The quiet hum of the city outside my studio felt like a cruel
reminder that nothing would ever be the same again. I couldn't
shake the feeling of being hunted, of being watched. Everything I
had built, every mask I had carefully placed on my face, was
slipping away, piece by piece.
I knew I couldn't run anymore.
But where did that leave me?
I stood in front of the canvas, my fingers still stained with the last
painting's remnants. The image of the woman, her lifeless eyes
staring back at me. I had turned her into art, just like I had
with all the others. But this time was different. Something
gnawed at the back of my mind. This wasn't about inspiration
anymore. It wasn't about art.
This was survival.
I turned away from the canvas, my reflection in the window staring
back at me like a stranger. Who was I becoming?
And then, like a punch to the gut, the realization hit me. I wasn't in
control anymore.
I had to make a choice.
The Desperation That Wasn't Mine
I left the studio in a daze, my mind swirling with thoughts I
couldn't quite grasp. Miller had gotten under my skin, and I hated
him for it. The detective wasn't just trying to crack the case
anymore. He was playing a deeper game, one where the stakes
were higher than I could have ever imagined.
But Miller wasn't the only one watching me now.
Brooks—he knew. I could feel it. He was just waiting for me to
slip, for me to give him a reason to finish what he had started. His
grip on me tightened with each passing day. And I couldn't even
see the way out anymore.
I moved through the streets, almost mechanically, my mind racing
faster than my feet. The cold air felt sharp against my skin, but it
did nothing to clear my head. Where was I even going?
I didn't have the answers.
I just knew I couldn't keep running forever. Sooner or later, I
would have to face the consequences of everything I had done.
But would I be ready? Would I be strong enough to face the truth?
Or was I already too far gone?
The Choice That Wasn't Mine
I stopped in front of a small café, the warm light spilling out onto
the sidewalk. I didn't know why I had come here—something
about the place felt familiar, like a moment from a past life that I
couldn't quite remember.
I stepped inside and ordered a drink, trying to calm my nerves. It
wasn't working.
I felt the weight of someone's gaze on me.
When I turned, I saw him.
Miller.
I swallowed hard. I should have known.
He walked toward me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. There
was no smile, no words of greeting. Just the same cold intensity
that had marked every interaction between us.
"We need to talk," he said.
I didn't argue.
The Betrayal That Wasn't Mine—Continued
We sat at a table in the back corner, away from prying eyes. The
café was nearly empty now, just a few late-night stragglers sipping
their drinks. I wasn't sure if they were watching us, or if I was just
imagining it.
"You've been avoiding me," Miller said, his voice smooth but with an
edge beneath it. "I didn't think you'd be this good at it."
I kept my face neutral. "I'm not avoiding you."
"Oh, I think you are." Miller leaned back in his chair, his gaze
unwavering. "You're running, and you don't even know where you're going
anymore."
I clenched my fists beneath the table, but I didn't speak.
"I'm giving you one last chance," he continued, his eyes glinting with
something I couldn't quite place. "You either come clean, or…" He let
the words hang in the air.
Or what?
The threat was clear, but it didn't scare me. Not as much as it
should have.
"I'm not telling you anything." My voice was steady, but inside, my
mind was spinning.
Miller smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. "That's where you're
wrong."
Before I could react, he pulled something from his coat—a file.
Thick, heavy. He placed it on the table between us.
"This is where it gets interesting."
I stared at the file, then back at Miller. My heart pounded in my
chest.
"What is this?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
He slid the file closer to me, and I glanced down at the first page.
It was a report, a list of my victims.
But not just that.
"I know what you've been doing," Miller said softly. "And I know who's
been helping you."
My blood ran cold.
Brooks.
The Hunt That Wasn't Mine
I reached for the file, my fingers trembling slightly, but I forced
myself to stay calm.
"You don't have any proof," I said, my voice tight.
Miller's eyes never wavered. "Proof? It's all here."
He tapped the file. "You're not as clever as you think you are. Brooks isn't
as loyal as you think he is. He's been feeding me information, letting me piece
everything together. And now…" He leaned in, his voice lowering.
"Now, you're out of options."
Out of options.
It was like a slap to the face. I couldn't breathe for a moment.
Miller wasn't just playing a game anymore. He had won.
The End That Wasn't Mine
I didn't know what to say.
I couldn't run. I couldn't hide.
"This is over," Miller said, his voice soft, but final. "You've already lost."
I stayed silent, unable to look away from the file, the weight of my
crimes spilling out in front of me.
Miller got up, and for a moment, I thought he might leave. But
instead, he turned back, that same cold smile on his face.
"I'll give you one thing," he said. "You did all of this for art. But in the end,
there's no beauty in what you've done. Just a long, dark road to a place you'll
never escape from."
And with that, he walked out.
Leaving me alone with the truth.