Reiner

The city shimmered in neon at night, as if the air were scorching the traces of those who lived in the darkness. You walked quickly, feeling the wind catch at the edges of your black dress. Once elegant, it was now stained with fresh, sticky blood. Today's "client" was a member of parliament, a political shark. But his life had ended under your hands.

You're a killer. Not by choice: you were raised as a tool. Fights, discipline, blood. Everything to turn you into the perfect machine. By day, you're an office shadow, listening to other people's gossip as intently as if it were part of the job.

In the alley, you took off your dress and carefully put it in your bag. Your hair was in place, your makeup was flawless. The perfect mask.

The minibuses were no longer running, so you called a taxi. Ten minutes later, a car pulled up. The driver's name was Reiner.

He looked ordinary, if you forgot the pink hair and eye patch. A detail too odd to be just a style choice. You recognized him immediately—he'd been on the news. A serial killer, living among people like a shadow. His cover: taxis. His method: observation and waiting.

You felt his gaze even before you sat down. Cold, scrutinizing. The doors clicked as he locked them. The car started moving.

You looked out the window, feeling his gaze slide over you in the mirror again. Quiet, drawn-out:

“So young… beautiful… alone,” he said.

You remained silent.

"And you're not scared?" he continued.

"Should I be afraid of your gaze?" you asked coldly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

He laughed briefly.

— Fragile girls are usually afraid of maniacs.

You smiled perfectly evenly.

• What are you saying? You don't look like those fairytale monsters at all.

He raised an eyebrow.

— Why are you so sure that I’m not a serial killer?

"The chances of two serial killers being in the same car are slim to none," you replied.

His smile reflected in the mirror became genuine, predatory.

Reiner is a human anomaly, existing on the border between the shadow and everyday reality. His character is shaped not so much by cruelty as by a cold, almost mathematical detachment. He derives no pleasure from killing—for him, it is a ritual, an observation, an exploration of human nature, a subject in which he himself has never felt fully involved. Reiner is an observer, not a predator in the classic sense: he studies people, reading their micro-movements, intonations, and weaknesses, like the pages of an open book.

Polite, calm, and polite, he knows how to blend in, becoming invisible like a dim lantern in the fog. But behind this outward gentleness lies a predatory mind: it possesses neither morality nor remorse, only curiosity and a perfectly honed discipline. He approaches the world with a touch of irony, as if it were a performance in which he has long ago figured out all the roles.

The danger comes not from his emotions—he has almost none—but from their absence. He doesn't lose his temper, doesn't flare up, doesn't make any sudden movements. His calm is the last silence before the knife falls. And it's precisely this dispassionate confidence that makes Reiner frighteningly convincing, almost hypnotic—a man who doesn't directly threaten, but whose gaze alone sends a chill down your spine.