There was something radically powerful in knowing you are the last person to enjoy someone's body. The boy had finished and lay there, panting like a wild beast after a kill. I ended up with my head beside his, catching my breath and savouring the aftermath. As his eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, I lifted myself from him and leaned back, drawing in all the courage that had evaporated in those fevered moments.

My sultry, insatiable demeanour—addicted to the highs of sex and love—had dissipated. The voracious seductress had melted away, and even the murderous witch lurking within me had retreated into the fog. In that fragile, transient moment, I felt a strange amalgamation of vulnerability and power, as if standing on the precipice of transformation, emptied and renewed by the act we had just shared.

Looking down at his face, I realised that if I didn't do this now, I might never summon the resolve to do it at all. I gripped his hands and pressed my forehead against his, synchronizing our breathing and savouring the profound silence that enveloped us. When his eyes refused to meet mine, I pulled back slightly, my gaze falling into the deep blue of the duvet as I held onto his hands tightly.

As he gazes at me drowsily, I reach for the tray once more, finding the morphine needle in its usual spot. I inhale his scent before injecting the liquid into his neck, savouring the confusion that flickers in his eyes.

"Are you feeling drowsy, baby? It might be easier for you if you just let those eyes close," I murmur. Almost immediately, his eyes shut in desperation, and I can see the tension in his clenched jaw though the rest of his body remains surprisingly still.

"Luke, I need your assistance," I call out to the bedroom door, having noticed him lingering outside. The door opens slowly, and his head pops around the oak frame.

"Done already?" he chuckles. I slide off the bed, my steps trembling slightly.

"Take him downstairs. I'll be there soon. And don't drop him—they don't appreciate damaged goods," I slur, pulling on the nearest available shirt. It was a pity it was one of his tattered cotton shirts; I would have preferred something more appealing for his final moments. As the last living soul he'd see, I wasn't going to make an effort to dress up for him.

"Remember, you'll need to burn that. Anything of his must be burnt," Luke says while slinging the boy's body over his shoulder. I murmur my annoyance and gesture for him to leave the room quickly. I gnaw on my lip, watching as he manoeuvres himself across the room.

"He went missing two months ago, Luke. I doubt they care. I hardly notice news reports anymore." Luke rolls his eyes, a devious smile slipping over his lips. It falters slightly as I frown, and he shakes his head, leaning against the wall to balance the boy without dropping him.

"If they ever look into it, Angelina, and trace him here, you wouldn't want his things scattered around multiple rooms for them to find," he groans. I slip on a pair of trainers, and as he takes a few steps back into the room, I quickly slip past him, trying to avoid another argument. I can already hear the tension rising in his voice.

"When I start my job, you can scavenge for his things—since you're the only one who cares," I smile, planting a small kiss on his cheek. I can feel the heat of his anger radiating from his skin.

I leave him in a riled-up state, simmering with a barely contained passion for violence. A deep fear gnaws at me—the fear that he'd harm the boy before I could lay another finger on him. I suspect that if I pushed him too far, he might dial that dreaded number with a fervour that terrifies me. But I bury that fear deep in my stomach, ignoring the searing pain it causes, because if he starts digging my grave, he'd have to dig his own too.

As I ascend the staircase, I start scratching at my arms—a habit that's become second nature. Each kill intensifies the anger in my fingertips, and I've grown to derive a perverse pleasure from it. The act of scratching has become synonymous with victory in my mind. It's my way of reminding myself of my power, even if it comes through my own pain.

Reaching the top of the staircase, the sensation is almost euphoric. My fingers dig into my skin, and the rawness is a testament to my strength. The pain is a reminder that I am in control, that I am the one who decides who lives and who dies. Each scratch is a declaration of my dominance, a personal ritual that reinforces my sense of invincibility.

Luke's simmering rage and my hidden fear create a dangerous tension, a dance of power and vulnerability. But I thrive in this chaos, drawing strength from the very elements that threaten to undo me. As I prepare for what comes next, I embrace the pain, the power, and the intoxicating thrill of being the last person to leave a mark on another's life.

I nearly stumble down the staircase, startled by Florence standing in the front doorway. Her expression is devoid of life, an unsettling contrast to the vibrant girl I know. Rain cascades down outside, a relentless downpour that has surely chilled her to the bone during the time she's spent standing there.

"Florence, have you been out here this whole time? You must be freezing. Come inside at once," I urge, my voice tinged with concern as I hurry down the steps, feeling the chill of the draft from the open door. She meets my outstretched arm with a steely gaze, a defiance in her demeanour that catches me off guard.

"Miss Angelina, I'm torn," she confesses, gesturing vaguely with her hands as her gaze falls to the floor. I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my own tension dissipating as I lock eyes with her piercing blue gaze.

"Please, do tell, my dear," I prompt gently, relieved to see a hint of her usual warmth returning in the curve of her lips.

"I find myself curious now—curious about what it's like to wield the knife as you often do. Until today, I couldn't fathom it as anything other than wrong," she explains, and a flush spreads across my cheeks as I draw closer, enveloping her in a comforting embrace. She sighs, her breath mingling with mine as she leans into the warmth of my chest.

"What made you see it as wrong before, Florence?" I murmur into her ear, feeling a pang of vulnerability, an unfamiliar sensation that threatens to unravel the carefully constructed facade I've maintained.

"The killing—I couldn't reconcile it with anything good," she confesses, her voice heavy with emotion as tears well in her eyes, staining my shirt. My gaze flickers to the basement door, a silent reminder of the task that awaits me below. Time is ticking away, and I know I have mere minutes before the boy awakens, disoriented and frightened.

"Florence, I'd like you to take a bath. I'll have Diana make you some soup," I instruct softly, reluctantly releasing her from my embrace. Her hair clings to her face, her features resembling a patchwork painting. She nods slowly, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile attempt to ward off the chill that grips her.

"Why can't I assist you with him?" she asks simply, her gaze searching mine for answers. I shake my head, a silent admission of the complexities that lie beneath the surface, the shadows that I dare not expose her to.

"You won't lay a hand on another man until you've taken the initiative yourself. Enjoy the curiosity that is beginning to take shape, darling," I declare with unwavering resolve, chin held high, before pivoting toward the kitchen in search of Diana. Her annoyed murmurs trail off as she retreats upstairs, leaving me to push open the creaking door.

"Miss Angelina, what can I do for you?" Diana greets me with her usual warmth. She's a fair lady, possessing an understanding nature and a kindness that's rare to find. She never delves into probing questions, a trait I appreciate immensely. She's my favourite type of person, and her disdain for men only adds to her appeal. Raised as the daughter of a butcher, she's no stranger to the tasks I assign her, particularly when it comes to handling and packaging meat. In her, I find a kindred spirit, someone who understands the necessity of our arrangements. I've never feared for her safety, knowing deep down that she's done nothing wrong, at least not compared to the other inhabitants of this house, or the individuals who've crossed paths with me.

"Would you mind preparing some soup for Florence? She's been standing in the rain for over an hour; it can't be good for her health," I request, taking in Diana's appearance. Her blonde hair is tightly secured in a bun, framing her green eyes and flushed cheeks. She's a vision of loveliness, a portrait waiting to be painted.

"I've already started, Miss. I saw her about twenty minutes ago, but she ignored my attempts to bring her inside. The soup will be ready in about ten minutes," Diana replies, her attention shifting to the simmering pot on the stove. My gaze drifts to a tray of movies and chocolates nearby, a reminder of the kindness shown to Florence by the inhabitants of this house. Would it tarnish her perception if she were to receive cold treatment from those who serve me, more so than their acts of kindness have already done?

"Florence is bathing, and I'll be occupied in the dungeon. I know I promised to spend time with you tonight, but something urgent has come up," I explain softly, noting the slight dimming of Diana's eyes. She shrugs it off with practised ease, continuing to stir the soup as though unfazed. "However, I'm sure Luke can keep you company," I add, just as Luke bursts into the kitchen at the mention of his name, eager to assist Diana in my absence.

"As Florence and I are both occupied this evening, it falls upon you to entertain Diana tonight," I declare, casting a glance in Luke's direction. His expression betrays his reluctance, but I press on, adding, "And if I were you, Luke, I wouldn't deny the opportunity. You must learn to be in the company of a lady without resorting to thoughts of violence." A smug smile dances across my lips as I stride past him, leaving him to stew in the kitchen. I am well aware of his infatuation with Diana. Perhaps this is what he needs to break free from his ways. Luke's recklessness often draws unwanted attention, a stark contrast to my own meticulous approach. He's so preoccupied with concealing my actions that he neglects his own missteps.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on me after hours spent chasing after the boy, attempting to calm his nerves. Fortunately, this task will be brief. Conveniently, the entrance to the dungeon lies just beyond the kitchen door. As my hand pushes against the worn wood, a surge of power courses through me.

Stepping into the sterile, well-lit room, the acrid scent of bleach assaults my senses, a reminder of the thorough cleaning that followed the demise of the last unfortunate soul to breathe their last within these walls. It's been some time since then; the details blur together in my mind, a deliberate act of self-preservation. I try to bury the memories, but the faces of those I've encountered linger, their eyes reflecting a mix of pride, dignity, loss, and broken-heartedness - all caused by me.

As I glance over, it's evident that Luke has already saturated the boy with drugs, rendering him completely out of touch with reality. The specifics of what substances he used remain a mystery to me, and truth be told, I'd rather keep it that way. That's Luke's domain, his expertise, and I have no desire to delve into it. I trust him implicitly in this regard; he's never faltered in his duties, even when faced with the most challenging circumstances. The boy is securely fastened to the table we reserve for these procedures, a tableau of confinement and control.

I note with a touch of disappointment that his lovely mouth is now silenced by a roll of tape. I typically revel in the symphony of screams, a perverse melody that accompanies our work. Positioning myself next to the table, I lock eyes with him, his gaze clouded with fear and confusion. My hand drifts toward the gleaming scalpel resting on the tray, and I feel the tension radiating from his restrained form as my arm brushes against his chest. Luke, meticulous as ever, has dressed him in worn jeans, but the effort of donning a shirt seems to have been overlooked, a small but telling detail of our routine.

With precision born of practice, I puncture his skin just below the sternum, tracing a 'T' shape along his abdomen. A muffled scream reverberates through the room, a futile attempt to escape the confines of his captivity. As the incision is completed, I withdraw the scalpel with a practised hand, the effort minimal. With a deft motion, I begin to carve a circle around the perimeter, relishing the resistance of flesh beneath my blade. Peeling back the layers, I revel in the visceral thrill of exposing the muscle beneath. His tears, a testament to his agony, only serve to fuel my satisfaction as I strip away the outer shell.

At this point, my teeth are gritting, and his eyes are beginning to close. I leer at his helplessness and elevate the table so that he is sitting up.

"I like my victims wide awake, baby, so I hope Luke pumped you full of adrenaline, or at least morphine," I grin, pulling my hands up to prevent his closing eyes. "I also like them to watch," I murmur in his ear before proceeding to cut off his eyelids, which is met by more agonizing screeching and increased struggling.

His chest is now covered in blood, and his face is smeared with it as well. I take note of how healthy and intact his muscle layer is. I could get Diana to keep it fresh and sell it for more. But I'm starting to feel like I'm dragging this out too far, so I cut the muscle the same way his skin had been, but this time he can't close his eyes; he's forced to watch his body being violated.

Satisfied with what I've done, I clasp my hands together and dispose of the muscle in the tray, labelled three times with the word "Muscles." At least I've received the message. It's then that I notice he still has that rather annoying tape on his mouth, and I bring the already bloodied knife to cut it away. As the bind is lifted, he begins to shake rapidly, and I'm met by a small flow of vomit that trails down his neck and chest.

He turns his head to look at me before coughing up some blood. At that moment, I realised he was dead. It's a shame—I would have loved for him to last a little longer. I sigh and jot down a note on the pad to my left: I'll need an increased dose of morphine for the next victim.

Giving up halfway through a job when I haven't achieved my goal is not my style. I grab the handheld pneumatic circular saw that Luke had given me a few victims ago and slice down the centre of the rib cage, aiming to unlock my favourite organ—the heart. I manoeuvre the saw carefully, releasing the heart from its bindings, and place it in the jar labelled "Heart." I nod in satisfaction at the rest of the organs, still fresh and healthy.

"Cleo," I call out. I look up at the bookcase, the centrepiece on the wall opposite the entrance. After a few minutes, she emerges from the hidden doorway behind it, already wearing an apron and disposable clothing.

"I'm finished here; I've grown tired of the smell. Would you mind continuing what I've left?" I ask.

Cleo smiles knowingly. "Of course, Angelina. You always leave the best parts for me."

She approaches the table with a practised ease, her movements fluid and confident. As she takes over, I step back, removing my bloodied gloves and disposing of them in the bin by the door. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the underlying musk of death—a smell that has become all too familiar. I nod, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. Cleo's efficiency and attention to detail are unparalleled, and I trust her implicitly.

"I always find it easier to watch my dearest sister at work these days, but I am happy to continue your perfection," Cleo says with a smile as I hand her the scalpel that had seemed almost fused to my grip. "You were relentless as always. Perhaps I was wrong when I thought you were going soft on the boys."

"The sooner I go soft, Cleo, the sooner I'm out of danger, wouldn't you agree?" I murmur, wiping my blood-coated hands on his shirt and then cleaning my feet on the rug before the staircase.

"That's what Luke wants; but from the thrill you receive, I doubt it is what you really want," she says, dropping the scalpel onto the tray and picking up a cleaver. She turns away from me, her tone calm but knowing. "I trust your judgment. If you want out, you can get out."

Before I can respond, she effectively ends the argument with her trustful assertion. I respect her wisdom and decide not to push the conversation further, avoiding the potential for it to devolve into a pointless bickering session. As I ascend the stairs, I hear Cleo's merry humming, a stark contrast to the chilling scene behind me.

"Sleep now, sister. Florence would want you to be prepared for tomorrow evening," she calls out, her voice carrying an unsettling mix of warmth and menace.

Oh, she would indeed. Tomorrow evening promises to be another night filled with dark pleasures and meticulous work. For now, I need to prepare, to rest and recharge, knowing that Cleo will handle the aftermath with her usual expertise.