Mina arrived at the dilapidated apartment block, a structure that seemed to wear its decay like a shroud. The staircase in the back stood rotted and ancient, haunted by moaning winds that slithered through its splintered boards. It was the kind of place where shadows had weight and the air tasted of abandonment—a place where no one should ever live.
Yet Mina ascended those groaning stairs to the second story.
The contrast struck him like a physical blow. The second floor existed as an anomaly—pristine corridors with walls so clean they appeared almost luminous against the building's exterior decay. Each door bore a small welcome mat, a domestic pretense that seemed to mock the squalor outside. The air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant, sending involuntary shivers through Mina's nervous system. The clinical purity felt obscene compared to the architectural tragedy that housed it.
Mina approached a particular door, his footsteps silent against the worn carpet. Something caught his eye—a minute detail on the door's surface. A small impression, insignificant to most, but clearly consequential to him. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied the tiny mark.
He checked his pocket for the key, fingers brushing against cold metal. It was there. Mina drew a deep, deliberate breath, his chest expanding slowly as if drawing in courage along with air. He left the package outside, then slid the key into the lock. It turned with well-oiled precision.
Everything appeared normal, save for that small print on the door. Normal, until Mina suddenly drove his boot against the wood with savage force. The door flew inward—
But instead of crashing against the wall, it collided with something yielding. Something human.
Mina stepped inside to find a corpse sprawled across the hallway, fresh blood still seeping into the pristine carpet. His breathing hitched for only a moment before settling into the controlled rhythm of someone intimately familiar with death. He moved with liquid grace, pressing his back against the wall, extracting a knife from his pocket with practiced ease.
He advanced through the apartment with a predator's stealth, each footfall placed with such precision that even a cat would strain to detect his movement. Inhale. Exhale. Controlled. Methodical.
He checked each room with clinical efficiency, finding no signs of other intruders. The apartment remained as empty as a tomb, save for the body in the hallway.
A small folded note rested on the kitchen counter, positioned precisely in the center. Mina approached it cautiously before unfolding the paper with the tip of his blade.
"You're welcome. I've already dealt with your little intruder. Cheers. Left you a cupcake. It's not poisoned, I promise."
The handwriting was elegant, almost artistic—a stark contrast to the casual brutality of its message. Mina took the letter and moved to an open cabinet, withdrawing a metal tea box. Inside lay dozens of similar notes, each bearing the same elegant script. He added the new letter to the collection, his expression unreadable.
With methodical precision, Mina brought the package inside and then hoisted the dead body over his shoulder. The weight was familiar, comfortable even. He carried his burden down through the rotting staircase and out into the night-shrouded streets.
No one questioned the man walking with a corpse slung over his shoulder. No curious eyes peered from windows. No passerby stopped in horror. In this forsaken corner of the world, such sights were merely background texture—as unremarkable as the garbage piled in neglected alleys or the rats that scurried between shadows.
Mina disposed of the body in the river's hungry current, watching as the dark water consumed his burden without question or judgment. The river had become his silent accomplice over the years, accepting his offerings without complaint.
When he returned to the apartment, a different kind of ritual began. Mina cleaned with manic intensity, attacking every surface with bleach and various caustic substances. His movements were precise yet frantic, scrubbing until every molecule of evidence disappeared and the apartment gleamed with an unnatural whiteness.
Everything pristine. Everything perfect. Everything except Mina's arms.
His hands and forearms bore the angry marks of his obsession—skin red and raw from chemicals and frantic scrubbing. Irritation bloomed across his flesh like perverse flowers.
In the bathroom, Mina ran water into the tub, steam rising like ghostly apparitions around him. His breathing grew shallow, then stopped entirely for one terrifying second. His heart raced, then skipped a beat as he began scratching at his skin with vicious intensity, as though trying to remove an invisible layer of filth that only he could perceive.
But there was no dirt. There was only Mina, peeling away his own skin in search of cleanliness that would never come.
The knife—freshly cleaned—rested beside the bed, positioned precisely where his hand could find it in darkness. If anyone entered, Mina would know. The blade would find its purpose again. It always did.
So many years. So many victims. The number had become meaningless, their faces blurring together in his memory like smoke.
As Mina finished his bath, his gaze fixated on a minuscule speck on the wall. A trace of blood, barely visible, perhaps imagined. Each time his eyes found it, his nails dug deeper into his flesh. By the time he emerged from the water, his arms, chest, and shoulders were a crosshatch of self-inflicted wounds. The white towel soon bloomed with crimson patterns as he dried himself.
Methodically, he bandaged his raw skin, wrapping gauze around his arms and torso with the efficiency of someone who had performed this ritual countless times before.
In the kitchen, he examined the package and cupcakes left by the mysterious benefactor. Despite the obvious risks, Mina consumed everything with mechanical indifference. Food was fuel, nothing more—even when it came from the hands of someone who left corpses as gifts.
As night deepened, sleep eluded him. The apartment, despite its cleanliness, seemed to pulse with accusation. The bed burned beneath him as he turned restlessly, limbs tangling in sheets that felt like restraints.
Three in the morning arrived without mercy. Mina prepared chamomile tea with shaking hands, the ceramic mug clinking against the counter. But even this remedy failed him.
By five, he had surrendered. The bed—too soft, too comfortable, too normal—was abandoned for a spot on the hard floor. He curled there like a wounded animal, the cold seeping into his bones as moonlight cut through the darkness in pale, accusing beams. He wrapped himself in a blanket, finally finding a fragile peace in discomfort.
When dawn broke, Mina had fallen into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by sounds from the hallway. Unlike the previous intruder, these footsteps carried a familiar cadence that didn't trigger his survival instincts. Still, habits died hard. Mina rose silently, knife in hand, and crept to the door.
Two men stood in the corridor—one tall and composed, perhaps forty, with brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail; the other younger, maybe late twenties, with golden blonde hair and eyes so intensely blue they seemed almost unnatural.
"Grisham," Mina acknowledged, lowering his knife slightly. "Come back for something? Or just checking if your cupcakes were to my liking?"
The older man's laugh echoed in the sterile hallway, a sound too warm for such a clinical space. The blonde smiled hesitantly, clearly uncertain of his place in this exchange.
"The cupcakes were a gift," Grisham replied. "How are you holding up, Mina?"
Mina gestured them inside with the tip of his blade, a peculiar invitation that both men accepted without comment. The apartment's obsessive cleanliness enveloped them as they moved to the small table where Mina poured leftover chamomile tea into chipped mugs.
Grisham studied Mina's face, noting the dark hollows beneath his eyes. "Judging by those shadows, I question whether you'll ever reach my age."
A dry, sardonic laugh escaped Mina's lips. "I question how you've reached that age yourself, considering your... professional choices."
The blonde shifted uncomfortably, clearly lost in the subtext flowing between the two men. Grisham noticed and smiled indulgently.
"Alot," he said, gesturing toward the blonde, "this is Mina Astrohaya. He might provide excellent material for your novels. His work in underground gambling circles yields... interesting stories." The emphasis on 'gambling' hung in the air like smoke, obviously a euphemism both men understood.
Alot nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on Mina's bandaged arms. "Are you ill?"
"Very," Grisham answered before Mina could respond. He produced a medical kit from his coat. "Which is why I've come prepared."
In the bedroom, Grisham carefully removed Mina's bandages, revealing the self-inflicted damage beneath. His fingers moved with professional precision, but his eyes held something rarely seen in this neighborhood—genuine concern.
"How was your encounter with Matthew?" Grisham asked softly as he applied ointment to the raw flesh.
Mina winced slightly. "Hardly a challenge. I question how someone so soft survived in this district at all. He and his wife barely registered what was happening before it was over. I collected the documents, and the job was complete."
"Yes, quite efficient. The morning paper reported that Mr. Matthew died of a heart attack." Grisham's eyes glittered with dark amusement. "What a remarkable coincidence."
"You nearly gave me a heart attack," Mina hissed, his composure cracking slightly. "Why leave him in my hallway?"
Grisham applied a fresh bandage before answering. "An unfortunate back spasm made carrying him to the river... problematic. I knew you'd handle it."
"I apologize for disturbing your immaculate home," he added, noting Mina's tightening expression. "If it helps, he won't be missed. As medical director at my hospital, he developed quite the reputation for inappropriate indulgences—women, wine, excess in all forms. His absence will go largely unmourned."
"This is the last time, Grisham," Mina's voice carried a rare edge. "Whatever our connection, whatever debt I owe you—"
"And I will continue helping you," Grisham interrupted smoothly. "Because circumstances are about to change significantly."
Mina's eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in your games right now."
"This isn't a game." Something in Grisham's tone made Mina pause. "Things will change. Time marches forward. Eventually, we'll find ourselves beneath a new moon."
"I hope that isn't the euphemism I think it is."
"No, no," Grisham laughed softly. "I've simply heard rumors about certain gales."
"Gales?"
"Phantom boats," Grisham elaborated, "traveling these waters but heading toward no known continent."
Mina stared at him. "What are you suggesting?"
"That perhaps there exists a chance for escape." Grisham's voice dropped to a whisper. "To leave this slum behind. To live clean, decent lives elsewhere."
"Those possibilities aren't meant for people like us, Grisham." Mina's voice was hollow. "You know what we've done. In the end, we're no different from—"
"We are not destined to end like last night's victim," Grisham cut in, his voice suddenly fierce. "We are not."
The silence that followed carried the weight of shared history.
"I've made you melancholic," Grisham finally said. "I apologize."
"No need. Just finish with my wounds and let's move on."
Grisham completed his ministrations, leaving additional medical supplies on Mina's desk before departing with the blonde in tow. But the conversation lingered in the air long after they had gone, like the scent of bleach that never truly dissipated from Mina's apartment.
Night fell again, bringing with it another sleepless vigil. The sounds from the street—drunken arguments, desperate laughter, occasional screams—filtered through the walls despite Mina's best efforts to seal every crack and crevice.
When sleep finally claimed him, nightmares followed immediately. Even curled on his secure spot on the floor, demons found him. By three in the morning, Mina surrendered once more. He prepared coffee and stood at the window, watching rain fall in slow, viscous drops, as though the sky itself were bleeding darkness.
Morning arrived without mercy, finding Mina hollow-eyed and haunted. Yet he moved through his preparation rituals with mechanical precision—washing, dressing, checking his weapons, securing the apartment.
When he finally locked the door behind him and stepped into the street, the harsh sunlight seemed to mock him with its cheerful indifference to the darkness he carried within.