Chapter 14 – The Sound of Control
Eleanor Marks leaned back in her chair, the faint hum of the fluorescent office lights above her barely audible over the rhythmic clicking of her pen. The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward midnight. Whitehall was deserted now—rows of cubicles dark, coffee mugs abandoned mid-shift, computer screens asleep.
Her desk lamp cast a soft halo over her paperwork, though the file in front of her wasn't the one she'd been assigned. It was Michael Rowe's personnel file. A faint smile played at the corner of her lips.
On her monitor, a security feed from a nearby CCTV camera flickered. The grainy image showed the red telephone booth just down the street. Michael was still there, crouched, shaking, clutching the photo she had so kindly slipped under the door.
Eleanor tilted her head. "Poor boy," she whispered, as though speaking to a child. "Always too curious."
She clicked a button on her keyboard. The feed cut to black.
The phone on her desk rang once, then stopped. A silent signal — one of her "friends" within the building's maintenance team, confirming her clean-up was already underway. No trace. No witness. No footage of her leaving the premises tonight.
Eleanor stood, stretching. Her long blonde hair slipped over one shoulder, framing her pale face in the glow of the desk lamp. Her blue eyes caught the light — calm, cold, calculating.
She walked toward the small cabinet by her office window. Inside, tucked neatly between folders and stationery, were tiny glass vials — some empty, some half-filled with clear liquid. She took one out, held it to the light, and smiled.
Precision is mercy, she thought. That had always been her belief. Unlike the clumsy brutality of men, her work was elegant. Controlled. Every cut, every dose, a signature of perfection.
She opened the top drawer of her desk and took out a small black notebook. Inside were names — dozens of them, written in careful, looping script. Some crossed out, others still waiting.
She flipped to the latest page.Michael Rowe — nearly complete.
Next to his name, she drew a small circle, then shaded it in.
Her eyes drifted toward the window. The London rain still fell in streaks across the glass, distorting the glow of the city lights below. Whitehall looked like a painting from this height — soft, blurred, peaceful. Nobody ever imagined that within its clean walls, its polished order, lived something like her.
Her phone buzzed. A message appeared from an unknown number:"He's on the move. You want me to follow?"
Eleanor typed back, No need. He'll come to me soon enough.
She turned off the lamp, the office falling into darkness. For a moment, only her reflection stared back at her from the window — the face of an angel. Composed. Serene. Untouchable.
But beneath that surface was something far more dangerous.
She whispered to herself, almost lovingly,"Soon, Michael. You'll understand why I do this."
A faint smile spread across her lips as she slipped on her coat and walked out of the office, her heels echoing down the empty marble hallway.
Behind her, the rain washed London clean — as if it were trying, in vain, to erase her sins.