The red 'RECORDING' light glowed, a single watchful eye in the dim studio. Lia leaned
into the microphone, her voice a familiar, calming presence in the chaotic world she
was about to describe.
"Welcome back to 'CRIME SQUARE'," she began, her tone even and measured. "I'm
Lia, your guide to Newfoundland's underbelly. Tonight, the Phantom and the Widow
continue their deadly conversation, and this time, they've added a touch of spice."
Jack lay on his bed, staring at the blank canvas of his ceiling. His hands were stained
red, the coppery smell of blood faint in the air. He felt detached, half-conscious, his
mind replaying the night's events in slow motion.
I killed a girl today, his inner voice stated, a simple, unadorned fact. Twenty-seven
years old. Amy.
On the outskirts of the city, under the harsh glare of police floodlights, Amy's body
was a grotesque statue tied to the bumper of a car. Her throat was slit, and a series of
smaller, precise cuts decorated her hands and knees. A team of officers moved
around the scene, their faces grim, the flash of their cameras punctuating the
darkness.
She was selling drugs, Jack's thoughts continued, a justification he didn't truly need.
Which is not a completely offensive crime, but she sold them to her own brother.
One of the officers pointed to the car's rear window. Scrawled in the grime was a
message, a direct challenge: "WIDOW'S KILLINGS LACK ARTISTIC FLAIR -
PHANTOM". The cops exchanged confused glances. This wasn't just a murder; it was
a performance. A dialogue.
Well, Jack thought, a faint smile touching his lips as he lay in his bed, I thought I might
as well leave a message for her. He raised his bloodied hand, aimed a finger at the
ceiling, and mimed pulling a trigger. Bang.
"So," Lia's voice purred from the podcast, a sly smile in her tone, "how did the Widow
react?"
Rose stood at the counter of Ellen's shop, her eyes glued to the small TV broadcasting
the news of the Phantom's latest work.
"Nasty guy, that Phantom," Ellen clucked, wiping down the counter.
Rose leaned forward, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Do you think the Widow will
react?"
Ellen stopped wiping and looked at her, her answer instantaneous and emphatic. "I
think she would, and she should!"
"Right?" Rose's voice was filled with a strange, exhilarating energy.
"Yes!" Ellen agreed, her eyes wide with excitement. They both paused, then burst into
a shared peal of laughter. "I can't believe we're rooting for a serial killer to strike back,"
Ellen gasped, wiping a tear from her eye.
Rose just smirked.
The hospital room was sterile and silent, smelling of antiseptic and death. Rose sat in
a chair, her hands covered in thick, red paint. In the center of the room, on the floor,
lay a body, also drenched in the same crimson paint. She stared at it, her expression
unreadable, her silence absolute.
My killings lack artistic flair? The Phantom's message echoed in her mind, a taunt she
couldn't ignore. I'll show him how bland his flair is.
She rose, dipped a thick wooden stick into the can of paint, and walked to the wall. As
she began to scribble, her own justification formed in her thoughts.
This dead bastard was selling gender hormone pills to kids. Young teens. She dipped
the stick again, the paint dripping onto the linoleum floor. The government is too much
of a pussy to stop this. So, I did.
She stepped back to admire her work. In large, dripping letters, the wall now read:
"THEN WHY DID PHANTOM IMITATE MY NOT-SO-ARTISTIC STYLE? - YOU KNOW
WHO"
"As much as one hates to admit it," Lia's voice narrated to her thousands of listeners,
"the Widow's got style. And the social media? It's in absolute shambles."
The city had become a cacophony of opinions. News reporters shoved microphones
in people's faces, desperate for a soundbite.
"I'm really concerned for our society," said a man in a cheap suit. "People
romanticizing killings is just bad."
"I blame fourteen-year-old girls for this shit!" another man with headphones around
his neck declared.
A young woman with brightly colored hair screamed into a camera, "I think Widow is
sassy! Let's go, girl!"
"Can I call Widow mommy?" asked a nerdy-looking guy with thick glasses.
"This shows what we've achieved as a society," a professionally dressed woman said
with disdain. "Absolutely shameless."
Even Mark, cornered outside the station, gave his two cents. "I blame Akira Mado for
this," he said, his face weary. "She romanticized this shit."
A high school girl, giggling with her friends, offered her own theory. "I guess, like, the
Phantom's probably 6'4"."