
I smirk, glancing at the truck outside. "If I didn't, you'd live off vending machine junk."
He unwraps the gyro, taking a bite with an appreciative groan. "Damn, you really know the way to a man’s heart."
I arch a brow. "Through his stomach?"
His gaze flickers to mine, something unreadable in the depths of his dark eyes. "Among other places."
A dangerous game, this. Malik doesn't know what lurks beneath my skin, what my hands have done, what they will do. He looks at me like he wants to know, like he wants to peel back the layers until he reaches something he can keep.
He doesn't realize that beneath the surface, there is nothing but red.
Still, I let myself lean into him, just for a moment, just long enough to pretend that I could ever belong to something soft, something untouched by the darkness I create.
"You're staring, Indigo," he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.
I blink, shaking off the thoughts that creep too close. "Just making sure you don't choke."
He chuckles, taking another bite. "You’d save me if I did, right?"
I tilt my head, considering. "Or I'd just finish your lunch."
He laughs, full and unguarded, and for a brief, fleeting second, I wonder what it would be like if I were someone else. Someone who could exist in the world Malik belongs to.
But I am not. And I never will be.
Elle’s face flickers in my mind, her routine ingrained in my memory, her fate already set in motion.
Art is forever.