"Murder is just a story waiting to be told. And some stories— are worth dying for."
The typewriter clacked, keys striking paper like nails into a coffin. Andres Nightwinn leaned back in his leather chair, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, eyes scanning the final sentence. Blood pooled in his imagination. Screams echoed in the stillness of his penthouse. Fiction, they'd call it. A best-selling thriller. Another one.
He smiled.
The city glowed beneath him, lights blinking like silent witnesses. Outside, the night was alive with possibility. But inside, within these walls soaked in jazz and ink, Andres had just finished writing another murder.
And this one?
This one had already happened.