The night was like any other.

Vincent Moreau sat at his vanity, meticulously applying the final touches to his transformation. His lips, painted a deep shade of crimson, curled into a satisfied smirk as he admired his reflection. Tonight, he was Vivian—the woman who would lure an unsuspecting man to his doom. The wig, platinum blonde and styled in soft waves, framed his face perfectly. He adjusted the silk dress that clung to his slender frame, ensuring that the illusion of delicate femininity was flawless.

His phone buzzed on the table. A Tinder notification.

Vincent reached for it, his manicured fingers tapping the screen.

Kit, 34, 6'4".

The profile picture showed a ruggedly handsome man with tousled auburn hair and a charming, easy-going smile. He exuded the warmth of someone trustworthy, someone who could make a person feel safe.

Perfect.

Vincent played with a stray curl of his wig as he scrolled through the messages. Kit had been charming, funny even. Most of his matches were either desperate or disgusting; Kit was different. He was smooth, confident without being overbearing.

It almost made Vincent hesitate. Almost.

He glanced at the clock. 10:47 PM. They had agreed to meet at a high-end bar downtown. A well-lit, crowded place. The kind of location that allowed for an easy escape if things went south. Not that Vincent was worried. He had done this many times before.

Slipping into his coat, he grabbed his clutch, inside which sat a small vial of liquid sedative. Enough to make a man groggy, slow. Easy to control. He took one last look in the mirror before stepping out. Tonight would be another masterpiece.