The man's name was Dorian Vallen.
The streets called him Glass Smile because his charm was brittle — too perfect, too polished.
He wore silk ties, gold watches, and always paid with exact change.
He liked filming things. Especially pain.
Mirelle found the tapes first.
They were stashed in a backroom of an old arcade in Calburn.
Unlabeled VHS cassettes, rotting with time.
She didn't have to watch much — five seconds of one was enough: a girl from her old roster, gagged and trembling under bright lights.
The voice behind the camera said softly, "Look scared, darling. That's what they pay for."
It was Dorian's voice.
She tracked him to a bar in Brack Hollow — an upscale haunt where men wore teeth behind smiles and shook hands over ruined lives.
He sat in a velvet booth with two bodyguards, sipping an amber drink, unaware his life was about to burn.
Mirelle approached alone.
"May I sit?" she asked sweetly.
He looked up, surprised.
"Do I know you?" he asked, lips curling like paper.
"Not yet."
She played the long game this time.
Pretended to flirt. To want in.
Let him think she was ambitious — wanted to sell new tapes, maybe manage "casting."
He took the bait, let her close. Gave her an invitation to his private studio.
A week later, she walked through the door of a white-walled loft covered in cameras.
He gestured to a monitor, smug. "This setup could buy me five more houses."
She nodded.
"Dorian," she said, "did you ever ask them if they wanted to be filmed?"
He laughed. "Of course not. That's what makes it real."
Wrong answer.
She drew a gun from her coat.
He froze. "You— What— You're crazy!"
"No," she said, calm. "I'm just the invoice for your sins."
She didn't kill him. Not yet.
She tied him to his own filming chair. Broke his fingers one by one.
Then she turned the camera on.
"I want you to look scared," she whispered, repeating his words. "That's what they pay for."
He screamed. She didn't flinch.
She filmed him for seven minutes. Never touched him with a blade.
Just his own terror, documented.
When she left, she took the footage and mailed it anonymously to every buyer on his list — burned their names into the industry.
Within days, Vallen's empire collapsed. His "clients" turned on him. One slit his throat in a panic before the police could arrive.
Mirelle watched the news that night, sipping tea. The headline:
"Underground Film Mogul Killed in Alleged Sex Tape Scandal."
She turned the TV off.
Two down. Three to go.