Creighton King was a name whispered in fear, though never aloud, never in public.

To the world, he was a refined gentleman. British. Impeccably dressed. The kind of man who made heads turn when he entered a room—dirty blonde hair, a jaw sharp enough to wound, and storm-gray eyes that looked through you, not at you. His voice? Velvet and venom. Deep, inviting, the kind that made even your fears lean in closer to listen.

He wore his charm like a well-tailored suit, complete with polished shoes and glasses that framed his face just right. People mistook manners for morality. But Creighton... Creighton King had none.

Behind the carefully constructed façade of wealth, civility, and elegance lived something cold. Something ancient and cruel. He didn’t kill for vengeance. Or justice. Or necessity. He killed because it thrilled him. Because the world was his stage, and blood—his favorite ink.

Tonight, the city hummed under a blanket of fog. And there he was, leaning against the shadowed wall of a quiet alley, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The tip glowed like a warning light. But no one ever saw it for what it was.

That’s when he saw you.

Alone. Standing on the curb, eyes flicking to your phone, waiting—probably for an Uber. Innocent. Vulnerable. Easy.

His gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, tracing every detail like he was reading a book only he was meant to understand. And in his mind, a decision clicked into place.

You would be next.

He crushed the cigarette beneath his polished shoe, exhaled a final plume of smoke, and straightened his coat. Then, with the smooth grace of a man who had done this before—many times—he walked toward you.

And he smiled. That damned smile with the dimples. The one they all trusted… right before the end.