Some men kill for thrill.

  Some for money.

  Elias Vance kills to feel balanced—

  like the world shifts half a click closer to zero.

  Tonight, it started again.

  At Velvet East.

  A bathroom.

  A mirror.

  And no one in the reflection.

  Crimson lips. A night half-dissolved in light and sound. Tonight belonged to something looser—not just free—unanchored.

  At the center of the Velvet East dance floor, bodies twisted freely. Men and women moved to the beat, bare thighs flashing beneath the lights, sweat slick on chests, sharp perfume of skin and heat rising like vapor. Desire tangled with motion. Laughter collided with bass. It was a vortex of scent, skin, and sound.

  In a far corner, a man in an ONYX tracksuit sat alone. A cigarette and glass rested untouched on the table in front of him. The heat, the music, the sweat-soaked atmosphere—none of it seemed to reach him. He kept his face tilted just enough to fall into shadow, as if by instinct.

  A few dancers veered toward him. One or two even leaned in with a smile, a gesture, a tease. But something in him made them hesitate. His refusal was never loud—only still. Whatever moved out there didn't seem to move him.

  The DJ's mic clicked on for half a second, then went silent again.

  He didn't fit into this place. And this place didn't seem to notice he was there.

  A woman in business attire rushed out of the dance floor, one hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and headed straight for the restroom. At the same moment, the man at the table picked up his cigarette, slipped it into his pocket, and stood. Then he walked after her—unhurried, deliberate. Like a hunter following a trail he already knew too well.

  Inside the restroom, she stumbled to the sink and bent over. The sound of retching filled the tiled space, followed by the sharp, sour stench that clung to the air. She turned on the tap, rinsing the mess down the basin while scooping handfuls of cold water to splash onto her face. The chill hit her skin hard, grounding her—if only for a moment. The rhythm, the heat, the chaos from the dance floor peeled away just slightly.

  Then she looked up. And froze.

  In the mirror, behind her—someone was there.

  “You—”

  She tried to speak, but the sound never left her throat. Two fingers were already pressing against it—firm, precise. Not a squeeze. A lock.

  His movements were fluid. Not rushed, not hesitant. Like repeating something long memorized. His other hand rose, revealing a knife.

  “I don't like speeches,” he said quietly. “But Red Index has its rules.”

  A breath passed. He met her eyes.

  “Your sins escaped the world's courts. They won't escape ours.”

  The blade sank fast, too fast for her to cry out. He pressed down—reflexive, like something he didn't question anymore. She shook once. Then again. And when he let go, her body followed—collapsing in silence.

  He rinsed the blade first. Then his hands. Slowly, precisely—like he was rewinding the scene in reverse, but refusing to skip steps.

  He glanced up, fixing his collar in the mirror. The reflection showed a young face. Pale. Still handsome. More than that—wired. The nerves beneath his skin sparked—heat with nowhere to rise. This wasn't memory. Or feeling. Just pressure that refused a name.

  Whatever sat behind his smile wasn't hiding. And neither was he. There was no one to see.

  The limbs hadn't fully settled when he reached into his coat. Tiny. Folded once. Full of heroin.

  He never used the stuff. It couldn't touch the kind of rush that killing gave him. One of them left silence. The other, dust.

  Crack.

  The bag tore open. The powder fell messily, clinging to tile cracks and dark fabric. It didn't need to be exact. He let the empty plastic fall next to her head.

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  The club wasn't clean. Not this one. He doubted the owner would call the cops. Not with a dead girl soaked in dope and nothing else on the security feed.

  He looked at her one last time. Then drew in a deep breath, as if the air still held something of the moment.

  His expression settled. He glanced at the mirror, tested a smile. It felt stiff at first. Then less so. When it finally passed for natural, he nodded to himself, pushed open the door of the women's restroom, and moved the cleaning sign out of the way.

  Out in the hallway, nothing had changed. He was sure he'd avoided every camera. Certain no one had noticed. He had left traces, of course—hard not to. But he trusted the club's owner wouldn't want police inside. At worst, someone would clean up. At best, the body would vanish before morning.

  That was enough.

  The cold outside hit as he stepped into the street. He flinched, just a little. Like falling out of something. Something warmer. The restroom. The girl. The air inside that place. They had felt soft in a way nothing else did.

  “Life,” he muttered. Raspy. But content.

  He pulled out his phone and opened Velox. The ride request went through. Within seconds, a driver accepted.

  His screen lit up. The call came in almost immediately.

  “Hello? Elias Vance? Just confirming—you're at the side exit of Velvet East, right?”

  There was a pause. Then a shift—barely a twitch across his brow.

  He hadn't expected Velox to hand over his full name. Not tonight. Not here.

  “Yeah,” he said. I'm here.”

  He glanced at the time. Then raised his collar, pulled the hood over his head—just enough to leave only his eyes exposed.

  “I'll be there in a minute,”the driver said, then hung up.

  Elias didn't move. But his eyes narrowed.

  The man's voice had come through too fast. Not rushed—unsteady. Not winded. Not like someone out of breath. More like someone trying not to break apart.

  His body was calm now. But his instincts hadn't gone anywhere.

  Three minutes later, a black SableLine car pulled up to the curb. The driver looked thirty, give or take. Hair slightly messy. Crumbs on his shirt. Every bit the image of a guy doing late-night runs to make ends meet.

  Elias stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly. Through the window, he spotted the floor beneath the driver's seat. Several cigarette butts sat there, half-lit, dimming and flaring in rhythm with the car's idle hum. An empty FizzFang can rolled slightly with the engine's thrum, then stopped.

  Strange.

  Private drivers didn't usually smoke inside their cars—not if they cared about the upholstery. And this guy had tossed them under the seat, still burning.

  “Hop in, man,” the driver called out cheerfully, waving through the glass.

  Elias nodded once. But instead of heading for the back, he circled around and slid into the front passenger seat.

  “You've reached your pickup point. Passenger confirmed. Navigation starting now.”

  The driver started the engine, casual, like he did this a dozen times a night. Then offered over a pack of cigarettes.

  “Smoke?”

  Elias pulled out his own pack. I've got some.”

  “Mine are just as good,”the man said, grinning.

  “I'm good.”

  “Go on. Don't be shy. Take one. Take it. Come on, take one.”

  The driver's voice tightened with each repetition—not loud. Just... too fast. Like his mouth had skipped a gear, and he didn't notice.

  Elias gave a slight nod and took one from the pack. Only then did the man face forward again, hands back on the wheel, his smile still lingering.

  The car moved. The in-car stereo was halfway through a soft Elvis track—Can't Help Falling in Love.”

  Then static cracked through it.

  The streetlamp outside flickered twice, then stayed dark.

  A pause. Then a voice. Clear. Low. Too clear for the radio.

  “You're inside the Signal now. This is the Curator. Names don't matter here. They leave marks.”

  The driver slapped the screen.

  “What kind of crap is this? Trying to scare kids?”

  He tapped to change the channel. Again. Again. Nothing. The display wouldn't shift. The interface didn't respond. The station stayed frozen in place.

  “Glitched? Locked?” He hit it harder. Flat palm. Then fists.

  In the passenger seat, Elias quietly crushed his cigarette between two fingers. His other hand tightened around the knife still in his pocket.

  That voice. That twitch in the driver's hands. It reminded him of something.

  The first time.

  【“This is today's segment.

  Visitors, hush now. Let's not blink too early.

  Two men in a car. One driving. One along for the ride.

  The driver—thirty-one. Insurance background. The sort who signs forms more often than people.

  The rider—twenty-two. Still in school. Smart? Maybe. That part's not interesting.

  What is interesting... is where the segment turns.

  The driver hit someone tonight. A girl. She was in the crosswalk. He didn't stop.

  But he still picked up the next fare. Wouldn't want to miss a five-star rating.”】

  The driver froze. His eyes locked on the display.

  Then—slowly, like his neck didn't want to move—he turned toward the passenger seat. His voice stayed buried. Eyes open, but unreadable.

  But in the man's pupils, he caught it all.

  Shock.

  Panic.

  And something deeper.

  Something just starting to break.

  The Signal didn't cut. The voice returned. Cooler now. Almost amused.

  【“The rider. University student. Twenty-two. He has a pattern. A need.

  Every so often, he kills. Just one. Just enough to empty something out.

  The last time? Velvet East. Women's restroom. One dancer. Office class.”】

  The driver flinched hard. Pressed his back to the door like the seat had just burned him. His eyes cut to Elias—no longer confused. Just horrified. And worse—certain.

  Sure, he'd hit someone. But that? That was different.

  The Signal paused. Then the Curator spoke again—lower now. Like sharing something sacred. The air in the car felt thinner—like something had opened, or left.

  【“Let's bring this segment... to its peak.”】

  THUMP.

  Both men turned toward the windshield. A girl was there. Her face shattered across the glass. One eye still intact. And smiling.

  Elias didn't move. Not yet. But the cold behind him came like breath.

  He turned.

  There was someone else.

  In the backseat. Not the girl. Not the same. This one had blood—black and thick—spilling from her chest. Still moving. Still dripping.

  The car's AC vent wheezed once—brief and oddly human.

  Her eyes met his.

  Then her mouth split.

  "Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh..."

  And the rhythm?

  It wasn't his.