Page 5

The room was dark except for the glow of a single desk lamp, illuminating an array of photos and documents spread out across the surface. The killer studied them with cold precision—Rachel Martinez, and the faces of others who had lied, each one carefully marked as part of the plan.

The killer's eyes narrowed as they scrutinized Rachel's photograph, tracing the lines of her face with a gloved finger. "You thought you could hide," they whispered, their voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "But I've found you all."

They picked up a red marker, uncapping it with a soft click. The scent of ink filled the air as they drew a precise X across Rachel's smiling face. The killer paused, savoring the moment. Each mark was a promise, a vow of retribution long overdue.

Moving methodically, they turned their attention to the other photographs. Faces stared back, frozen in time, unaware of the fate that awaited them. The killer's hand moved swiftly, marking each one with the same crimson X.

"You all played your parts so well," the killer murmured, their voice tinged with bitterness. "Such convincing liars."

They leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking softly. Their gaze swept over the collection of damning evidence spread before them. Years of meticulous planning, of piecing together the puzzle of betrayal, had led to this moment.

The killer's thoughts drifted to Maria, her face etched in their memory. She had been so full of life, so trusting. And these people—these cowards—had left her to die. The anger that had simmered for years threatened to boil over, but the killer pushed it down. Control was essential. Emotion would only cloud their judgment.

"Did you think I'd forget?" they asked the silent room, their voice barely above a whisper. "Did you think your lies would protect you forever?"

Their focus wasn't on art or patience—it was on justice, their kind of justice. The people who lied all those years ago think they'd escaped the consequences, think time had erased their sins. But time hadn’t made the killer forget. Each false statement, each betrayal, had only fueled their anger. Maria had been left to die while these so-called witnesses covered for themselves, for others.

The killer stood, pacing the small room with measured steps. Their fingers trailed over the documents—police reports, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes. Each piece was a testament to the web of lies that had been spun, a web they were now poised to tear apart.

"You've had your time," they said, addressing the marked photographs. "You've lived your lives thinking you were safe. But your time is up."

They paused, picking up a faded newspaper clipping. The headline screamed of tragedy, of a young life cut short. Maria's name was there, buried in the text. The killer's grip tightened, crumpling the edges of the paper.

"I promised you," they whispered, their voice thick with emotion. "I promised I'd make them pay."

The killer took a deep breath, composing themselves. Emotion was a luxury they couldn't afford, not when there was so much work to be done. They returned to the desk, surveying their handiwork one last time.

"Your lies won't protect you anymore," they said, their voice filled with grim determination. "Justice is coming, and it wears my face."

With a final nod, the killer began to gather the marked photographs and documents. The time for planning was over. Now, it was time for action. As they moved about the room, a sense of anticipation filled the air. The hunt was about to begin, and the liars would soon learn the price of their deceit.

The killer's gaze drifted to the knife resting on the desk, its polished blade catching the light from the single lamp. They reached out, fingers wrapping around the smooth handle, savoring its familiar weight.

"Hello, old friend," they murmured, lifting the blade. The metal gleamed, reflecting the killer’s distorted image. "We have work to do tonight."