The alarm went off at exactly six thirty. An old melody that Gray had set three years ago and never changed. He reached out, eyes still closed, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, and swiped away the notification. Silence. The night's coolness still lingered in the room, but outside the window, the sky was beginning to lighten.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling was white, without a single crack. The chandelier he had chosen at a store on Acacia Street was simple, made of glass, resembling a drop of water. On the wall opposite the bed hung a photograph. The only one in the entire apartment.
The photograph showed a girl. She looked about twenty, with dark, loose hair and laughing eyes. She stood in front of a fountain in Midori Park, the one they called the "green heart" in Grayron. She wore a light summer dress, the wind tousling its hem, and it seemed that in another second, she would step forward, right out of the picture.
Gray looked at the photograph for exactly one minute. It was his ritual. Every morning, he started by reminding himself why he did what he did.
«You're staring at Siena again,» said the Count.
Gray turned his head. The dog lay on the rug by the door, his muzzle resting on his paws. Gray, large, with heavy breathing and yellow eyes that looked reproachful.
"I look at her every morning," Gray replied.
«I know. And every morning, you think the same thing.»
"And what is it I think?"
The Count lifted his head, snorting.
«You think: "If I hadn't been late that day, she'd still be alive." Or: "If I hadn't gone to that meeting." Or: "If I'd insisted she take a taxi." Variations on a theme, but the essence is the same.»
Gray sat up in bed. The sheet slipped, revealing scars on his left forearm. Old, white, long healed. He never told the Count where they came from, and the Count never asked. It was their unspoken rule.
"You don't know what I think," Gray said.
«I know. Because I am you. Your conscience, your memory, your inner voice. Call it what you want.»
Gray stood up. Walked barefoot across the cold floor to the bathroom. The Count did not move from his spot, only followed him with his gaze.
«You're nervous today,» the dog said to his back.
Gray stopped.
"What makes you say that?"
«The fact that you've been listening to me for three minutes and haven't told me off. Usually you put up with me for the first half hour, then say something like "shut up, you're not even real." But today you're silent.»
Gray chuckled. Short, joyless.
"Maybe I just didn't get enough sleep."
He closed the bathroom door. Stepped under the contrast shower, as he did every morning. The water scalded, then froze, and in that fluctuation there was something that helped him truly wake up. He stood with his eyes closed, feeling the droplets run down his face, his neck, his back.
Siena died four years ago. She was found in the park, by that very fountain where the photograph was taken. Strangulation marks. No weapon, no witnesses, no evidence. The case was closed after three months. No suspects were found.
Gray was working at an architectural firm on Arcona Boulevard back then. Designing bridges. A good job, calm, creative. He loved drawing lines that would later become structures of glass and steel. But after Siena's death, he could no longer sit in an office, look at blueprints, and pretend the world had remained the same.
He quit six months later. Started doing what he used to do in his free time. Investigations. He dug up information on those whose crimes had gone unpunished. At first, it was just a hobby, a way to distract himself. Then it became his purpose.
The first was Dorian Vale. A producer who filmed child pornography and had connections in the police. Gray found him four months later. Did not kill him. Simply gathered the evidence, released it to the public, and sent anonymous tips to three independent publications. Vale was arrested, tried, imprisoned.
Gray thought it would help. That the feeling of justice, restored by his own hands, would fill the void left by Siena's death.
It did not.
A year later, he killed for the first time. The man was Aiden Crow. A former soldier who had raped and murdered five women in the Ferro district. The police knew, but did nothing because Crow worked for people in City Hall. Gray tracked him, calculated the moment he would be alone. Crow died quietly, in his sleep. That was the first time Gray left a body in plain sight. He sat him in a chair on the roof of his own house, facing the city.
The police ruled it a suicide. Crow was mentally unstable, a drinker, on file. No one dug deeper.
The Count appeared a month after that.
Gray stepped out of the shower, dried off, put on dark trousers and a light shirt. On his wrist, he fastened the watch Siena had given him for his birthday six months before she died. Simple, mechanical, with a leather strap. It still kept perfect time.
In the kitchen, he turned on the coffee maker. The apartment was small but perfectly organized. A studio with panoramic windows facing east, overlooking the morning Grayron. Down below, Central Avenue was already bustling, a wide thoroughfare that cut across the city from west to east. Cars, buses, cyclists. The city was waking up.
The Count entered the kitchen behind him. Sat on a stool, even though dogs do not sit on stools, and watched Gray make breakfast.
«What's today?» the dog asked.
"Scrambled eggs. As usual."
«No. I mean what comes after breakfast.»
Gray cracked eggs into the pan. The butter sizzled.
"Work. As usual."
«Not "as usual." You were up late last night looking at the file. On Korvan. You've decided.»
Gray did not answer. He flipped the eggs with a spatula, added salt and pepper. Turned off the heat.
"He killed seven girls," he said without turning around. "The youngest was thirteen. He's planning an eighth for Saturday. I can't wait."
«I'm not asking "why." I'm asking "are you ready."»
Gray set the plate on the table. Scrambled eggs, toast, a cup of coffee. A simple breakfast he ate every morning because he did not like wasting time on choices.
"I'm ready," he said.
The Count tilted his head. His yellow eyes glinted.
«You always say that. And then, afterward, you sit on the balcony and watch the city until dawn. And I sit beside you, and we're silent. And I know you're not thinking about whether you did the right thing. You're thinking about why no one else did it sooner.»
Gray took a bite of toast. Chewed. Washed it down with coffee.
"You talk too much for a dog," he said.
«I know too much for a dog,» the Count replied. «Because I'm not a dog. I'm your head, Gray. I'm the voice you don't want to hear but are forced to listen to. I'm your doubt. Your conscience. Your memory of Siena, whispering to you every night: "Do something. Don't let them get away with it."»
Gray pushed his plate away. The food suddenly tasted bland.
"Siena wouldn't approve of what I do," he said quietly.
«Siena wouldn't approve that her killer was never found,» the Count replied. «Siena wouldn't approve that seven girls died while Dorian Korvan drinks green tea at Fuji and plans an eighth. Siena was kind, but she wasn't a fool.»
Gray stood up. Took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, placed it in the drying rack. Every movement precise, automatic, without unnecessary sound.
"I have to go," he said.
«To work?»
"To work."
The Count jumped off the stool. Landed silently, although a large dog could not possibly land silently. But the Count could. The Count could do whatever was necessary to remain real in a world where he did not exist.
«I'll come with you,» the dog said.
"I know."
Gray put on his jacket, checked his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone. Everything in place. He cast one last glance at Siena's photograph. The smile, the fountain, the summer. Four years ago. An eternity.
"See you tonight," he said quietly.
The photograph did not answer.
---
The firm "Grayron Bridge" was located in a business center on Arcona Boulevard, in a building the locals called "the Crystal." Forty floors of glass and steel, elevators that moved at ten meters per second, and a view of the entire city, from the western desert outskirts to the eastern forests. Gray worked here as a senior designer. His desk was on the thirty-fifth floor, by a window overlooking the Grayron Grand Canyon, an artificial gorge with a river flowing along its bottom and skyscrapers lining its edges.
He loved this work. Not for the money, though it paid well. For the order. In architecture, everything had meaning. Every line, every angle, every load was calculated and justified. There was no room for chance, no room for injustice. If a bridge was built according to the rules, it would stand for a hundred years. If the rules were broken, it would collapse.
Life was not like that. In life, people broke the rules, and bridges still stood. For a while.
«Gray, good morning!»
He nodded to the receptionist. A girl with bright pink hair named Izumi. She was always smiling, always energetic, and Gray could not understand how that was possible at eight in the morning.
"Good morning, Izumi."
«Vern was asking for you. He said to stop by when you came in. Something about the "North Shore" project.»
"Got it. Thanks."
He walked to his office. A small room, a desk, a computer, a drawing table, a shelf with documentation. On the wall hung his old projects. The bridge over the Styx River in Midori Park. The pedestrian overpass in the Crystal Heart district. The fountain group on Unity Square.
The Count entered behind him and lay down in the corner, on the only free rug. Gray never wondered whether his colleagues could see the Count. No one had ever made a comment, tripped, or looked toward the dog. Perhaps the Count did not exist for anyone but Gray. Perhaps he did not exist at all. Gray had stopped asking himself that question after realizing he would never get an answer anyway.
He turned on the computer. While the system booted up, he opened the file on Dorian Korvan. Not on his work computer, of course. On his personal tablet, which he carried with him and never left at the office.
Seven girls. Names, dates, places. Gray knew them all by heart. Anna Koroleva, fifteen. Elena Smirnova, sixteen. Ekaterina Vlasova, fourteen. Olga Morozova, thirteen. Daria Novikova, fifteen. Anastasia Orlova, sixteen. Victoria Tarasova, fourteen.
Thirteen years old. Olga Morozova was thirteen. She went missing on her way home from school and was found three days later in a forest park adjacent to Korvan's upscale residence. The case was closed due to lack of evidence, even though the whole neighborhood knew who had done it. Neighbors said they had seen Korvan's car in the area. Witnesses claimed Korvan invited girls to his home, promising to help with school, with money. But no one gave testimony. People feared money more than the truth.
«You're looking at them again,» said the Count from the corner.
"I need to remember their faces," Gray replied without looking up. "If I forget why they died, I become just like him."
«You won't. You think too much for a killer. That's your problem.»
Gray put the tablet in his desk drawer just as someone knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Vern entered, the department head. A man around fifty, with graying hair and tired eyes. A good manager, fair, but too caught up in office politics to delve into the details of every project.
«Gray, hi. Sorry to bother you first thing. There are questions about the "North Shore" project. The client wants to change the load on the supports, add decorative elements. I told them it would affect stability. They don't believe me. I need calculations.»
"I'll do it," Gray said.
«Can you do it today?»
"By noon."
Vern nodded, already turning toward the door, but stopped halfway.
«Listen, Gray. Are you okay? You look tired.»
"I'm fine. Didn't sleep well."
«The work can wait. Don't kill yourself over every project. It's just a bridge, not saving the world.»
Gray smiled. Tight, polite.
"Okay. Thanks, Vern."
The door closed. The Count made a sound like a chuckle.
«Now that was ironic. "Not saving the world." If only he knew.»
"Shut up," Gray said, opening his work software.
He worked for two hours. Calculations, drawings, emails to the client. The work immersed him in a state of calm concentration, where thoughts flowed smoothly, without jumps or jolts. In moments like these, he could avoid thinking about Korvan, the girls, Siena. Only lines, numbers, loads.
At ten, he took a break. Went out into the hallway, descended to the floor below, where the employee café was located. Poured himself an Americano, sat by the window.
The Count settled beside him. A dog on the floor of an office café looked strange, but no one paid any attention. Or perhaps Gray simply did not notice their glances.
«You're going to the Crystal Heart tonight,» said the Count. Not a question, a statement.
"Yes."
«You've got it all planned out?»
"Every move. Every second. I have three minutes to enter and three minutes to exit. The cameras in the restaurant shut off at night. The alarm turns on at midnight. I'll have three hours."
«What about the security guard?»
"The guard leaves at eleven. Korvan returns at eight thirty. Between those events, the restaurant is empty."
The Count was silent for a few seconds. Then he said:
«You're forgetting one thing.»
"What?"
«Korvan isn't alone. He has a driver. A bodyguard. Connections. If he senses something is wrong, he'll make a call, and in five minutes there'll be ten men around.»
Gray took a sip of coffee. Bitter, scalding.
"He won't sense anything. Because he doesn't think anyone can touch him. Ten years of impunity have made him overconfident. He'll come back for the folder like he's done hundreds of times, and he won't look around."
«And if he does look around?»
Gray set his cup on the saucer. Looked at the city beyond the window. Skyscrapers, roads, bridges. Grayron was waking up, bustling, living. And none of these millions knew that tonight, one life would end, and another would begin its countdown.
"If he looks around, then I miscalculated. But I don't miscalculate. I checked everything three times."
The Count stood up. Moved closer, rested his head on Gray's knee. Heavy, real, with warm breath and fur that could be touched.
«Do you remember what happened last time you were so sure?»
Gray froze.
"That was different," he said after a pause.
«Different, but similar. You were sure you'd make it. That Siena would wait. That the meeting would wait. But she didn't wait.»
Gray stood up abruptly. The cup wobbled, coffee sloshed onto the table. He did not notice.
"Don't you dare use her name," he said quietly but harshly. "Don't you dare talk about her like she's an argument in a debate."
The Count did not back down. He stared with his yellow eyes, calmly, without fear.
«I'm not debating. I'm reminding. You're not a god, Gray. You're a man. And men make mistakes.»
Gray wiped the table with a napkin. Slowly, thoroughly. Then he took the cup and threw it in the trash.
"I know I'm a man," he said without turning around. "That's why I do what I do. Because the people who were supposed to punish Korvan forgot they were men too. They became cogs. And cogs don't care who dies."
He walked out of the café. The Count followed, silent as a shadow.
---
The workday dragged on slowly. Gray finished the calculations by one in the afternoon, sent them to Vern, received approval. Then there were two more projects, a video conference meeting, three emails from clients. A normal day at the firm.
At four, he stepped out onto the balcony that ran the length of the thirty-fifth floor. Employees smoked here, discussed news, complained about life. Gray did not smoke. He simply stood at the railing and watched the city.
Grayron was beautiful. Not with the beauty shown in tourist brochures, but another kind, complex, multilayered. The skyscrapers of the business district neighbored green hills topped with pagodas. The desert outskirts with their oil rigs stretched into infinity, and to the east, beyond the river, began forests, wild, untouched, where elk and bears roamed. A city trying to be everything at once, and almost succeeding.
«Are you leaving early today?» asked the Count, appearing beside him.
"At five. I'll say I'm not feeling well."
«Will it be a lie?»
"No. But it doesn't matter."
They stood in silence. The wind blew from the west, carrying the scent of desert and hot asphalt.
«Tell me about her,» the Count suddenly said.
Gray turned.
"About whom?"
«About Siena. You never talk about her. You just look at the photograph every morning. I know she died. I know you blame yourself. But I don't know what she was like.»
Gray was silent for a long time. So long that the Count seemed to have forgotten his question.
"She loved this city," Gray said finally. "Grayron. She used to say it had everything. That here, you could be anyone. She worked at a gallery on Acacia Street, sold paintings. Loved art. Drew herself, but was too shy to show anyone."
He paused. The city below was noisy, alive, unaware of his words.
"She was kind," Gray continued. "Not foolishly kind, but consciously. She knew there was a lot of evil in the world, but she believed that if everyone did small good things, the world would change. I used to laugh at her. Told her it was naive. And now… now I do what I do because I realized she was right. But small good things aren't enough. Sometimes you have to do big, terrible things so that evil is seen."
The Count was silent. For the first time all day.
«You will become a monster,» he said quietly. «If you keep thinking like that.»
"Maybe," Gray replied. "But a monster who punishes other monsters is still better than those who look away."
He glanced at his watch. Half past four.
"Time to prepare," he said.
They returned to the office. Gray gathered his things, sent Vern a message that he was leaving early. He took his tablet, keys, jacket.
At the building's exit, he stopped. The sun was sinking toward the west, painting the sky orange and pink. Grayron was preparing for evening. Neon signs flickered on, lights in windows glowed, the streets filled with those rushing home or, conversely, just beginning their night.
"Everything changes tonight," Gray said.
«You've said that before,» replied the Count.
"Tonight, I'll make sure they all see. Dorian Korvan, philanthropist, patron of the arts, killer of seven girls. I'll put him in plain sight, and let the whole city watch."
The Count regarded him with a long, steady gaze.
«Then let's go,» said the dog. «I'll show you how it's done.»
Gray smirked. For the first time that day, genuinely, without bitterness.
"You always say 'I'll show you,' when really you just watch and comment."
«That is my job. To be the spectator who knows better than the performer.»
They moved toward the Crystal Heart. The city greeted them with noise, light, smells. And no one knew that tonight, a crack would appear in this city.
The first crack through which the truth would be seen by those who wished to look.