That silhouette- it couldn't be any clearer. It was picturesque, a blinding shadow of a figure that loomed over his presence with an almighty glow, it truly was god-like. He could only scoff, knowing for a fact that the hubris contained by the inky splodge of a man (woman?) was currently bleeding its way from his expensive, porcelain silk shirt, breaking into the delicate skin and ravaging its way through the tender muscles. It was almost enticing. Thrilling.

  He had left in a rush, he planned to drive to his office, yet of course, that couldn't be possible. Not because he physically could not per se, but for the sole fact he wouldn't be able to maintain his dignity if he showed up so flushed. That, and because he saw a bar on his way and couldn't resist temptation.

  Alas, there he was. Acting a fool as the lights dimmed and bland pop songs filled the stagnant air as bodies brushed and rubbed against each other desperately. Not exactly the atmosphere you would find an introvert, let alone someone so averted to talk and touch as Artemis Nektarios himself. He prided himself in the fact his flesh was yet to be touched, to be tarnished. How unfortunate that it meant no one had worshipped, loved and cherished it in return. No one had peppered him in affection, showered him in the luxury of compliments. His eyes had been quite nice he liked to think.

  Pupils had been long dilated by the time he was on his 5th whiskey on the rocks, he had been sitting, neatly folded on a stool near the edge of the bar away from curious eyes (and hands), his posture slowly breaking until he was bent over, one lone finger had collected the condensation and brushed the rim of the glass with precision. That brown liquid glittered in the light, clinking delicately when tapped with a smokey wood taste delightfully flowing down his throat. It was as if he was drinking lighter fluid- isn't that pleasurable?

  The gratitude he once felt for the drink had slowly faded as time went on, his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze sharpened at the sorry smell of sweat, saliva and other bodily fluids you may, unfortunately, find in a public club. It had amazed him the lack of control people could gain by the influence of alcohol, wondering how that wouldn't be absolutely terrifying.

  A kind bartender had been keen to talk to him- with Artemis' guard practically dissolved it was much easier to strike up a conversation with the detective. His name could've been Luca, maybe Logan. The symphony of his voice was strategic, violins start yet end abruptly for the flutes to shine, letting percussion explode after a rather tranquil start. It was truly more addicting than the dark liquid he had been sipping on.

  His hair was shiny, raven black and slicked with either gell or sweat from the heat; the dense atmosphere. Flashes of Royal blue had blinded Artemis, those eyes pierced him, tangled and wrapped him in vines as the emerald shards struck him with viscous intent. He couldn't get enough. His throat made Artemis' own close-up, veins travelling down as he desperately tried to keep his gaze on his cryptic eyes. God- his jawline could cut him open in one slice, those teeth could rip through his virgin flesh- leaving no dignity in its wake. Aphrodite blessed this man herself, touching his face with her perfect porcelain hands and making it holier than any statue, more peaceful than any temple, more violent than any weapon.

  Artemis was sure if it hadn't been for the dimly lit room and the unappealing noise of wet skin, he would've asphyxiated.

  “Do you live around here?“ Maybe Lucas? Asked once most people had taken their absence, the bartender was now on his break and seemingly eager to have a lovely chat with the withering rose decaying under the grip of those green eyes.

  “Uh- yeah, I just don't tend to go out much. I couldn't tell you where anything is here if I'm being honest,” Artemis' fancy talk has significantly died down, he had realised this in his haze and sharpened up. All it looked like to others, however, was a man flustered and embarrassed at the unattractive fact that he locks himself in his house- or a man with no social life. Or both.

  “London is a massive city, I can't blame you for lacking direction. Your accent intrigues me I must say,” the man leaned into the small gap between them, squinting his eyes playfully.

  “I am of Greek origin, I moved here when I was quite young and my parents were desperate to assimilate me into English culture. It is quite unfortunate that only my cuisine and language are the only evidence of my background,” he was aware of his rambling. Currently, he couldn't care less about his word vomit. He'll blame it on the alcohol.

  The man nodded in return, “I'm surprised I haven't seen you at all, I've lived here all my life. Would you dare give me your name?“

  Artemis smiled brightly, although those lights (rather lack of) burdened him with a sinister tone, yet he conceded, “Artemis,” a simple yet alluring tone ran like sticky honey, glazing his vocal cords.

  The reaction he got was definitely unexpected, the bartender shot up with an awkward clearing of the throat, husky voice escaped his decadent mouth urgently, “Nektarios… like the detective?“

  Artemis could only swear internally, rancid thoughts swished by him like a hurricane as he focused on the poor soul in front of him.

  He could only breathe out a long stretch of air accompanied by a pained, “yes,” so weak and feeble he cringed at the vulnerability.

  That same bartender who would look at Artemis with a honeydew smile now grimaced with a shudder, the gems hidden in those eyes didn't glimmer, yet simmered and boiled like a pool of acid. Artemis wanted to run away, throw up, cry all at the same time yet all he did was sit in that awfully squeaky stool with his head down.

  After a pathetic yet solemn apology from the bartender, Artemis stood up in defeat, left some money, that he was sure was more than enough, and walked. And walked. And walked. It felt like absolute ages, dimensions passed, stars turned supernova whilst others lived on, meteors passed by his ears as he heard their faint whoosh, the moonlight wouldn't let him rest his feet nor lay in the gentle sway of the darkness as he kept walking under its bright reflection.

  The moon is nothing but a rock that reflects the light of the sun, it doesn't produce any light of its own.

  A star is only useful once it goes supernova, creating so much energy- at the cost of its life.

  A black hole can be therefore materialised via the supernova, yet it's feared for its uncertainty and power.

  But what did he care? He was no astrologist. He didn't care what the meaning of a supernova would be in a poetic sense. Hell- he couldn't care less for the cryptic poems the obtuse killer would leave for him. He kept up this coy appearance; he pretended he didn't know he was serving Artemis on a silver platter, cutting into his flesh with precision and malice.

  Was that the truth? God- Artemis couldn't tell the difference between malice and admiration at this point. He blamed it on the alcohol. Then again, he loved to place blame- would he be human if he didn't? Every new death, every brutal scene was a pawn in this killer's mind, and he played Artemis like the almighty queen. But who would be the king?

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  Artemis scoffed, it's quite humorous how humans tend to lack the ability to understand complex situations such as murder, resulting in endless metaphors, 'what ifs' and 'likes' to hope, to grasp, or even feather touch the comprehension of everyone's true antagonist- the human mind. Comparing people to chess isn't new, a man-made invention so pure and fun can resemble many things- yet in the end it is just a game.

  To be hypocritical, the killer's game was a puzzle only man would be capable of creating. A great God can push you in the right direction- it is man's responsibility to register that as a tap or a shove.

  Red and blue were never his favourite colours, he found that quite funny as he joined the police force. It seemed less funny now as he saw those lights flickering in front of him, they were such fickle things as they flashed between the two hues.

  Artemis could only fall to his knees, not caring about his tarnished brown trousers or his fancy leather shoes, or his bloodied palms as they rubbed into the gravel. It made him feel somewhat alive.

  “Jesus Christ, Nektarios,” the policeman could only state before bringing him into the car and driving him home, Artemis giggling in acknowledgement that he just used a powerful member of the community as a taxi. How immature.

  ~???~

  “I have no words,” Zahra was first to speak, her tone was surprisingly soft as she stared into the half-lidded eyes of Artemis. She and Juliette had travelled from the office into Artemis' apartment. There wasn't much to say about it, mostly for the fact that they had only explored the living room. They hadn't dared approach a single door without the permission of the owner, of course, drunken words aren't consent.

  Juliette has remained silent, pacing around the room, only sometimes gazing at the pathetic man sitting on the coffee sofa, his demeanour was… odd. He had lost his posh accent to a certain degree and had mixed Greek words with the English language. It felt as if he was still fighting a war between himself and expectations. She almost wanted to feel indifferent, yet she cared for his legacy, she realised how difficult being stuck on a tightrope of countries can be.

  For the little time she had known him, Zahra had informed her that she had never seen him in this state. He had always been sober, only having a single glass of red wine in front of her eyes. Taking alcohol as an escape wouldn't be the first thing on his weak mind, surely a couple of deaths would mean nothing to a man as dedicated and well-known as Artemis Nektarios.

  “You will be placed on mental health absence, Artemis. There is no escaping that,” Zahra hoped that using his name would wake him up, he had only lifted his head, still staring at the wall.

  “Maybe we should get him a therapist? Get an evaluation to see if he is fit for this work,” Juliette offered.

  “Artemis wouldn't allow it, trust me I've tried. He would take the evaluation, although he's too clever for his own good,” Zahrs responded, frustrated.

  Juliette had nodded at the answer, “We could get him to take a leave like my own? Take a break from detective work and move onto a less hands-on experience?“

  Zahra sighed, smiling fondly, “He wouldn't, I know him. You asked for a break from autopsies, he would never take a break,” she frowned in disappointment, “Not even when it's life-threatening.“

  After a couple of hours, Artemis seemed more awake. He could answer some questions- stuttering out Greek curses as he did. No coherent sentence was strung from the fragile man; Artemis nodded when asked to go to his bedroom. The two women trusted him (although not wanting to leave him alone) they also took their absence to their own bedrooms once they heard the door shut. They both acknowledged the privacy freak Artemis was- even when he was a little loopy.

  Finally, alone, he could focus on the shadow figure, the bartender, every suspect and witness so far. It was a case like no over- truly fascinating, captivating and generally exhilarating. He was constantly out of breath, gasping for air with every piece of evidence, gagging on every poem and grinning at the news of a new crime. He loved it.

  He knew this wasn't healthy. It couldn't be. Yet the feel of a new kill was as if he himself stalked and hunted the prey, he detested how much he loved the feeling. The bartender reminded him of his practice, how he could make people shudder at the mention of his name.

  As awkward, anti-social and coy as he was- he scared someone away because of his status. It- couldn't be named the emotions racketeering at his head with a blunt force hard enough to cause brain damage. He sure felt like he had suffered brain damage the way he found a new death to be fun.

  What the hell is he thinking? This wasn't exhilarating? It was exhausting. Every new crime brought fear to London. He wanted to avenge London, clean the streets from filthy pigs such as this 'poet'. Why was he admiring such a deranged psychopath's murders as if they were displayed in an art museum? He cleaned, not admired.

  He read, never created.

  Although poems are so tempting.

  That thought lingered in his mind as he turned to sit on his bed, chocolate brown hair tattered, unorganised on his forehead, gell long forgotten. Taking a shower in the morning sounded like less effort. Turning to his side, a parchment. A small paper.

  A goddamn poem.

  You're a beauty.

  Artemis,

  You are aware what that name means?

  A god of a fighter, hunter

  And isn't that incredible?

  I love the way you create

  The way you try to clean

  Yet the way you make a mess

  I enjoy to watch you gleam

  Blood-stained and corrupt

  You aren't doing good,

  But believe that you are

  It is quite an interesting route.

  You have so much potential,

  So much care,

  The world is your oyster

  But no one is willing to spare

  A single pound

  On your beautiful hazel eyes

  Because you are powerful

  A man of pride.

  I applaud you for that.

  Until next time,

  Maybe you'll crumble.

  I'd love to watch it

  From the inside.

  Yours sincerely,

  The poet (who played God)

  Artemis laughed. He could read him so perfectly as if he had written his autobiography. Crying was an option which he wanted to desperately take, yet the pure malice of the poet's words was personal. Oddly personal.

  He didn't care- every word of his was swallowed by an animal which feasted so delicately on them, savouring every letter yet dying of starvation to do so.

  It almost inspired him. His face was wet, yet he wasn't crying.

  His eyes hurt, but he didn't cry. His head pounded, but he didn't cry.

  He fell asleep.

  In control.

  Well- at least he hoped.