Andres Nightwinn was late—again.
Not that it mattered. When you were young, wealthy, and disturbingly charming, people waited. New York stretched beneath him like a living thing, and as his Maserati purred through the lower streets of SoHo, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Perfect. As always.
His inbox buzzed with press requests, literary events, and gushing fan letters. He ignored them all. There was only one thing on his mind tonight: the ending. Not of his book—but of a life.
The night before, he had outlined the final chapter in his mind. A woman. A quiet alley. The sound of her heels clicking like a metronome. Her scream, brief and stifled. His blade—poetic, precise. A performance worthy of ink.
He parked beneath a high-rise and took the elevator to the top. His apartment welcomed him with silence and shadows, books lining the walls like old friends. He passed the Steinway in the corner—his mother's. Sometimes he played. Tonight, he didn't.
Instead, he poured whiskey, opened his laptop, and titled a new document: The Elegy of Thorns
Tomorrow, he'd begin the novel. Tonight, he would meet his next character.