Andres returned home to his private cathedral of shadows: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, warm whiskey light, silence thick enough to breathe.
He didn't write right away. He never did. First came the ritual.
A single record: Mahler's 5th. A drink. A match struck. One candle.
Then the keyboard.
He opened the manuscript titled The Elegy of Thorns — the one inspired by Thana. His fingers hovered.
Character: Lydia Vale — pianist, haunted, unreadable. New chapter begins with the killer watching her from the balcony of an empty theater...
He began to write. Her mannerisms. Her rhythm. Her laugh, calculated and beautiful. He distorted them, renamed them, shaded them with fear. Not because he feared her — but because she made him feel too much.
He hated that.
In the margins, he scribbled:
Is it still murder if the victim is willing? Or worse — what if the killer becomes unwilling?