I. Flicker
The city pulses with light.
Miles leans against the balcony railing, eyes drifting over the skyline. The neon haze of street signs. The occasional headlights cut through the dark. And then—
That one light.
Yellow. Distant. Flickering at irregular intervals, erratic, like a bad heartbeat.
Blip. Blip. Blip.
It looks wrong. Like it’s watching.
He blinks and turns away.
Vince is still struggling.
Miles’ fingers press deeper into his neighbor’s throat. A muffled gasp. Weak, useless hands clawing at his wrists. The body beneath him jerks, and spasms. Not struggling to escape. Just struggling to exist.
Miles holds steady, waiting for the moment when the struggle turns to stillness.
It comes. The hush of death.
Relief should follow.
It doesn’t.
The light flickers in his peripheral vision. Still blinking. Still there.
Blip. Blip. Blip.
Miles sighs and peels off his bloodstained sleeves. Rolls up his mess, carefully and precise. One leg first. Then the other. Cartilage pops under pressure. The ribs take more effort—too many bones in the way. Too many things inside that should stay inside.
Formaldehyde stings his nostrils as he seals the container. Piece by piece. Everything is in its place.
Tomorrow, the world continues.
He goes to bed.
He closes his eyes.
But behind his eyelids—
Blip. Blip. Blip.
The yellow light won’t let him sleep.
