The man from the bar was drunk enough to believe he'd struck gold, but sober enough to follow Eleanor eagerly when she offered him a ride back to her flat. She'd chosen him carefully — a middle-aged contractor named Martin, divorced, with no one waiting up for him at home. Perfect.
Her flat was immaculate, stripped of warmth, all in shades of gray and white. To him, it might have seemed sleek, modern. To Eleanor, it was her theater — a stage where she could perform her work without interruption.
She poured him another drink, watching his guard slip lower, then smiled as she gestured toward the bedroom.
"Make yourself comfortable," she purred.
Minutes later, he was on the bed, the taste of whiskey heavy in his mouth, when the first nylon rope looped around his wrist. He laughed at first, thinking it was a game.
"You're a wild one," he chuckled.
Eleanor didn't laugh back.
By the time the second wrist was tied, the smile had begun to fade from his face. By the time she tightened the knots at his ankles, the laughter was gone entirely.
"W-wait," he stammered. "What's this? You into some kinky—"
The gag silenced him. Eleanor pulled it tight, tilting her head as though appraising a painting. She had always admired Dennis Rader's control, the cold meticulousness of his bindings. But she'd added her own refinements — an elegance, a ritual.
She opened the wardrobe, revealing her tools: coils of cord, a tray of syringes, a scalpel gleaming under the lamp's light. Martin's muffled screams rose as she carried the tray over, but Eleanor only smiled, her eyes alight with calm delight.
"You should feel honored," she whispered, leaning close. "Most people live and die without anyone truly noticing them. Tonight, you'll be remembered — at least by me."
His body convulsed against the restraints as she drew the scalpel's edge lightly across his chest, not deep, just enough to break skin. She watched the line of red bloom, a painter laying down her first stroke.
"Pain," she said softly, almost dreamily, "is the purest language. And I… I'm fluent."
Over the next hour, she worked methodically, alternating between sharp bursts of agony — a slice here, a needle prick there — and long stretches of silence where she simply watched him writhe. The contrast broke him faster than any sustained torture.
At one point, she removed the gag, letting his desperate pleas spill into the room.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please, I've got kids—"
Her expression hardened instantly. She stuffed the gag back into his mouth with force.
"Don't sully this with lies," she hissed. "I know your type. Alone. Forgotten. No one will even notice when you're gone."
When she was finally satisfied, when his movements slowed to weak tremors, she administered the final injection. A clean end to her symphony of pain.
She stood over his lifeless body, breath steady, hands calm. For a moment, she felt it — that exquisite serenity that came only after the act.
In the bathroom mirror, she studied herself: flawless blonde hair in place, icy eyes untroubled, lipstick un-smudged. To the world, she was still Eleanor Marks, civil servant. Efficient. Polished. Trustworthy.
But to the man on the bed, whose last sight had been her face leaning in close, she had been something else entirely.
An angel.
The Angel of Whitehall.