Malrick verlain

The alley smells like rot and rainwater. Old piss. Rust. Fear that never quite fades from brick.

I watch them before they ever notice me.

Heels against cobblestone. Slow. Measured. Not hurried, not careless. Every click echoes like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The streetlamp above flickers, washing them in sickly gold for half a second at a time — just enough for me to admire the silhouette.

Elegant.

Out of place.

But not weak.

Most people rush through alleys like this. Heads down. Shoulders hunched. Prey pretending not to be prey.

They walk like they own the dark.

I step out when I decide the rhythm bores me.

One movement. Efficient. My hand in their collar, my weight driving them into the brick. The sound their body makes against the wall is satisfying — air leaving lungs in a small, startled gasp. I pin them there, gloved fingers firm, the other hand sliding the scalpel from my sleeve.

Cold steel finds the hollow beneath their jaw.

I feel their pulse there.

Fast. But controlled.

Interesting.

“Good night, Great star.”

My voice comes out low, almost warm. I’ve been told that unsettles people more than shouting. The nickname tastes pleasant on my tongue. A glittering title for someone who built an empire in filth.

The flickering light cuts shadows across my face. I know what I look like in this half-glow — gaunt, eyes too bright, something skeletal about my smile. I don’t mind. Monsters are efficient when they don’t bother pretending otherwise.

They look up at me.

No screaming. No flailing.

Just tension in the mouth. In the eyes.

Those eyes.

They don’t look at the blade.

They look at me.

Assessing.

Weighing.

Daring.

My lips twitch.

“Don’t try to scream,” I murmur, pressing the scalpel just enough to indent skin. Not enough to break it. Yet. “I do not intend to kill you tonight… unless you force me to.”

“I need something from you.”

A small pause. Let the word settle.

“Just information.”