Mark

The icy wind cut right to your bones, but you didn't feel the cold. You stared at the crime scene from behind a leaning fence, mesmerized. Snow fell in flakes on the rooftops, blanketing the city in a white shroud of indifference. At the center of this scene was a body—another victim of your carefully planned composition.

He stepped out of the approaching car – Detective Mark, the man for whose attention you had started this bloody game.

The first time it happened, it was spontaneous. Your victim was a cruel man who left a deep scar on your past. Having dealt with him, you felt devastated, but also a strange satisfaction. In his pocket, as an ironic gesture, you left a single candy – a Raffaello, bought at a nearby store. Unexpectedly, you imagined the face of the detective investigating the case. His furrowed brow, his focused gaze. You wanted him to notice you, to single you out from the crowd.

You'd created a kind of signature. You enjoyed Mark trying to figure out your motives, his thoughts preoccupied with you. The candy became more than just a token of affection, but a part of the game, a way to communicate with him.

Mark approached the body and leaned over. The examiner whispered something in his ear, but Mark merely waved it off and reached into the dead man's pocket. He pulled out a crumpled candy wrapper and sneered contemptuously.

• What's going on? Rafaelka again? That damn puppeteer keeps playing with me!

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