The interrogation room was colder than before. Or maybe that
was just the pressure settling into my bones. I had barely gotten
out of there without breaking, but I knew—knew with absolute
certainty—that Miller and Brooks weren't done with me.
Brooks was playing a long game. The way he spoke, the way he
carefully chose his words—it wasn't just to throw suspicion on me.
It was to toy with me. To make me sweat. To make me desperate.
And the worst part?
It was working.
I had underestimated him. I had thought he was just another rich
man looking to collect my work, to bask in its brilliance. But now I
saw the truth. He was more than that. He was calculating. He had
been watching me longer than I realized.
I paced in my apartment, my fingers drumming against my temple
as I tried to think, to stay ahead. If I was being watched, I had to
act normal. But what was normal when I knew they were circling
like vultures, waiting for me to crack?
The streets outside were alive with the buzz of the city, but I felt
caged, hunted. Becker's disappearance had become the talk of the
town. It was in the newspapers, on social media, whispered in
conversations. And with every passing day, more eyes turned
toward me.
I turned on the TV, needing to hear something, anything that
would help me figure out my next move. But when the news
anchor's voice filled the room, my stomach turned to stone.
"New developments in the case of the missing woman,
Rebecca 'Becker' Collins, have led authorities to investigate
individuals close to her. Detectives are now questioning
prominent figures in the art world, including the rising star,
Kelly—"
I shut the TV off.
My name.
My name was out there.
No more shadows, no more whispers.
They were coming.
My fingers twitched. I needed to paint. To release. To control
something. But even as I reached for my brush, the thought of
Brooks and Miller sent a shiver through me.
Brooks was pulling strings I couldn't see. He had power. Money.
Influence. And worst of all?
He had patience.
He wasn't coming for me fast. No. He was letting me decay.
Letting my paranoia fester, letting my world unravel until I was
hanging by a thread so thin I'd cut it myself.
I knew what he was doing.
But I also knew one thing he didn't.
Desperate men don't break. They bite.
The Offer
I needed answers. And I needed them fast.
So, I did something reckless. Something stupid.
I called Brooks.
He answered after the first ring.
"Ah, Mr. Kelly," he said smoothly. "I was wondering when
you'd reach out."
I clenched my teeth. "Enough with the games. What do you
want?"
A small chuckle. "What do I want? Now, that's a dangerous
question, isn't it?"
"I don't have time for this," I snapped. "You're playing your little
game with Miller, feeding him just enough to keep the hunt alive.
Why?"
Silence. Then, "Because it's entertaining."
I gripped the phone tighter, my nails digging into my palm.
"You're ruining me just for sport?"
Another soft laugh. "Not quite. You see, Mr Kelly, you're talented.
Exceptionally so. But talent alone isn't enough in this world,
is it? You know that better than anyone."
I stayed silent.
Brooks continued, his voice like silk laced with poison. "You
crawled out of the gutter, out of poverty, out of obscurity, and
made something of yourself. And yet, here you are. One
wrong move away from losing everything."
My pulse pounded against my skull.
"I can fix that," he murmured.
My breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, "I can make all of this disappear."
The words hung in the air like a noose.
"No more detective breathing down your neck. No more headlines
dragging your name through the mud. You get to keep your
reputation. Your career. Your life."
It was a deal with the devil, and we both knew it.
"What's the price?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His pause was deliberate, savoring the moment before delivering
the killing blow.
"I want a masterpiece," he said finally.
I frowned. "A painting?"
"No, Mr Kelly." His voice dropped lower, almost a purr. "I want a
moment. Something raw. Something real."
My blood turned to ice.
He wanted another kill.
"Why?" I managed to ask.
"Because art is about pushing limits," he said simply. "And
you, my dear boy, have only scratched the surface of your
potential."
My breath came sharp and fast.
Brooks wanted a performance.
A kill not out of necessity, but for art.
And worse?
A part of me wanted to give it to him.
The Decision
I stared at my hands.
Hands that had created beauty from blood.
Hands that had taken life and turned it into something immortal.
Brooks was offering me salvation.
A way out.
But at what cost?
Could I do it? Could I give him what he wanted?
Could I let myself be his puppet, his tool for amusement?
Or was this the moment I finally lost everything?
I had to decide.
And I had to decide fast