Tonight's the night. And it's going to happen, again and again. It has to happen.

The urge is always there, gnawing at the edges of my sanity, waiting for the right moment. I follow you as you leave the bar, your usual hunting ground. But tonight, you're the prey. You move toward the carpark, oblivious to the predator lurking in the shadows. As you reach for your car door, I’m already behind you. The needle slides into your neck—M99, enough to drop a bear. You crumple, unconscious, and I slide your limp body into the back of my SUV.

Hours later, you wake up in my kill room, wrapped tightly in plastic. Every surface is covered in sheeting, every tool meticulously arranged. I hover over you in my black apron and clear plastic mask. No emotion, no hesitation. I crack smelling salts under your nose, watching your eyes fly open in panic. The tape over your mouth muffles your screams. I grip your head and force you to look at the wall—photos of your victims stare back at you.

"Look at them. Innocent lives you took. No second chances. No justice."

I release your head, picking up the scalpel with practiced precision. A small cut on your cheek, just enough to draw blood. I collect it with a syringe, careful and deliberate, placing a drop onto a glass slide. My ritual. My trophy. I press the glass together, sealing your blood—your legacy—in my collection. This is how it ends for you. Neat, clean, inevitable.

Before i kill you, though, i neatly slice the plastic that covered your mouth, allowing you to speak before your bitter end.