Eleanor rarely brought anyone back to her flat. Her killings were clean, precise, almost invisible. But tonight she felt reckless. The barfly, another man drunk on her smile, had been easy enough to convince. He believed he was going home with a generous stranger.
The door to her flat clicked shut behind them, sealing him into her world. He stumbled across the threshold, blinking at the immaculate order of the space — white walls, polished floors, a faint scent of lavender and disinfectant. It didn't feel like home. It felt like a place too neat, too staged.
"You... live alone?" he asked, awkward, voice thick with drink.
"Of course," she said smoothly, her heels clicking as she crossed the room. "I prefer my own company."
On the coffee table, everything was arranged perfectly: a tray with two glasses, a bottle of wine already opened. She poured him one, watching him drink, watching the haze settle deeper across his face. Then she smiled, setting her own glass aside.
"I want to show you something."
Confusion flickered in his eyes as she guided him toward the back room. At first, it seemed to be a study — shelves of books, files neatly stacked. But on the far wall stood a tall cabinet, locked with a key she wore around her neck. With one swift motion, she unlocked it.
Inside: her tools. Neatly rolled cloths containing syringes, lengths of cord, polished knives that gleamed in the dim light. Bottles with hand-written labels. Everything in its place, each piece chosen with care.
The man's smile faltered. "What... what is this?"
Eleanor turned to him, her expression serene, as though she were explaining something simple to a child. "This," she said, "is where the mask comes off."
Before he could move, she shoved him into the chair bolted discreetly to the floor. The cord wound around his wrists with practiced speed. He tried to shout, but her hand clamped across his mouth. A quick jab to his neck silenced him further — the sedative dulling his strength, but leaving his senses sharp.
"Shhh," she cooed. "I don't want you asleep. I want you awake. I want you to understand."
She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. "Do you know why I do this? Because people like you waste the world's air. You stagger through life, pathetic, selfish, forgettable. I give you meaning. In your final moments, you belong to me."
Tears streaked his face. He begged — muffled words spilling through the cloth she had gagged him with. She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen, then slowly unrolled her tools.
The blade first. Not deep cuts, just precise, deliberate lines across his forearm, watching the blood bead and drip. His muffled screams filled the room. Then the needle — not with poison, but with a paralytic that made his muscles seize, locking him in his chair like a statue. His eyes bulged, his body shaking violently.
Eleanor watched it all with calm fascination. Each reaction was a data point, each cry a symphony in her private opera.
Finally, when his body sagged, his strength spent, she withdrew a final vial. This one she held tenderly, almost reverently. She injected it into his vein with a gentle touch, her eyes never leaving his.
His breathing slowed. His pupils widened. The light went out of him in stages, flickering like a candle in the wind, until there was nothing left.
She kissed his forehead, whispering, "Now you're perfect."
By dawn, the flat was spotless again. The body wrapped, prepared, disposed of with the same efficiency she applied to government memos. She sat at her desk with her tea, hair brushed, lipstick reapplied, reviewing policy documents as if the night had been nothing more than a dream.
But deep down, Eleanor knew it wasn't enough anymore. The kills weren't just about control. They were about art. And art demanded escalation.