I had quite a time convincing Miguel to let me have the book. We searched through the box he found it in to see if there was another copy. Unfortunately, we did not find one.

The box contained a variety of books. From paperbacks to hardbacks and even a few comics. But there was one notable difference between Confessions of a Serial Killer and the other books: it was brand new. It even lacked the layer of dust that covered the others.

I asked Miguel if he put it there, but he swore he didn't. He seemed sincere enough, so I took his word for it. In the end, offering to buy two rounds of drinks at Callaghan's on Wednesday was enough to persuade him to part with it. At least until I was done reading it.

I found the book very intriguing. Whoever designed the cover meant for it to be eye-catching, and I think they succeeded.

The words Serial Killer were printed in blood-red on a white cover with a grey dagger slightly faded into the background, its tip covered in blood. Along the black spine, Dominic Ashworth was printed in the same bleeding way as Serial Killer on the front, completing the design's bloody motif.

On the back, there were several quotes from various news sources, but one, in particular, stood out to me:

Another innocent victim has fallen prey to the blade of the Head Hunter, leaving many in the city wondering when this nightmare will end.

— Sunny Li, City News

I should probably shower before lounging on the couch to read this, but Laura's not here to reprimand me. Instead, I got a glass of water, walked over to the living room and got comfortable with the book.

The table of contents divided the book into sections by kills. The words Fourth Kill sent a shock wave through my body. Because as far as I know, there were only three Head Hunter killings. I reached for the glass of water on the coffee table, took a deep breath and turned the page.

Before I got to the opening chapter, I was met by a mostly blank page that contained these words:

"Something wicked this way comes." — Macbeth

I've been staring at the mirror for half an hour now. On my left cheek is a single drop of blood, a visual reminder of my first kill. I should wipe it off and get to bed. But the truth is, I'm not really looking at the blood; I'm looking at me. At my face, at my eyes. Do I recognise the man looking back at me? Is he the same man that left this apartment earlier? Or is he someone else? Or maybe something else?

My blue eyes look tired. Bloodshot. But they do not look sad. In fact, they lack any remorse, as they should. The drop of blood gleams in the glow of the light shining above the mirror, taking me back to the man who stood here earlier...

I nod and look at the blade in my hand. It wasn't too late to abandon the plan. I could try to forget this and just move on. But that's not possible. I know better. I had told myself that lie one too many times.

The minute I try to close my eyes in search of sleep, I would see her face. Haunting cries for help would fill my ears, and I would feel powerless again. Then I would open my eyes and see her mangled body, battered, bloody and bruised lying on the cold earth.

"No. Not this time," the words cut through my gritted teeth. My face glows red with rage. "Not...this...time."

In my hand, I hold the solution to the problem. And it was time; time to silence the fear, the voice, and the pig.

I turn off the light, stow the knife in my backpack and close the door behind me. One last breath fills my lungs before I open my eyes and march forward.

I would never be the same after this, but this was not the point of no return. I passed that point a long time ago.

The chill in the air cools my anger, but not my resolve. I need this walk to still my mind. As I exhale, my breath frosts. I adjust the hood of my black jacket, making sure it covers my hair. I can do this.

My feet are moving, the left foot then the right, but I feel like I'm gliding down the sidewalk. Soon I stand inside the train, heading to where I will encounter my first kill. People are laughing, I can tell, but they sound distant and muffled. For them, it's just another night on the town.

For a brief moment, I envy them. But I slowly turn my gaze to the window. As the darkness of the tunnel encompasses the train, I see my reflection. A shadow looms behind me, hovering, but it vanishes as soon as the train emerges from the tunnel.

When I reach my stop, I drift off the train, up the stairs, down the sidewalk, and eventually find myself standing in front of the house on College Road. The vibrations of the music shake my chest as I approach. I give the usual "what's up" head gesture to the people hanging out on the porch.

Stepping inside, I'm enveloped by the heat of too many bodies in a small space. The smell of spilt beer and weed fills my lungs. Lights are flashing in all kinds of colours, and the people seem to dance in slow motion.

Suddenly, a hand grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. Seconds later, my mouth meets a pair of soft lips, kissed by vodka. I know these lips, so I kiss her back.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming out tonight?" Paola whispers in my ear.

I look down into those brown eyes and smile, "Last minute decision."

"Take me home later?" her smile is inviting, suggestive.

"Not tonight, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

"You promise?"

"Si," I whisper into her ear.

"One dance," her hand squeezes my arm.

I accept, and she leads me to a spot where the speakers are loudest. She turns around, leans into me, and my hands explore her body. I don't have to go through with this. I could still take Paola—no. He has to die. Tonight.