I murder John Whinchel in cold blood. He walks by, his loud voice carrying through the air radiating arrogance. My eyes follow him as he walks by, phone glued to his ear and face contorted into a scowl. I wait a few moments before silently following him. The streets are still crowded as people push and shove in their hurry to get home from yet another bad day of work. They don’t notice me. This is my design.

I follow him until it gets dark and the streets thin out. He walks far, his pace never slowing. I match his pace only a few steps back. He never notices me. As he turns into a backstreet, I pick up my pace, my feet slapping against the ground, announcing my approach. I see his back stiffen when he ehars me, but he does not turn. His arrogance keeps him from doing so as he tells himself that I am walking by him and not towards him. He is w r o n g. I take out the knife from my pocket with a gloved hand and hold it up. The sharp blade slices through skin and muscle and tendons. It goes through his ribs, but misses ever artery. This is my design. 

                It’s not very s m a r t to piss off a guy who thinks about k i l l i n g people for a living. 

Will Graham’s eyes open, but the killing had not just been in his head. The body on the ground had been put there by him, and the blood on his hands were from the act of killing, not the act of saving. The knife that stil stuck out from John Whinchel’s back is clear of fingerprints – he’s too careful to leave traces behind. 

He does not shake as he crouches over it and studies it. His mind is not fogged, nor does his heart race. The calmness of his body would worry someone else, but to him, it was a revelation. As he stares at the limp body before him, his lips slowly start to curve into a smile; the smile is cruel and humorless, but it is filled with satisfaction. 

                              Killing must feel good to God, too–

                                                               He does it all the t i m e

The sudden sound of footsteps alert him of an approach. The smile fades from his face and is switches with an expression of horror of shock. His body begins to shake as his hands move to the body as if to stop the bleeding. His face is a perfect mask of innocence.

He turns towards the footsteps as they approach, recognizing the face as it came into view. Leonardo Da Vinci. The young artist with a liking for the anatomy of a human so strong he breaks into crime scenes just to draw them.

“I-I just found him like this.” The lie flowed perfectly as his eyes searched the younger man for his reaction. “Call 911!”