The bar on Fleet Street was a haze of neon light and cigarette smoke, the kind of place that soaked loneliness into its walls. The smell of stale beer lingered beneath the perfume of women leaning too close, the sweat of men who'd already had too much. It wasn't Eleanor's usual world. She preferred control, quiet, and order. But she had learned long ago that places like this provided the perfect hunting ground.
Tonight, she was not Eleanor Marks, Whitehall's angelic civil servant. She had dressed for the part of predator: a fitted leather jacket, her hair loose in soft waves, lipstick a deep crimson that caught the glow of the neon sign above the door. She slid onto a stool like she'd been coming here all her life.
Her eyes, though, told the truth. They were sharp, searching, dissecting the crowd with clinical precision. Her gaze lingered briefly on a pair of young women laughing too loudly, then on a man boasting about money he didn't have. Finally, it stopped on him.
Mid-thirties, perhaps. His tie was askew, shirt unbuttoned one button too far, and his whiskey glass was clutched like a lifeline. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion. He radiated failure, desperation. Eleanor smiled to herself. Perfect.
She ordered a gin and tonic, then leaned toward him.
"You look like you've had better nights," she said, her tone soft, almost sympathetic.
He looked up, startled. For a moment, confusion flickered in his expression — who was this woman, beautiful, polished, speaking to him? Then came relief. Gratitude.
"Rough week," he muttered, attempting a laugh. "Make that a rough year."
She smiled, tilting her head just slightly, her hair falling like a curtain between them. "Sometimes all it takes is the right company to make it better."
He told her his name — Daniel — though she barely listened. His voice was a dull hum, his words meaningless confessions of office politics, failed promotions, and debts he would never pay off. She encouraged him with nods, touches on the arm, the well-timed smile. She was a mirror, reflecting what he wanted to see: kindness, attention, interest.
By the third drink, he leaned close, the warmth of alcohol lowering his guard.
"You're... you're too good for this place," he slurred, eyes shining with adoration.
Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And so are you, Daniel."
Later, when the bartender had wiped down the counter for the night, Daniel staggered out the back door into the alley, Eleanor's arm around his shoulders like a loyal companion. The air outside was damp, thick with the smell of garbage and rain-soaked concrete.
He tried to kiss her. She laughed softly, brushing his cheek with her hand. "Shhh," she murmured, "let me take care of you."
Her other hand slipped into her pocket. The syringe was slim, clinical, prepared hours earlier with a precise dose of toxin. With practiced ease, she pressed the needle through his shirt into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. His eyes widened, confusion turning to panic as the venom coursed through his veins.
"What... what's happening?" His voice broke, strangled. His knees buckled.
Eleanor guided him down as though they were dancing. She held his head against her chest, almost tenderly, watching as his body convulsed, his breath rattled, and froth foamed at the corner of his mouth.
"Shhh, Daniel," she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "It's over now. No one will remember."
When his eyes finally dulled and his chest stilled, she laid him gently against the damp brick wall, smoothing his hair back with a touch that might have been mistaken for affection.
A moment later, she was gone — the syringe slipped into a sewer grate, her jacket zipped high, her stride calm and purposeful as she vanished into the night.
But elsewhere in the city, the noose was tightening.
Detective Harland was bent over files and CCTV stills, cross-referencing bar locations linked to the earlier victims. He didn't know her name yet, but a pattern was beginning to emerge: a ghostly presence moving between London's pubs, each time just before death followed.
And tomorrow, when news broke of a man named Daniel found dead in an alley, Harland's suspicions would harden. The Angel had struck again.