The name sat in my pocket, written in the neat, impersonal scrawl
of Brooks' assistant. Just a name. A meaningless set of letters on a
scrap of paper.
But it wasn't meaningless, was it?
This name wasn't mine. It wasn't a name I had chosen, a life I had
plucked from the world for my own artistic vision. This was an
order, a command issued by a man who thought he owned me
now.
I clenched the paper between my fingers, resisting the urge to
crush it into nothing.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was never meant to be
a weapon for someone else's war.
And yet, here I was.
The Hunt That Wasn't Mine
Tracking her was easy. Almost too easy.
Her name was Leah Porter, a financial analyst. She worked late,
often leaving her office around 9 PM and walking the same route
to her apartment. A woman of routine. Predictable.
I sat outside a coffee shop across from her office, watching her
through the glass. She was typing away at her computer, brows
furrowed in concentration. The warm yellow office lights gave her
a soft glow, making her look… normal. Average. Forgettable.
And yet, her life was valuable enough for someone to want it
erased.
Who? Why?
Brooks hadn't told me. And I hadn't asked.
Maybe that was my first mistake.
Maybe my real mistake was following orders at all.
The old me—the artist—would have cared. I would have
searched for meaning, for inspiration, for some sliver of poetic
tragedy in her existence. But now? Now I was just waiting for her
to leave, for the moment to strike.
I hated it.
I hated him for making me do this.
I hated myself for going through with it.
I ran my fingers over the knife in my sleeve, tracing the edge of the
blade. The familiar weight should have steadied me. But all I felt
was an uneasy numbness creeping into my limbs.
When had this stopped being about the art?
The Kill That Wasn't Mine
She turned off her office lights at 9:17 PM. A creature of habit.
I followed at a distance, my breath steady, my footsteps silent
against the damp pavement. The city was alive around us—cars
passing, laughter spilling from bars, streetlights humming above.
She felt safe here.
She shouldn't have.
I moved closer, my fingers gripping the handle of the knife. The
same knife that had once felt like an extension of me now felt like
a chain.
She turned onto a quieter street, and I knew this was the spot.
One step closer. My pulse quickened.
Another step. My shadow stretched beside hers.
She glanced back. Just a flicker of hesitation. Not fear—not yet.
Then I struck.
My hand wrapped around her mouth, stifling the scream before it
could bloom. The blade slid between her ribs, quick, precise. A
practiced movement.
She gasped against my palm, her body convulsing. Blood spilled
over my knuckles, hot and sticky.
But I felt nothing.
No rush. No thrill. No satisfaction.
This wasn't mine.
Her body sagged in my grip. I lowered her gently to the ground,
my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. I had done it. It was
over.
So why did I feel like I had lost something?
The Aftermath That Wasn't Mine
I delivered the proof to Brooks the next day.
The meeting was quick, business-like. He barely looked at me as I
set the bloodied token on his desk—a piece of Leah's earring,
snapped from her ear in the struggle.
"Good work," he said, sliding an envelope toward me. "You'll get
another name soon."
Another name. Another meaningless name.
I stared at the envelope but didn't touch it.
Brooks finally looked up, raising a brow. "Something wrong?"
I forced a smirk, the mask slipping into place. "No," I lied. "Nothing
at all."
I left before he could say anything else.
The Doubt That Was Mine
I didn't go home.
I walked. Aimlessly. For hours.
The city buzzed around me—neon signs flashing, distant sirens
wailing, the ever-present hum of life continuing as if nothing had
changed. As if Leah Porter had never existed.
And maybe, soon, she wouldn't.
She'd be just another missing person, another headline in the news
cycle, another cold case left to collect dust.
But I would remember her.
I never used to. The others had all blurred together, faceless
inspirations lost in a sea of red. But Leah? Leah stuck.
Maybe because she wasn't supposed to be mine.
Maybe because this wasn't creation anymore. It was work. A job.
And I wasn't an artist.
I was a puppet.
A disposable tool for a man who would toss me aside the
moment I lost my edge.
And if I didn't find a way out of this?
Brooks wouldn't just own me. He'd erase me.
The Problem That Was Mine
I was being followed.
I didn't notice it at first, lost in my own head. But as I turned
down an alley, a shadow lingered where it shouldn't have.
I kept walking. Slower now. Testing.
The shadow moved when I moved. Stopped when I stopped.
Deliberate. Controlled. Not some random drunk stumbling home.
A tail.
I exhaled slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
Brooks? Or someone else?
I didn't look back. Instead, I turned the corner and slipped into the
nearest building—a run-down bar, dimly lit and half-empty.
I ordered a drink, keeping my eyes on the mirror behind the bar.
And that's when I saw him.
A man stepped inside a few seconds later, moving with practiced
ease. Not a thug. Not one of Brooks' lackeys.
A cop.
Or worse.
A detective.
His eyes flicked over the room before landing on me. He didn't
approach—not yet—but I could feel the weight of his gaze, sharp
and calculating.
He knew who I was.
Or at least, he suspected.
I took a slow sip of my drink, my mind racing.
This wasn't like the others. This wasn't a random cop sniffing
around.
This was personal.
And for the first time since this all started, I felt something new
creeping in beneath my skin.
Not excitement.
Not hunger.
Dread.