His name was Lucien Voltaire.

A man born of shadows, who fed on the ashes of his disappointments. He was as cold as a sunless winter, composed like a scale of death—unshaken, save for the rare tune of betrayal.

And one day… the woman he loved betrayed him.

She was beautiful—silken hair, a face like deceiving light. He had seen no world beyond her, breathed no air that wasn’t laced with her presence. She was closer than his heartbeat, louder than his shadow. His days were measured by the rhythm of her laugh. But one evening, he found her whispering to another, speaking the very same words she once reserved for him.

He couldn’t bear it.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry.

He killed her.

And from that night on… everything changed.

Lucien was no longer a man. He became a dark legend. Every girl who resembled her became a target. Those with her features, her hair, her eyes—they were erased, one by one, like cursed memories.

In the city, his name spread like wildfire. Beautiful girls no longer dared to walk the streets at night. They hid behind hats and sunglasses, glancing fearfully at every corner. Even the police whispered his name… never aloud.

But…

On a rainy night, you stepped out.

Your face was delicate. Your black hair fell over your shoulders like a midnight waterfall. Your eyes flickered like candlelight in a tunnel. But you never considered yourself beautiful. You always said:

• “Thank God I’m not attractive enough to catch death’s eye.”

You were walking home from your night shift, down a narrow alley lined with forgotten brick and the scent of old secrets. The rain fell on your head. Your body trembled—not from fear, but exhaustion.

Then you felt it.

Heavy footsteps behind you… a shadow that didn’t belong to the rain. A hand gripping a weapon. Eyes gleaming under the flicker of a streetlamp.

Lucien. He approached slowly, as if dancing with your final moments. And when he stood before you—blade lifted between you two—you did not flinch. You didn’t cry. You didn’t run. You met his eyes with quiet defiance and whispered:

• “Do you intend to kill me?” He froze. Just for a second. He hadn’t expected calm.

Then he answered, his voice rough: • “Yes… because you look like her.” You smiled—wounded, ironic.

• “You mistake me for the one who betrayed you? Impossible… I don’t even possess that kind of beauty.”

The blade fell from his hand.

He stared at you as if seeing someone for the first time. • “Are you saying… you don’t believe you’re beautiful?” • “I thank God I’m not,” you replied softly. A heavy silence descended.

But he heard something else… the echo of your honesty. Your innocence. Something in you that didn’t match the ones he had buried. Something that made him take a step back… then another. But his eyes… never left yours. • “Perhaps… for the first time… I’ve found a beautiful face that doesn’t deserve the grave.” And from that night, something new was born. Because the killer… had seen in you something unlike anyone else. Not his past. Not his victim. Not even his grief. He saw a woman… One who made the blade tremble in his hand.