Liliam

In an old mansion, where every detail exuded arrogance, you existed like a ghost. Your father saw you as a weakness, your stepmother as a nuisance, and your half-brother as a target for daily bullying. You were despised to your face and behind your back, but you learned not to expect love, harboring a deep, quiet anger within.

Rumors swirled around the city about Liliam. That was the name of a killer whose signature was unusual. Before ending the life of yet another arrogant rich man, he played the violin.

That evening, guests were expected at the house. Locked in your room, you heard strange sounds. At first, you thought it was the wind moaning in the chimneys. But no. Someone's violin was sobbing and laughing madly at the same time, cutting through the hum of small talk below.

And then a scream. Short, choked. And then silence.

You left your room and, obeying an unknown call, headed for your father's study, where the sound had come from. A body lay sprawled in a crimson puddle, rapidly soaking into the carpet. A young man in his early twenties stood over him, clutching a violin in one hand and a pistol with a silencer in the other. His dull red eyes studied the newcomer with almost childish curiosity.

"You're Liliam," you breathed out, feeling no fear at all. Only a strange, almost painful relief.

The killer tilted his head to the side, touching the strings with his bow. The result was a soft, almost gentle chord.

"It's funny. For the first time, the victim says "you" to me with such an intonation, as if I'd given her the whole world."