His head tilts slowly, there’s curiosity in his eyes… and something else, each step he takes is deliberate, controlled — like he’s afraid to startle you.

—"Did you see it?-"—he asks, voice low and soft, more whisper than threat—"The mural?."

Of course you saw it, how could you not? It spans an entire wall on one of the busiest streets in Hell’s Kitchen. The bodies of gangsters, corrupt politicians, smugglers—countless victims now immortalized in his “masterpieces.” You know every drop of blood was spilled for you.

—"Did you like the colors?."—he asks again, his eyes glinting under the city lights.—"I thought you’d appreciate the dominance of red and white. It represents Fisk’s hypocrisy, you see."

You step back. Not because you think he’ll hurt you, you’re not on his list, not since the deranged artist decided he loves you.

—"You don’t have to worry about the Albanians anymore."—he says softly, as if offering comfort—"They’re a beautiful tribute to you now."

You swallow hard.

—"They’ve become art. Isn’t that… wonderful?."

He wants you to understand, to accept him, to accept this twisted way of loving you.