A
Her feet kick first. Loud against the hardwood. A sudden, spastic clatter that jars the quiet.
Then the wheeze—wet, frantic. The sound of breath refusing to come.
The plastic bag rustles with each gasp, the drawstring pulled tight at the base of her neck like a child’s careless attempt at wrapping a gift. It clings to her face, fogging and collapsing in erratic rhythm, the sound hollow and frantic. Her hands twitch beneath the duct tape binding her wrists to the arms of the chair, muscles jerking, spasming, still trying to find air where none remains.
He watches.
Not with lust. Not with anger. Just with focus.
Like a teacher grading a quiz. And she’s failing.
“You cheated,” he murmurs, not to her, but to the room. To the system that taught her it was okay to lie to her followers, to brand herself authentic while filtering out every flaw.
Above her, helium balloons sway slightly in the stale air. Pink, purple, one silver with glittery cursive that reads:
You Take My Breath Away
Fitting.
The room smells like artificial lavender and burnt toast. Her apartment is staged like her posts—picture-perfect, curated. Shelves of plants that aren’t hers. A stack of yoga books she hasn’t read. A ring light left plugged in near the desk.
The overhead light buzzes faintly. Outside, someone laughs through the walls. A neighbor. Oblivious.
He crouches next to her chair, watching the way her chest struggles. The bag is slick with condensation. Her feet hammer the hardwood floor in short, panicked bursts. Her eyes, wide behind the crinkling film, roll upward.
He takes it all in with the same detached calm he'd bring to a poetry reading. The twitch of her fingers. The red of her nail polish scraping against the chair's plastic. The mottled pink of her face as oxygen fades. It’s not cruelty. It’s not pleasure.
It’s observation.
He times it.
Two minutes, forty-seven seconds.
Better than he expected. She held on longer than the data suggested. Longer than the average. Long enough to be remembered.
He jots the number down in a small, leather-bound notebook labeled LESSON ONE in careful block letters.
He watches her for a moment longer.
The panic is fading now. Her limbs tremble less. The desperation is giving way to stillness. A slow unraveling. A surrender. The body always gives up before the mind does. He wonders what she’s thinking in the final seconds.
Her name was Alyssa.
Twenty-eight. Lived alone. Fitness coach. Influencer. Branded herself as "real," though he had counted no fewer than twelve filtered photos in her last twenty posts. She spoke about authenticity with the polish of a speechwriter. Sold supplements she didn't use. Talked about breathing exercises. About mindfulness. About control.
He had found her six weeks ago.
A TikTok clip first: a 30-second morning routine video, ending with her standing in her bathroom mirror, misting her face and whispering, "breathe in strength, breathe out doubt." The caption: #mindfulmonday.
Then the links led to more. Her Instagram, pristine and washed in pastels. Her YouTube channel—a vlog about mental health, with monetized ads and a discount code for sleep gummies. Her bio read:
> "Teaching you to breathe through life, one day at a time."
He had watched. All of it. Taken notes.
She had asthma as a child, according to an old Facebook post. Used to post progress photos from her hospital bed during recovery. There were podcasts where she talked about suffocating anxiety, as if the word were metaphor. She played it all for the brand. Made her breath the cornerstone of her image.
That was her mistake.
He printed out screenshots. Highlighted key phrases. Drew lines between contradictions.
Breathe in strength. Breathe out doubt.
He remembered one photo especially well. A rooftop selfie. She smiled, backlit by the sunrise. Her caption read:
> "Air is everything. Protect your peace."
He saved that one.
A is for Asphyxiation.
She was the perfect start. Not because she was weak. Not because she was known. But because she was a symbol, wrapped in breath and lies.
She didn't even know she had been selected. That she was the start of something much bigger than herself. That she was not random, but ordained by order.
She was A.
The cassette player clicks softly beside her.
A child’s voice sings. Sweet. Warped. A little too slow.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G...”
She makes a wet sound in her throat. The last sound.
“H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P...”
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink. He absorbs every twitch, every involuntary movement of her limbs, the way the bag draws inward like a second skin. Her face is still visible. Distorted. Panicked. Then—soft.
“Q, R, S, T, U, V...”
Her body goes still. The bag deflates with one last inward pull, clinging tight around her features. Her lips are blue now. Eyes open. Gone.
“W, X, Y and Z...”
The final line plays.
“Now I know my ABCs, next time won’t you sing with me?”
He exhales. Closes his eyes for a moment. This is the part that always feels like clarity.
He stands and reaches into his tote bag.
He pulls out a square of bright red felt. A large, capital A, hand-cut. Crisp edges. Balanced lines.
He retrieves a silver pushpin. Holds it in his palm like a relic.
He steps toward her, leans down, and pins the A directly to the center of her blouse.
Through the fabric. Through the skin. Just enough.
A bead of blood swells beneath the letter and trails down like a lowercase I without its dot.
He adjusts the felt, straightens it like a badge.
A is for Asphyxiation.
He opens his notebook and writes the word beside the letter.
Then he circles it. Twice.
---
He cleans methodically.
Gloved hands. Bleach wipes. No hair, no prints, no sweat.
But this time, he doesn’t take the cassette player with him.
He tucks it beneath her chair. Lets it sit like a trophy.
Let them hear the whole song. Let them hear what she heard.
Let them wonder why.
He glances once more at the balloons. The string of the silver one has drifted sideways in the still air, twisting until the words face him directly.
You Take My Breath Away.
He smiles faintly. Just a curl at the corner of his mouth.
He leaves through the back, locking the door behind him, the only key tossed down a storm drain six blocks away.
Then he walks.
He takes alleys where he can. Follows chain-link fences and the backs of strip malls, skirting cameras he knows are there. A man out for a stroll looks his way once, but there’s nothing memorable about him. Nothing that sticks.
The air tastes different when you’ve taken someone else’s. He lets it fill his lungs.
His car is parked a mile out. Nondescript. No plates. Temporary tags stolen from a dealership two states over. A fabric sunshade lies on the passenger seat. A crumpled gas station receipt marks the time of his last fill-up. Clean. Controlled.
He drives in silence for an hour before turning on the radio. Classical station. Bach.
As he crosses the state line, he hums softly.
Not the music.
The alphabet.
Back in the small motel room he’s rented under the name Todd Weller, he opens his laptop and pulls up the list.
The Alphabet:
A – Asphyxiation ✓
B – ?
C – ?
... Z – ?
Each letter has space beside it for a method. And beneath each method: a name.
Some are already filled in. Others are question marks. Blank spaces. Gaps to be solved.
He clicks open his bookmarks. Dozens of them. Instagram profiles. Facebook posts. TikToks. LinkedIn bios. Reddit threads.
He scans until he finds the one he starred earlier in the week.
A man in New Jersey. Former boxer. Once beat a man into a coma outside a bar. Claimed self-defense. Never charged.
In his pinned tweet: a photo of a dented brass bell.
“B is for Blunt Force,” he whispers.
He smiles.
Next weekend: B.
Outside, the motel sign sputters in neon blue, blinking every third second. A fly buzzes against the lightbulb above his door, tapping and circling and tapping again.
Inside, he sharpens a pencil. The sound is steady, unbroken, the blade inside the sharpener eating the wood down to its core. When the tip is ready, he flips the page in his notebook.
Lesson Two.
A fresh page. A clean start. A new letter.
He hums softly again.
“B... C... D...”
