The Lonely Killer 17

The air between us was razor-thin.

The detective stood there, his eyes steady, his words like knives cutting deeper than my own ever could.

Detective

You’re slipping

I wasn’t slipping.

I was in control.

I Surged forward, the knife an extension of my rage.

A blur of motion—fast, violent, fueled by something I couldn’t name.

He didn’t reach for his gun.

He didn’t even flinch.

Maybe he knew.

Maybe he wanted this.

The blade found its mark—deep into his chest.

Warm blood spilled over my hands, hot and vivid against the cold night air.

His body jerked, breath hitching, but his eyes—they didn’t change.

No fear.

No surprise.

Just… understanding.

His hand gripped my arm weakly, as if trying to hold on to something, but his strength faded fast.

He collapsed, pulling me down with him.

I knelt beside him, staring into those fading eyes.

Why wasn’t I satisfied?

His lips moved, a whisper, barely there.

Detective

It was never about the killing… was it?

And then—nothing.

Silence.

His eyes, wide open, staring past me now.

Gone.

I sat there for a long time, blood dripping from my hands, soaking into the ground beneath us.

The hunger…

It was still there.

But now, it felt different.

Empty.

Hollow.



