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Then I follow.

He cuts across the hotel atrium.I trail behind, take the service hallway past the vending machines, the fire exit cracked just wide enough to tempt anyone in a rush.I’m already on the other side when he steps through.

One step.One hand.One whisper.

“Don’t scream.”

He doesn’t.Not fast enough.

I press the knife in—not deep.Just a promise.

“Say it.”

He chokes on the silence.

“Say it.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

Wrong answer.

When it’s done, I wipe the blade on his shirt and drop it in the nearest sewer grate.

I don’t keep trophies.I keep notes.

There were 326 homicides in this city last year.Or maybe it was 412.

No one’s looking for number 327—not if he’s no one.

And he is.

No hashtag.No backstory.Just a man who thought no one was watching.

Back in the hotel room, I wash and dry my hands.Shower.Get ready for a date I’m sure I’ll hate.

Vance’s letter is on the bed, folded inside the book I never meant to keep.I haven’t read it in a long time.I don’t need to.

I remember the part he hoped I’d listen to.

I didn’t.

I’m not sorry.

He doesn’t occupy my every thought the way he once did.

But sometimes, when I double-check a lock, or shift the mirror just slightly to the left?—

I feel him.

Not watching.

Just there.

Like muscle memory.

Like gravity.

Like the echo of something sharp that once cut clean.