“Beneath dim lights and hidden gazes, the night takes shape. Come dance where identities fade.”8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTt00kob7pH
That was the line printed on a flyer pinned to the entrance door of the Velarium, a nightclub in the heart of the Big Apple. The perfect opportunity to conceal one’s identity—an opportunity the killer skillfully seized that summer night.
Inside, the air pulsed with the emotions of dozens of hearts: some speaking with loved ones, others laughing freely, others exchanging embraces or kisses. Dozens of masks, and just as many hidden identities.
The criminal absorbed all that overwhelming emotional energy, yet his heart discarded it like waste. As if he didn’t want it. As if he couldn’t understand it.
Dressed in an elegant black tuxedo, a white Venetian mask faithfully concealing his gaze, the killer scanned the room in search of prey. A heart to lure. A life to take. And that thought seemed to bring him a certain satisfaction.
At one point, he spotted a young man—tall, with curly black hair—wearing a half-mask and holding a flute of Chardonnay. He was alone, observing the lively chaos before him.
The killer began moving toward him, weaving through the crowd, a glass of red wine between his fingers to better blend in as just another guest. At first, he kept his distance. Then, slowly, he closed in from behind, lightly bumping into him—staging a small accident.
The young man turned, caught off guard.
“Oh, pardon me—I wasn’t paying attention,” the killer said.
“If that’s your way of getting noticed, it works,” the young man replied, intrigued. “I saw you from across the room. You were watching me.”
“Then you already know you’ve caught my attention,” the killer answered, a sly tone in his voice.
“Tonight, we’re all the same in here,” the young man said after a brief pause. “So how exactly did I manage that?”
“You carry yourself differently. You stand out. It felt like you wanted nothing to do with anyone… in a room full of people who want everything to do with everyone. And that intrigued me, that’s all,” the killer said, hoping to win him over.
“Hmm… I don’t really buy it, but who cares. I feel like drinking tonight.” He drained the rest of his wine in one gulp. “We could do that together.”
The killer was surprised by the invitation—and pleased to have achieved his first objective.
“Sure. Why not, since you insist.”
The young man smirked slightly. “So, tell me—do you have a name?”
“Names aren’t necessary tonight. We’re all the same here. You said it yourself.” He took a long sip from his glass.
The young man chuckled. “You’re right. Maybe we’ll tell each other later… if there is a later.”
He stepped closer to his predator, unaware of the fate awaiting him within the hour. The killer mirrored the gesture, returning that pull of attraction. Then the young man took his hand and gently led him away.
The killer set his glass down on a nearby table and followed.
They moved to a quieter spot, away from the crowded main hall. Eventually, they reached a dim corridor near the restroom and began exchanging kisses.
A masked man, visibly drunk and waiting nearby, started banging on the bathroom door, shouting at whoever was inside to come out. Annoyed by the noise, the young man suggested they leave the club altogether and head to his place.
“Ezra. Now you can tell me yours.”
The killer hesitated for a second, then answered, “Rowan. My name is Rowan.”
“Can I take off your mask, Rowan?” the other asked softly, his hand reaching toward his face.
“Wouldn’t it be more exciting to keep them on a little longer?” the killer suggested, his heartbeat beginning to quicken.
With a faint hint of disappointment, the young man replied, “Oh, sure, I don’t mind that. But we’ll take them off later, okay?”
“Of course.”
For a brief moment, something dark and confused flickered in the young man’s eyes—then, suddenly, blackness.
His body slowly collapsed to the floor, unconscious, as the killer gently caught him and laid him down. He had drawn his weapon—a simple syringe—from his pocket and injected it into the young man’s neck with a swift, precise motion.
He stood there, contemplating the success of his second objective, a faint smirk on his lips. Then he removed the young man’s mask and slipped off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch.
He stood still for a moment, index finger resting against his lips, thinking.
Then he moved to the bedroom, pulled aside pillows and covers, and tore a strip of fabric from the sheets—intending to use it as a gag. Afterward, he returned to the living room and removed the cords holding back the curtains.
With some effort, he carried the limp body to the kitchen table and tied the young man’s wrists and ankles with the cords. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small stamp.
Carefully, he placed his slender fingers on the young man’s lips, trying to pry them open—firmly, but cautiously. His heart pounded in his chest.
The young man’s eyes fluttered open.
At first confused—then horrified as he realized the situation.
The killer flinched, caught off guard, then snarled as he pulled back his bloodied hand—the young man had bitten down hard, sinking his teeth into his flesh.
Panicking, the victim began thrashing, tipping the table over and crashing onto the floor with a heavy thud.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Rowan?! Have you lost your mind?!” he shouted, shaken by the revelation of the man he had been flirting with just an hour and a half earlier.
The killer didn’t answer.
Blinded by rage, and no longer knowing how to react to the failure of his plan, he tightened his hands around the young man’s throat.
Then a voice came from the other side of the wall.
“Hello? Police? Yes, um… I heard strange noises from the apartment next door. A loud crash, and someone shouting… 13 Elmwood Drive…”
The voice continued on the phone as the killer slowly loosened his grip, startled by fear.
The young man had lost consciousness.
Panicked, the predator chose to flee—running toward the balcony and climbing down the exterior fire escape.
Through a miscalculation—or perhaps a twist of fate—the predator let his prey slip away, left empty-handed.
And he knew all too well that the young man’s survival would mean one thing:
a step forward for the police in solving the case.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0abB4jIac3
and then Add to home screen.