CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

His hand trembled as he gripped the drain stopper, its rubber end suctioning onto the porcelain of the bathtub with a hollow thud. He leaned over, exerting pressure in an almost ritualistic manner, his breaths shallow and labored. The bathroom was sterile, the cold white tiles reflecting the harsh light that flickered overhead. With each plunge, the veins on his temple pulsated more violently, a roaring of thunder inside his skull.

He paused, panting slightly, the throbbing in his head reaching a maddening pitch. His left arm hung uselessly by his side, the sensation in it fading in and out like a poor radio signal. Months ago, the doctors had spoken the word "tumor" with sterile detachment, and he knew that was what he was feeling right now—an unwelcome intruder pressing against his brain, demanding attention, distorting his world into one of agony and urgency.

He straightened up, clenching his jaw to stave off a wave of dizziness. The empty tub before him seemed to mock his efforts, its gleaming surface untouched by water. A frown creased his weathered face, the skin around his eyes tightening. He gripped the side of the tub, waiting for the wave of pain to fade. Sometimes it took a while, but they always settled down.

Then, a muffled sound pierced his concentration. It was a rhythmic thumping accompanied by a soft whimpering coming from the living room. He knew what it was, and it made his heart stutter.

It was almost time.

The stopper dropped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he turned on his heels, his movements deliberate despite the disquiet churning within him.

In the living room, the dim light cast long shadows across the walls, the furniture reduced to vague shapes in the twilight. Natalie King was on the couch, bound and subdued, her body tense and desperate. Her arms were tied tightly behind her back, the rope biting into her flesh, while her feet were secured together. She was completely immobilized. He'd stretched a few pieces of duct tape across her mouth, stifling her cries so that they were little more than muffled vibrations in the air.

He approached her slowly, his footsteps steady yet heavy with a morbid resolve. Each step resounded in the quiet space, a countdown to the inevitable. As he stood before her, Natalie's eyes, wide with fear, locked onto his. They were the eyes of a cornered animal—aware of its fate but still brimming with the primal urge to survive. He could see something churning behind those eyes, her brain frantically trying to think of ways to escape.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly under the constraints, the duct tape fluttering with every panicked breath.

"Shh," he whispered, a perverse imitation of comfort as he crouched beside her. "You're okay…for now. Murderer."

Natalie's gaze never wavered, even as she tried to wriggle away, her body contorting in a futile attempt at escape. The killer watched her struggle, a grim satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth. There was no escaping this.

He eased himself down onto the sofa with a sigh, his body tight with an odd combination of fatigue and exhilaration. She recoiled as much as her restraints would allow, her breaths coming in sharp gasps that he could hear even through the tape. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know what you did, Natalie," he said, his words deliberate and piercing. "You killed that man, right there in the theater. With rope and water, no less." His fingers traced over the knots binding her wrists as if admiring his own handiwork. "I saw it all as did the others. But they are impure, just like you. They applauded you…"

Natalie's eyes, already wide, seemed to stretch further still, the whites glaring against her flushed skin. Her body tensed, muscles straining against the ropes as though she might somehow break free by sheer willpower alone.

He rose from the sofa, her terror etching itself into his memory—a souvenir of sorts. The pain in his head spiked, sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of the ticking clock within him.

Rebecca Clarke's face flashed in his mind—her lifeless form a testament to his resolve. But after taking her life, the pain in his head had worsened, burrowing deeper inside his skull like some malevolent creature gnawing at his brain. It was becoming unbearable, a constant companion that overshadowed even the thrill of his mission.

He hadn't meant to go after Natalie so soon. The plan was to wait a few more days to savor the anticipation and make sure he was being as careful as possible. But now, time was slipping through his fingers like sand, each grain a moment lost, a victim not claimed.

"Should have started sooner," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. The tumor was a death sentence—one he'd accepted—but it was also a merciless thief, robbing him of the meticulous timeline he'd crafted.

Natalie was supposed to be just another act of vengeance, a carefully timed spectacle. Instead, she'd become an impromptu affair, rushed by necessity rather than design. His vision blurred for a moment, and he steadied himself against the bathroom doorframe. He wasn't even sure he'd have time to kill her. And when he realized that there was a very good chance she would be the last, his heart broke slightly. There was simply so much more work left to do. And now, more than ever, there was no room for error, no second chances.

There were others, yes—others who deserved death at his hands. But someone else would have to handle them; his time was running out. The list of names that he had etched into the back of his mind began to blur, victims' faces melting away into the void. Natalie would be the last.

He would call when Natalie was dead, as he had with the others, and when they discovered Natalie's lifeless form here, it wouldn't matter if they found him. The noose, carefully crafted and hidden among the shadows of his bedroom, would take his life before the authorities arrived.

This had to be perfect, a fitting end for both Natalie and him.

He moved with deliberate care, reaching for the edge of the tub. His fingertips brushed against the smooth surface, sweeping away the bottles and bars of soap. Each motion was meticulous—a preparation for the inevitable struggle, the thrashing of limbs against unforgiving porcelain. No mess, he thought. No unnecessary chaos. Only the grim certainty of what must be done.

The water waited, still and silent, a grave yet to be filled.

The return to the living room was a march towards finality. He looked down at Natalie, bound and helpless on his couch, her chest rising and falling with frantic energy.

"It's time," he told her.

He offered no further explanation; none was needed. Natalie King would soon get a taste of the pain and horror she had inflicted on that stage in front of those other monsters. His only true regret, aside from running out of time, was that he couldn't drown them all.