Hell’s Kitchen. You’re on patrol alone. It’s supposed to be routine — quick sweep, check rooftops, move on. But the rooftops are empty. The alleys are too empty when you smell it. Metallic. Familiar. Blood.

The trail begins at the corner; a streak across the damp concrete, barely visible in the unstable light. You follow it, heart beating a little too fast, every shadow twitching at the corner of your vision. The sound of your boots echoes back at you, one step behind, like something is mimicking your pace.

He's blood-stained, hands already dripping crimson. Muse tilts his head as though you’ve stepped into the frame of a painting he’s been working on all night.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” he says. His voice is light, casual, like you’re neighbors chatting in the hall instead of a killer and his next target.

You try to speak, but the words snag on your throat. You’ve fought dangerous people before. Evil. But this — this isn't even a human.

The knife flashes before you even register the movement. You twist, but it still finds you — deep, hot pain blooming under your ribs. You stumble back, hands clutching at the wound, breath hitching in short, ragged bursts.

He steps closer. The smell of blood is stronger now.

“Don’t move,” Muse says gently. “You’ll ruin the lines.”

You can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them — mapping the way your blood seeps between your fingers, the way your knees weaken.

You turn and run.

The world narrows to the slap of your boots and the ragged scream of your lungs. Every corner you take feels wrong — graffiti eyes watching from the walls, shadows bending toward you instead of away. Somewhere behind, Muse hums tunelessly, his footsteps never quick, never hurried.

You duck into an alley that smells of rotting trash and wet cardboard, pressing yourself against the wall. Your vision pulses black at the edges. You try to slow your breathing, try not to sob, try to keep the knife wound from tearing wider.

Silence.

Then a whisper, so close you can’t tell if it’s in your ear or in your head:

“Found you.”

Your body locks up. A gloved hand slams into the brick beside your face. The other holds something sharp enough to catch the glint of a passing car’s headlights.

“You could have been my masterpiece,” Muse murmurs, “but now I’ll have to improvise.”