The room was suffocating. Not because it was small, not because
it lacked air, but because the walls were closing in on me. Every
breath I took felt like inhaling glass. Every second that passed
chipped away at what little control I had left.
Brooks' words rang in my ears.
"I want a moment. Something raw. Something real."
I had killed for inspiration. For art. For myself.
Never for someone else.
But Brooks was dangling something in front of me that I couldn't
ignore—freedom.
If I said yes, Becker's case would disappear. Miller would look
somewhere else. I could walk the streets without feeling like there
was a noose tightening around my neck.
But if I said no?
I knew how these games worked. Brooks wasn't the kind of man
to accept rejection. He would ruin me. Destroy me.
And yet, the idea of being his tool made my stomach churn.
I wasn't a puppet.
I was an artist.
So why did part of me want to give in?
A Night of Restless Thoughts
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat in my studio, staring at the bloodstained floor where Becker
had once stood. Where she had seen me for what I truly was.
A monster.
Was Brooks any different?
No. The only difference between us was power.
He had it. I didn't.
And right now? That power was a leash around my throat.
I grabbed a brush, dipped it into the crimson smear dried onto my
palette, and dragged it across the canvas. My strokes were messy,
unfocused. I wasn't painting for the thrill. I was painting to
drown out the thoughts clawing at my mind.
Could I do it? Could I kill for Brooks?
Would I still be me afterward?
By the time the sun began to creep through my window, I had no
answers. Just a hollow, aching space in my chest where certainty
used to be.
And then my phone buzzed.
I knew who it was before I even looked.
Brooks.
Waiting for my answer.
A Dangerous Meeting
I didn't know why I agreed to meet him. Maybe because I needed
more time. Maybe because I wanted to see if I could find a way
out.
The location he sent me was an upscale lounge, the kind of place
where deals were made in whispers over glasses of expensive
whiskey.
Brooks was already there when I arrived, seated in a private booth.
His suit was crisp, his expression unreadable, but the slight upward
curve of his lips told me he knew exactly what he was doing.
He gestured for me to sit.
I did.
A waitress approached, but Brooks waved her away.
"I assume you've thought it over," he said.
I stared at him, at the man who had pulled the strings behind the
scenes, setting me up like a pawn on his chessboard.
I wanted to rip him apart.
I wanted to walk away.
But I couldn't.
So instead, I asked, "Why me?"
His smile widened. "Because you have potential, Mr Kelly. You
create something no one else can. And I want to see just how
far that potential can go."
I swallowed hard. "And if I say no?"
Brooks leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something
dark, something predatory. "Then I let Detective Miller do what
he does best."
I clenched my fists under the table.
Trapped.
He was going to ruin me one way or another. Either I killed for
him, or he let the walls collapse around me.
There was no winning.
But there was surviving.
So I did the only thing I could.
I nodded.
Brooks' smirk deepened, and he reached for his drink, swirling the
amber liquid inside. "Smart choice."
It didn't feel like one.
It felt like selling my soul.
The Next Target
Brooks slid an envelope across the table. I didn't touch it.
"Inside is everything you need to know," he said. "I'll expect
results soon."
I hesitated before finally picking it up, feeling the weight of it in
my hands.
It wasn't heavy.
But it might as well have been a coffin lid.
Brooks stood, straightening his suit. "Welcome to the real game,
Mr Kelly. Don't disappoint me."
And with that, he left.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the envelope.
Then, finally, I opened it.
A photograph.
A name.
A life I was supposed to end.
I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes.
I was no longer painting for myself.
Now, I was painting for the devil.
And I didn't know if I'd ever stop.