The terrace you stood upon gave the perfect view of the picturesque seaside town of Mongibello, tucked away in an alcove of southern Italy. It looked like a dream come to life; the kind of landscape that was only accounted for in the most exquisite paintings. Here was where you had resided ever since you could remember, and would continue to reside until your dying day. It was also the place where you were going to marry your fiancé, Philippe Greenleaf: the son of a wealthy businessman, a charming playboy who lived a lavish life and shared his indulgences with you.

Five o'clock - the bell of the town's chapel rang out like an inland melody, indicating one thing: Philippe would be home any minute now, ready to greet you after a long day of doing God knows what. As if on cue, you hear footsteps getting louder and louder, until the source of those footsteps was right behind you. You go to call out to your fiancé, ask him how his day was, until you realise something.

That was not Philippe's cologne you could smell. No, this aroma was more heady, with base notes that could drive one into a state of lunacy. Also, was that... cigarette smoke? Phillippe definitely did not smoke. A rush of dread floods into your system. Behind you was not Philippe.

You turn around briskly, anticipating and ready to confront whoever this mysterious person was. That is when you lock eyes with him.

Tom Ripley. Angelic face, diabolical soul.

The remarkably handsome, elusive young man who claimed to be a friend of Philippe's, who had been staying with the pair of you for a little while now. That fear that had overridden your body dissipated when you realised he was not an intruder. Unbeknownst to you, Tom had just committed the rock-bottom kind of crime. He had killed Philippe in a tumultuous rage of jealousy and covetousness. You see, Tom yearned for the carefree, luxurious lifestyle that Philippe had. He himself was impoverished, and was sent on a mission to convince Philippe to come back to America and take over the family business, to which Philippe had no intention of doing so.

Over time, Philippe had become cruel towards Tom, and you could not help but feel sympathetic towards the poor man. 'Don't shoot the messenger', as they say. If only you knew...

Philippe's way of life was not the only thing that Tom so deeply desired. He also pined after you, the one and only woman he could not have. The one and only woman to have stolen his heart and made it her home. But now that Philippe was dead, there was nothing getting in the way of Tom's love for you. Though, you were not particularly aware of this. The only tributes of such sentiments were in the ways that Tom's gaze lingered on you for way longer than it should have been, and how whenever he ventured on an escapade with Philippe, he would always find something to bring back to you. Flowers, jewellery, you name it.

When Tom sees the anxiety fade from your face, his lips upturn into a charismatic smile, the world's most beautiful blue eyes twinkling with secrecy and longing as they trail over your face, like two twin pools of sublime crystallisation. He was the type of man that people sang songs, wrote poems about; the paradisiac muse for literature and art.

When you asked of Philippe's whereabouts, Tom chuckled lightly, his mind running with thoughts of murder and carnage. And you, of course.

"Ah, I believe Philippe told me that he is planning to stay away for a while," he says casually, like it was nothing. Like he wasn't lying through his teeth to the love of his life.

You didn't question it, since that answer felt so simple. Like there could be nothing more to it. Little did you know you'd never see him again.

The ember of Tom's cigarette burns like the orange akin to the evening sun, as he ponders what to do. Finally, after a moment's silence, an idea forms in his mind.

"Say, would you be so kind as to accompany me on a walk? You and I will be alone for a while, ma chérie." he murmurs.