The recital hall smelled like velvet and old money. Candlelight flickered along the stone walls as Andres slid into a seat near the back, sunglasses tucked into his coat pocket. The crowd murmured with cultured boredom until the lights dimmed.
Then she walked in.
Thana.
The name wasn't printed on the program. She must've been a last-minute addition. Or maybe fate doesn't care about programs. Her presence cut through the dim like a blade through silk—green eyes calm and cold, like the kind of forest you get lost in. Her skin glowed pale beneath the lights, her hands ghosting over the piano keys.
Then, she played.
Not the music they expected. Not Chopin, or Liszt. Something else. Something... dangerous. Andres leaned forward. She didn't just play music—she commanded it. Each note was a whisper, a confession. A threat.
He grinned.
She had no idea.
She had just become the next story.
And for the first time in a long time… Andres felt something close to fear.
The recital hall fell silent as the final note lingered like perfume. Applause rippled forward—polite, restrained—but Andres didn't clap. He simply watched her.
Thana.
He didn't know her name yet, but it was already etched into the walls of his mind. She stood, bowed slightly, and disappeared behind the velvet curtain, leaving only the memory of sound and that haunting look in her eyes—detached, unreadable.
He left before the lights came back on.
Andres didn't return home. He went to the library.
Not the public one. His own.
A private collection of records, files, photographs. A black mirror to the city's surface—the kind of information no journalist had access to. Andres didn't believe in coincidence. She hadn't just "appeared" at the recital. She had a life. A past. A pattern. All of which he now intended to uncover.
He poured a drink and sat at the massive mahogany desk, pulling up his underground access points—databases, university registries, recital rosters, charity lists, obituaries. His fingers danced across the keyboard with the same precision Thana had played with earlier.
Thana Vale. Twenty-four. Half-Haitian, half-Irish. Classical pianist. Trained at Juilliard. Lives in Brooklyn Heights. Recently performed in Paris.
A promising career. Gifted. Quiet. Little social media presence.
She didn't like to be seen.
Interesting.
He found a photograph from three years ago—an award ceremony. Her smile was faint. Her eyes weren't. They looked directly into the lens as though aware of who might be watching years later.
Andres felt something twist in his chest.
He minimized the window and opened a blank document.
Observation: She plays as though she's been broken before. But not completely.
He saved the note under a new folder labeled only: "V"
Three nights later, he killed again.
This time in the Bronx.
The victim: Julian Price. A true-crime blogger. Obsessed with unsolved murders. He had been getting too close.
Andres had seen one of Julian's posts — a thread dissecting "The Composer" murders, a name the media had given to the recent string of killings. Andres didn't particularly care for the moniker. It was too romantic. Too obvious.
Julian had speculated about patterns. Psychology. Even suggested the killer might be a writer himself.
He was right. And now he was dead.
It happened quickly, in an alley between two abandoned row houses. Andres wore gloves. No witnesses. The body wouldn't be found for days.
The scene was clean—except for one detail.
A single piano key was left inside the victim's jacket pocket. Ivory, cracked. An echo of Thana, perhaps. Or maybe just a taunt.
Andres liked leaving little touches. Art must have a signature.
That night, back in his apartment, he stood at the piano his mother once played and tapped a minor chord. The sound hung heavy in the dark.
He thought of Julian.
Then he thought of Thana.
He had planned to approach her next week at a post-recital dinner. But that felt too soon now. She wasn't like the others. She wasn't prey. Not yet.
Andres didn't want to devour her.
He wanted to understand her.
And maybe that was more dangerous.