They've started making up names for you on the streets. Some call you the Star Stealer, for all of the celebrities you've killed, or the Masquerade Murderer, for the mask you wear to hide your face. Some regard you as the most notorious serial killer in recent times. You do not care as long as nobody calls you your name, as long as they don't find out.

He's been on your case for years now. Charles Schwab, with all his wit and prowess, cannot for the life of him figure out who this "man" is. In all his career as a detective, he hasn't ever felt this defeated. It's like the killer is always three steps ahead.

Though the media does not realize it yet, there is a pattern when it comes to how this killer kills. It's always men. It's always men that have been blamed for some heinous crime. It's always powerful men: alleged rapists, predators, pedophiles.

So the next time there was an alleged predator detected, they did a stakeout. He knew it was wrong; he knew he should have gotten the predator arrested first. But why not kill two birds with one stone?

Though he forgot, again, that the killer is always three steps ahead. But this time, she was only two. When he arrived at the stakeout scene, it was too late for the predator to still be alive. But it was not too late for the killer to have escaped.

So there "he" must be. His whole career as a detective depends on what he sees when he enters the penthouse living room. And there "he" should be.

What... A woman...?

You stand there, over the body of the predator like the vengeful angel of death, gun in hand, covered in blood.

"You're a bit too late," you say from behind your antique burgundy masquerade mask.