8. Silas

8

SILAS

I drum my fingers against my thigh, watching Clara's delicate fingers dance across her keyboard through my laptop screen. Such grace, even in mundane tasks. The sunlight catches her hair, creating a halo effect that makes me want to reach through the screen and twist those golden strands around my fist.

Time to make contact.

Good morning, beautiful. What's keeping you busy today?

Her reaction is... exquisite. The way her lips part, that slight intake of breath, the pink flush spreading across her cheeks. She picks up her phone with trembling fingers. My message lights up her entire being.

I am her salvation. Her path to enlightenment.

Her fingers hover over the phone screen. One delete, two deletes. She's overthinking her response, wanting to appear casual. I lean closer to my screen, savoring every micro-expression that crosses her face. Such delicious anxiety.

Just work stuff. Boring day at the office. You?

Lies taste sweeter when they come from innocent lips. I know what she's working on—the press release about my latest masterpiece. My gift to her. Each body I leave is a love letter.

Thinking of you. Can't get our dinner out of my mind.

Her sharp inhale makes my blood sing. She bites her lower lip, and I mirror the action with my teeth, imagining the copper taste of her blood instead of mine. She types her reply.

Same here. It was... intense.

Intense doesn't begin to describe what I have planned for us, my dear Clara. I watch as she abandons her work completely, clutching her phone to her chest like a lovesick teenager. If only she knew I was watching her every move, cataloging every reaction, and planning our glorious future together.

Every text brings her closer to me. Every response binds her tighter to my web.

I tap out another message, anticipation coursing through my veins.

Tonight. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you feel dangerous.

Clara's squeal of delight echoes through my speakers. It is such an unguarded moment of pure joy that it draws a genuine laugh from my throat. I watch her twirl in her office chair, clutching her phone to her chest like a precious treasure.

Her fingers fly across her screen. I shift in my seat, adjusting my growing hardness as she deletes and retypes her message three times before settling on something more reserved.

I'd love to. Where should I meet you?

The way she keeps glancing at her phone, checking for my response, thrills me. Such eager desperation. Through my screen, I watch her abandon all pretense of work, pulling up her closet organizing app instead. She's already planning her outfit, scrolling through options with that little furrow between her brows that appears when she's concentrating.

I'll pick you up. Be ready.

Her whole body shivers at my commanding tone. She likes it when I take control—even if she doesn't fully understand why.Her reply comes through.

Can't wait

Oh, Clara. You have no idea how perfect that choice of emoji is. How well it reflects the darkness we'll soon share.

Through my feed, I watch her biting on her lip and smiling. Such innocent excitement. Such pure anticipation.

I park my black Audi outside the abandoned warehouse, killing the engine. As I push it open, the metal door groans, and my footsteps echo across the concrete floor. The warehouse still smells of rust and decay—the perfect ambiance for what's about to unfold.

My latest medium lies bound in the corner. Four women are positioned exactly as I need them. Their muffled screams create a symphony through their gags. I've selected them carefully— all singers from the local church choir—a touch of irony I know Clara will appreciate when she pieces it together.

"Ladies." I greet, as I approach them slowly, savoring their fear. "We're about to create something beautiful."

I pull out my ritual knife, its blade catching the dim light filtering through the dirty windows. The first woman's eyes widen as I crouch beside her. Tears stream down her face, mascara creating black rivers on her cheeks.

"Shhh." I stroke her hair. "Your voice will join the others soon."

I position them carefully, arranging their bodies to form a perfect circle. Their hands reach toward the center, fingers twisted into claws. Just like calling birds, they'll sing their final song together.

The blade feels warm in my hand as I begin my work. Each cut is precise, and each movement is calculated. I time their deaths carefully—they need to go together, their final breaths creating the harmony I seek.

Blood pools beneath them, spreading outward in a perfect crimson circle. I step back to admire my handiwork. Four calling birds, indeed. Clara will appreciate the artistry and attention to detail. She'll see how their fingers curl inward and how their faces capture that final moment of realization.

I clean my blade methodically, watching their blood paint my scene onto the concrete. The coppery scent fills my nostrils, mixing with the musty warehouse air. Everything must be perfect. Clara deserves nothing less than perfection.

She'll stand right here, analyzing my work. I can already picture her expression as she connects the dots and sees the message I'm creating just for her.