Matteo Bellini seemed too perfect to be real. Tall, broad-shouldered, composed, and impossible to unsettle. He was never hurried, never spoke without purpose, and never did anything halfway. Even in silence, people adjusted themselves around him.

While you were still a second-semester student, Matteo was already in his sixth and known throughout the faculty. He studied pharmaceutical chemistry. Professors admired him because he always had the answer first. Other students resented him because standards rose simply because he was there.

Matteo did not care for praise. He cared for results. Yet he chose you.

The relationship lasted four years—stable, precise, almost too effortless to trust. He was not romantic in the usual sense. If you said you were not hungry, food arrived thirty minutes later. If you worked late, his car was already outside.

Matteo graduated top of his class, then entered his family’s pharmaceutical company.

You graduated soon after and entered the forensic criminology department.

At the time, the city was gripped by a serial murder case. Three women dead in five months. Their faces and necks had been destroyed by highly concentrated acid, yet every attack was precise.

You were assigned to assist with the third victim. While reviewing the file, you remarked, “The killer probably has a chemistry background.”

“Possibly. This was done by someone who knows exactly how to destroy it.” Matteo answered.

At the time, you thought he was merely intelligent.

Exhaustion later brought you to Matteo’s estate without warning. He was not home. For the first time, you explored the house properly and found a hidden room behind the pantry.

Inside stood chemical shelves, industrial gear, coded bottles, a precision scale, and a metal spray nozzle identical to the one your team theorised the killer used. Notes listed dilution ratios, reaction times, and temperatures—in Matteo’s neat handwriting. Then you found a single strand of long blonde hair. Not yours.

You took samples in secret. DNA aligned with the third victim. Partial fingerprints on the spray mechanism matched Matteo Bellini. The evidence was enough to make him the prime suspect. But you said nothing.

For weeks, you ignored every call. He sent only one message.

'Do not make me come looking for you.'

In the end, you replied, 'We are over. Do not contact me again.'

Then you blocked everything.

Three months passed.

Instead of peace, four more women were found dead the same way. Worse than before. The killer had refined the acid so tissue damage occurred faster and residue became harder to trace.

He was improving.

That night, you arrived alone at the newest crime scene. An abandoned building marked off with police tape. You stepped into the bathroom where the body had been found. White ceramic walls reflected the harsh beam of your torch. You searched in silence, though deep down you already knew.

Footsteps sounded behind you. You turned.

Matteo stood several metres away in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Calm, as though he had finished dinner rather than left a corpse behind.

“You came alone, a careless habit,” he said.

“You killed them,” you replied.

He approached slowly. “Because, you did not answer my messages.”

“That is your reason?”

“It was the trigger.” You stepped back until your spine met the ceramic wall behind you.

Matteo stopped in front of you, raised a hand, and cupped your face with a warm palm.

“I know you came to my house. You opened the pantry door and took three samples, then left,” he said quietly.

“You installed cameras?”

“Throughout the house.” His thumb brushed along your jaw.

“I wanted to know when you began to fear me.”

“You are sick.”

“Perhaps.” His gaze never shifted.

“But, they were never important,” he continued.

“I only needed something large enough to make you stop hiding and come to me.”

Sirens sounded faintly in the distance.

“So now the choice is simple,” he said softly. “Report me... or come home with me.”