The body lay there, still and broken, a grotesque display of violence and finality, sprawled across the wooden floor in a pool of its own blood, the thick, dark liquid seeping into the cracks between the planks, spreading outward like something alive, something hungry, something reaching. His throat was nothing more than a gaping, torn ruin, a deep, jagged wound where the flesh had been ripped apart, where life had spilled out in hot, pulsing waves, staining everything it touched with the undeniable stench of death, thick and metallic, suffocating the air in the dimly lit room.
The corpse's limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, stiffening as rigor mortis began to take hold, fingers curled into half-formed fists as if caught mid-resistance. However, there had been no struggle, no chance for survival, only the swift, merciless precision of the blade that had silenced him forever. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, remained half-open, frozen in the emptiness of death, reflecting the flickering chandelier light above, a soulless gaze that saw nothing yet seemed to watch everything, an eternal witness to what was about to unfold.
And then—she appeared.
From the shadows at the top of the grand staircase, she emerged, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate grace, her presence shifting the air itself, turning the oppressive silence into something charged, something electric, something that held him captive as if unseen hands had wrapped around his throat and squeezed. The dim golden light caught the soft silk of her loosely draped kimono, the fabric hanging open just enough to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone, the bare skin of her shoulders, the faint shimmer of moisture clinging to her flesh as if she had just stepped from the water, her long, jet-black hair damp and clinging to her face, her throat, her bare chest.
She descended one step at a time, unhurried, unafraid, exuding an unnatural stillness, a control so absolute that he felt like a mere spectator to his own existence, powerless beneath the weight of her gaze, those cold, impossibly blue eyes that held the depth of an endless, sunless ocean, reflecting nothing, betraying nothing, consuming everything. Each step she took was silent, her bare feet pressing against the wooden stairs with ghost-like weightlessness, her movements fluid, hypnotic, like a creature that did not belong to this world, like something conjured from a dream—or a nightmare.
And then she reached the bottom.
And she did not stop.
The pool of blood greeted her first, swallowing the delicate pale skin of her feet, creeping between her toes, curling up the curve of her arch as she stepped forward, unfazed, undeterred, untouched in all the ways that mattered, yet painted in death nonetheless. The young man's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as she moved toward him, as the space between them vanished, and the distance between purity and sin collapsed into nothingness.
The silk of her kimono slid from her shoulders.
First, it was just a whisper of movement, the delicate shift of fabric loosening, releasing, surrendering to gravity's pull.
Then, it fell completely.
And she was there, in front of him, bare and perfect, a vision of untainted beauty standing amidst the carnage, her skin luminous beneath the golden glow of the chandelier, untouched by time, untouched by age, untouched by anything but the weight of his gaze.
She pressed against him, her breath a phantom touch on his skin, her fingers tracing lines through the blood smeared across his chest, painting him in red, marking him as hers. Her hands descended, slow and patient, her grip tightening around him, guiding him, coaxing him, her body lowering onto his, enveloping him in heat, in wetness, in something too primal, too dark, too perfect to be named.
No words.
No sounds.
Only the slick, rhythmic press of flesh on flesh.
The corpse lay stiff beside them, his lifeless arm sprawled, his vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling, his blood seeping beneath them, warm and thick, soaking into their skin as they moved. The air was heavy, suffocating, steeped in the coppery scent of death and the intoxicating musk of her. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, bruising her, holding onto her as if she were the only real thing left in the world.
And when the final moment came, when she trembled and clenched around him, when his body shuddered and spilled into her, when the red and the white mixed in something blasphemous and obscene, she only stared down at him, expression unreadable, eyes dark and endless, as if she knew something he didn't, as if this was always how it was meant to end.
And then—she was gone.
Standing, unhurried, unshaken, still slick with his release, still painted in the crimson of the dead man's blood, she reached for the handbag hanging from the staircase, took the cool blue jacket the old man held out for her by the door, slipped it over her bare skin without a glance back, without a final touch, without a word.
She walked into the storm.
And he remained behind, on his knees, in blood and filth and silence, staring at the dead man's face, at the gaping throat, at the empty eyes that would never close.
And then—the sirens.
Distant at first, barely perceptible through the howling wind and the rattling shutters, but unmistakable, growing louder, drawing closer, weaving through the empty streets like predators seeking prey. His heart slammed against his ribs, his body jolted into motion, muscles tightening, mind screaming. Run.
He stumbled to his feet, slipping in the blood, catching himself against the table, hands leaving crimson smears on the polished surface as he grabbed at anything, everything, stuffing the bricks of money into a cloth bag, his breath ragged, his chest heaving. He had minutes, maybe seconds, before they were here, before red and blue lights flooded the windows before the weight of what he had done crashed down on him like an unstoppable tide.
He ripped a towel from the pile near the washing machine, wiping the doorknobs, the handles, anything he might have touched, every motion frantic, desperate, reckless. The dead man's blood still clung to his skin, his clothes, his soul.
He passed across the window after carefully closing it without any trace.
The flashing lights bloomed against the walls.
A fist pounded against the door.
He bolted, slipping through the side entrance, vanishing into the rain, into the darkness, into the storm that swallowed him whole.