The hum of Whitehall was steady, predictable: the shuffle of papers, the murmur of voices, the clipped footsteps echoing down polished corridors. For Eleanor, the sounds were normally comforting — a metronome to her life of order and routine. But today, they grated. Every sound seemed sharper, every glance lasted a second too long.
Harland's face would not leave her mind. The detective's eyes, sharp and searching, had lingered on her during their accidental conversation. He hadn't suspected her — not truly — but something in his tone carried weight. He had been talking to her about the killer, about the Angel of Whitehall, not knowing the monster sat across from him sipping tea.
Eleanor's hand trembled as she filed another memo, though her face betrayed nothing. She was flawless in her performance. She had to be. But inside, a dangerous thought coiled tighter with each passing second: she had made mistakes.
That fingerprint. The pattern Rowe might be seeing. The way Harland seemed closer every time she breathed.
She took her lunch alone, retreating to her office with the blinds drawn. From her drawer, she withdrew a small velvet pouch. Inside lay her instruments — tiny glass vials, each filled with carefully measured toxins. They were her language, her power, her art. Running her fingers across them steadied her heartbeat.
If Harland was getting closer, she would simply move faster.
Later that night, she prowled the streets of Westminster. A city worker, staggering out of a pub, became her prey. The man barely noticed the well-dressed woman who steadied him with a polite smile, pressing something sharp into his side with a touch that seemed almost affectionate. He collapsed in the alley minutes later, his body convulsing, froth spilling from his mouth.
Eleanor wiped her gloved hands clean, dropped the disposable syringe into a sewer grate, and walked away as calmly as if she had just left a meeting.
But what she didn't see was the silhouette in the distance. Harland, following a hunch, had been in the area — too far to see the act itself, but close enough to notice the blonde woman leaving the alley. His mind buzzed. A thread tugged at him: the same civil servant he had met, the one with sharp eyes and a serene smile.
He would not forget her.
Back in her flat, Eleanor poured herself a glass of wine and stared at her reflection in the mirror. For the first time, she admitted it: she was not untouchable. Her empire of silence had cracks forming. And yet, the thought thrilled her.
Harland was clever. Persistent. Perhaps even dangerous.
But so was she.
A smile curved across her lips as she whispered to her reflection, "Let's see who catches who."