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The evening news droned quietly from the television mounted on the wall of his sparse apartment, but the man seated at the kitchen table paid it no attention. His focus was entirely on the newspaper spread before him, his weathered hands moving with deliberate precision as he guided a pair of silver scissors along the thin black lines of newsprint.

The scissors made a satisfying whisper as they cut, like the sound of a snake sliding through dry grass. He took his time with each stroke, ensuring the lines remained perfectly straight. This wasn't just any article he was cutting out—it was Scarlett's obituary, and it deserved his complete attention. The same attention he'd given her on that final night.

The obituary itself was modest, barely a quarter of a page. But its brevity made it all the more precious to him. He set the scissors down and lifted the freshly cut piece of newsprint, holding it up to catch the warm light from the nearby table lamp.

"Scarlett Marie Denbrough, age 58, passed away unexpectedly at her home on November 12th ," he read silently to himself, savoring each word like a fine wine. "She is remembered as a beacon of hope and strength by all who knew her, having recently achieved remission after a lengthy battle with cancer."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. The writer had taken such care to dance around the circumstances of her death. No mention of the violence, the blood that had pooled beneath her body and soaked into the hardwood floor. No description of how she'd tried to fight back—oh, how she'd fought—before finally succumbing to the inevitable.

He placed the clipping carefully into a small leather-bound notebook, smoothing it flat with reverent fingers. The notebook contained other similar trophies: newspaper articles about seemingly random break-ins gone wrong from many years ago, police reports that concluded with frustrating dead ends, obituaries that never told the full story. Seven deaths in total, before his incarceration. Seven perfectly executed scenarios that looked like nothing more than tragic coincidences.

Until Rachel Gift had started connecting the dots. There were articles outlining the trial in his book, too, how he’d been sentenced to prison for lesser crimes because although Rachel Gift had known what he’d done, there’d not been enough proof.

His jaw tightened at the thought of her name. Agent Rachel Gift, the FBI's golden girl. She'd been the only one clever enough to see the pattern, to understand that the "botched robberies" were actually carefully orchestrated executions. But she hadn't been able to prove it—not completely. In the end, all they could pin on him were some petty charges. Enough to put him away for twelve years, but he'd gotten out in ten with good behavior.

Good behavior. The thought made him chuckle.

He closed the notebook and returned it to its hiding place behind a loose panel in the kitchen cabinets. The evening news had switched to a weather report, the meteorologist gesturing at digital storm fronts. He turned off the TV and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights spread below his third-floor apartment.

Somewhere out there, Rachel Gift was putting the pieces together. He knew she would—she was too smart not to. Scarlett's murder would have triggered something in that sharp mind of hers. The similarities to his previous work would be impossible for her to ignore. It was only a matter of time before she made the connection.

He'd planned it that way, after all.

Moving away from the window, he walked to his bedroom and opened the closet. Inside, hung neatly on wooden hangers, were his work uniforms from the auto garage where he'd recently secured employment. Johnson & Sons Auto Repair, a small but respectable establishment that had been more than happy to hire someone with "prior mechanical experience," no questions asked. The kind of place where people minded their own business and appreciated someone who showed up on time and did their job without complaint. The kind of place to work, to earn some money, and to hide in plain sight.

The perfect cover. Just like before.

He ran his fingers along the sleeve of one of the navy-blue uniforms, remembering how easy it had been to blend in during his previous string of kills. No one ever suspected the quiet, polite man who kept to himself. The unremarkable face in the crowd. The helpful stranger who would hold the door open for you at the grocery store.

Or the mechanic who might stop by to help when your car broke down.

Returning to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water from the tap and leaned against the counter. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing on the street below. It was in moments like these that he allowed himself to really savor the anticipation of what was to come.

Rachel would figure it out soon enough. She'd realize that Scarlett's death wasn't just another random act of violence. She'd understand that her friend's murder was a message meant specifically for her. And when she did, she'd come looking for him.

But this time would be different. This time, he was prepared.

He walked to his small desk in the corner of the living room and opened the bottom drawer. Inside was a manila folder containing newspaper clippings about Rachel Gift herself. Articles about her successful cases, her battle with cancer, the death of her first husband at the hands of Alex Lynch. He'd collected them during his time in prison, studying her life like a textbook, learning everything he could about the woman who had cost him ten years of freedom.

More recently, he'd added articles about her work at the hospice center and had slowly started adding those to the book and the folder, too. That's how he'd learned about Scarlett—Rachel's friend who had miraculously beaten cancer. It had been almost too perfect. Taking Scarlett's life had served multiple purposes: it was a message to Rachel, a way to hurt her personally, and most importantly, it was the opening move in what he thought of as their final game.

He closed the drawer and returned to the kitchen table, where he kept a small calendar. With methodical precision, he marked off another day. Three months had passed since his release, two weeks since Scarlett's death. He wondered how long it would take Rachel to put it all together. Days? Weeks? He hoped it wouldn't be too long—he was eager to begin the next phase of his plan.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside his apartment made him pause, but they passed by without stopping. He smiled to himself, remembering how Scarlett had reacted when she'd opened her door to find him standing there. The flash of confusion in her eyes, followed by that instinctive fear that humans get when they sense a predator in their midst. But by then, it had been too late.

Just like it would be too late for Rachel when the time came.

He knew it was only a matter of time before she'd come for him. She'd try to prove what she couldn't prove before, try to put him away for good this time. But he'd be ready. He'd spent ten years planning this, perfecting every detail. This time, Rachel Gift wouldn't just fail to catch him.

This time, she wouldn't survive to try again.

He turned away from the window and began his nightly routine, preparing for bed with the same careful attention to detail he brought to everything else in his life. Tomorrow, he'd go to work at the garage, smile at his coworkers, do his job without complaint. He'd continue building his quiet, unremarkable life, all while waiting for Rachel to realize that her old nemesis had returned.

And when she finally came for him, he would be ready to complete what he was starting to think of as his Greatest Work—the destruction of Rachel Gift herself.