Six minutes.
The apartment was a stage, and I was a frantic stagehand trying to hide the gore before the lead actress arrived.
The body was gone—dissolved into the digital ether by Nox's dark alchemy—but the weight of it remained. It was a phantom limb, an invisible mass in the center of the room that I had to navigate around. The air was still heavy with the scent of bleach, a sharp, sterile sting that clung to the back of my throat.
I opened every window. The winter air of Tokyo rushed in, cold and indifferent, swirling around the room like a restless spirit. It didn't wash away the smell; it only chilled it.
I looked at the keyboard. The 'Enter' key was still stained. A tiny, dried fleck of the intruder's life was wedged in the plastic.
I took a toothpick and scraped it out. I didn't throw it away. I watched it flutter down into the trash can, a minute piece of evidence that felt as heavy as a mountain.
"You're trembling, Ryo," Nox said.
He was standing by the door now, his form more defined, his edges sharper. He looked like a man made of charcoal and smoke, his eyes two hollow points of absolute zero.
"I'm not trembling," I lied. "I'm calibrating."
"Calibrating for what? A murder? Or a celebration?"
"She can't find out, Nox. She's the only thing that connects me to the world that doesn't smell like iron."
Nox stepped closer, the temperature in the hallway dropping until I could see my own breath. "She is the world, Ryo. And the world is just research. You've already started the chapter. You can't delete the draft now. The ink is flowing, and it's hungry."
The sound of a car door slamming outside cut through the demon's voice.
I walked to the window. A yellow taxi was idling at the curb. Mika stepped out, her movements bright and energetic, a stark contrast to the grey, oppressive morning. She was carrying a bag—the champagne she had mentioned. She looked up at my window and waved, her face lit by a smile that made my stomach churn with a sudden, violent guilt.
I waved back. My hand felt like lead.
"The actress is here," Nox whispered. "Try not to miss your cues."
I hurried to the laptop. I had to hide the screen. If she saw the live-scrolling text, if she saw the description of her own arrival, the veil would be torn. I slammed the lid shut.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I stood in the center of the living room, smoothing my shirt, checking my reflection in the darkened screen of the television. I looked pale. My eyes were sunken, the pupils dilated with a mixture of exhaustion and a dark, predatory focus I didn't recognize.
The elevator groaned in the hallway.
The footsteps approached. Light. Rhythmic. The sound of someone who believed the world was a place of rewards and progress.
*Knock. Knock.*
I opened the door.
Mika stood there, wrapped in a cream-colored wool coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She smelled of vanilla and the crisp, clean air of the outdoors.
"Surprise!" she chirped, holding up a bottle of expensive Bollinger. "The editorial department is buzzing, Ryo. I couldn't wait until the meeting tomorrow. I had to see you."
"Mika," I said, stepping aside. "Come in."
She walked past me, and for a moment, the scent of her perfume masked the bleach. It was a brief, beautiful illusion.
She stopped in the middle of the room, her nose wrinkling slightly.
"God, Ryo. Did you have a cleaning fit? It smells like a hospital in here."
"I... spilled some ink," I said, the lie echoing the one I had told Hartmann. "And some wine. I might have overdone it with the cleaning supplies."
She laughed, setting the bottle on the table. "Always the perfectionist. Even with your spills."
She turned to look at me, her expression softening. She reached out and touched my arm—the arm where the intruder had cut me. I flinched, pulling away before I could stop myself.
Mika's smile faltered. "Are you okay? You look... haunted."
"Just the book," I said, moving toward the kitchen to find glasses. I needed to keep my back to her. I needed to hide my hands. "It's taking a lot out of me. The themes are darker than I expected."
"I can tell. That first chapter... Ryo, it's terrifying. It feels so real. The way you described the sound of the impact, the feeling of the paperweight in the hand... I had nightmares last night."
I gripped the edge of the counter. My knuckles were white. "It's just an observation of human nature, Mika. Everyone has a breaking point."
"I know, but..." She walked over to the desk, her hand hovering near the closed laptop. "The way you wrote it, it felt like you weren't imagining it. It felt like you were... documenting it."
I froze. The glasses in my hand rattled.
"Documenting? That's a strange word for fiction."
"You know what I mean. Your 'visceral approach'. It's working, Ryo. But don't let it consume you. You're starting to look like the monster in your own story."
She reached for the laptop lid.
"Mika, don't!"
My voice was too loud. Too sharp.
She stopped, her hand inches from the device. She looked at me, her eyes wide with confusion, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine fear.
"Ryo? What is it? Is there a secret project in there? A surprise for me?"
I forced a laugh, though it sounded like a dry cough. "I'm just... sensitive about the rough drafts. You know how I am. I don't want you to see the scaffolding before the building is finished."
She stared at me for a long beat. The silence in the room stretched, becoming thin and brittle. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance—a reminder that Hartmann was still out there, circling.
"Okay," she said slowly, withdrawing her hand. "I respect the process. But we're here to celebrate, remember?"
She picked up the champagne. "Where are the glasses, genius?"
I brought them over. My heart was thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every second she stayed in this room was a gamble. Every word she spoke was a line in a script I hadn't finished writing.
I popped the cork. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
We poured the wine. The bubbles hissed, a cheerful, mocking sound.
"To the masterpiece," Mika said, raising her glass.
"To the end," I whispered.
We drank. The champagne was cold and sharp, but it tasted like copper. I couldn't get the metallic tang of the night out of my mouth.
Mika sat on the sofa, leaning back and closing her eyes. "You know, the senior editor wants to fast-track this. They're talking about a global release. They think you've finally found your 'Dark Muse'."
"The Dark Muse," I repeated. I looked at the corner of the room. Nox was there, his shadow stretching across the floor, merging with the legs of the sofa where Mika sat. He was watching her. He was studying her neck, the way her pulse throbbed under her skin.
"She's beautiful," Nox's voice drifted into my mind. "So full of life. So full of... potential."
"Stop it," I thought, gripping my glass so hard I thought it would shatter.
"Potential for what, Ryo? A tragedy? A betrayal? Think of the prose we could extract from her grief. Or her silence."
Mika opened her eyes. "Ryo? You're doing it again. You're staring at nothing."
"I'm just tired, Mika. Maybe you should go. I need to get some sleep before I tackle Chapter Four."
She stood up, her expression a mix of hurt and concern. "Already? I just got here."
"I know. But the words... they don't wait. If I don't catch them now, they'll disappear."
She sighed, reaching for her coat. "Fine. The obsessed artist returns. But promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Don't go too deep, Ryo. Some labyrinths don't have an exit. You're writing about shadows, but don't forget that you're the one holding the candle. If you let it go out..."
"I know," I said, walking her to the door. "I'll be careful."
I opened the door, desperate to get her out before the apartment itself betrayed me.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she stopped.
She looked down at the floor near the threshold.
A single, dark drop had escaped my cleaning. It sat on the white trim of the doorframe, hidden in a small crevice I had missed.
It wasn't ink.
Mika leaned down, her brow furrowed. She touched it with the tip of her finger.
"That's strange," she whispered.
She held her finger up to the light. The drop was sticky. Red.
She looked at me, and in that moment, the joy, the champagne, and the success evaporated. There was only the cold, hard realization of a woman who was too smart for her own good.
"Ryo," she said, her voice trembling. "Your arm. You said you cut it."
"I did."
"But this... this is on the outside of the door. And it's... it's not yours, is it?"
I looked at her finger. The drop of blood looked like a period at the end of a sentence I hadn't wanted to write.
"Mika," I said, stepping toward her.
She stepped back. Her eyes darted to the bathroom door, then back to me. The puzzle pieces were clicking into place. The smell of bleach. My agitation. The sudden, violent quality of my prose.
"What did you do, Ryo?"
The question hung in the air, a physical weight.
I looked at her, and for a split second, I saw her as Mika. My friend. My editor. My anchor.
Then, the shadow moved.
Nox was behind her now, his hands hovering over her shoulders, his face a mask of predatory glee.
"The choice, Ryo," the demon hissed. "Save the woman, or save the book. You can't have both. If she leaves this hallway, the story ends. The police come. The page goes white. Forever."
I looked at the kitchen knife on the counter, visible through the open doorway.
I looked at the laptop, waiting for the next sentence.
Mika turned to run.
My hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. My grip was like iron—not the grip of a man, but the grip of a character who had no other choice.
"Ryo! Let me go! You're hurting me!"
"I can't," I whispered. My voice was hollow, a sound from the bottom of a well.
"Why? Ryo, please!"
"Because," I said, pulling her back into the apartment, the door slamming shut with a finality that shook the walls. "I haven't finished the chapter yet."
I pinned her against the door, my face inches from hers. I could see the reflection of a monster in her pupils.
"And you," I said, my heart turning into a cold, black stone, "are the most important character I've ever created."
In the corner, the laptop screen flared to life.
*Chapter Four,* the cursor wrote. *The taste of champagne is quickly replaced by the iron tang of betrayal. She realizes too late that the muse isn't a gift. It's a hunger.*
Mika screamed.
But the walls of the apartment were thick, and the city was loud, and the book...
The book was only just beginning.
I reached for the paperweight.
The red center was glowing now, a pulsing, rhythmic light.
The ink was ready.
And so was I.
"Don't worry, Mika," I whispered as she struggled. "I'll make sure your ending is beautiful."
The detective's card, sitting on the table, caught a stray beam of light.
Hartmann was coming.
But by the time he arrived, the prose would be perfect.
The door was locked.
The silence returned.
And the first line of the new scene was written in a scream.