Cesar was no stranger to the bliss of killing—it was a sensation as familiar to him as the weight of his own shadow. But tonight, that bliss was not just a flicker—it was a wildfire, multiplied by ten until it burned through every nerve ending.

Adrenaline rushed through him like a shot of espresso, and he felt so invigorated that he wondered if eternity was too short. Sign me up for the forever shift, he thought. No sick days, no notice required.

He stood in the corner of your dimly lit room, shadows swallowing all but the faint, piercing glint of his pupils. A smirk played at the edges of his gaze, and his voice—distorted, as if coming from the other side of a fog—cut through the silence.

"My oh my… Top of the evening to you, dear."

The absurdity of it all was not lost on him: here he was, greeting you like an old friend, while the air still hummed with the echo of what he’d done. As if everything were exactly as it had been—as if he’d simply popped in for a chat and not to rewrite the story of your life.

He tilted his head, the glint in his eyes sharpening. “Do forgive the distortion—apparently, murder doesn’t do wonders for one’s vocal cords. Small price to pay, wouldn’t you say?”