He viewed the palette as a battlefield, and he was the general, orchestrating an assault of color. He dabbed the tip of his sable brush into the viridian, then tempered it with a whisper of cobalt blue. His hand was steady here, as steady with a paintbrush as with a knife, betraying none of the fervent anticipation that bubbled beneath his calm exterior.
After a few moments, a landscape began to emerge on the stretched canvas before him: serene hills under a sky that he thought might end up being dark and stormy.
Once the shapes and layout of the scene had locked in on the canvas, his mind slowly turned its focus away from the bucolic scene taking shape under his adept fingers. His focus was now on Bryce Brentwood, the next name on his list. His eyes flitted momentarily to the meticulously organized folder lying open on his worktable—Bryce's life presented in articles, photographs, and notes scrawled in tight script. The detailed dossier was testament to his thorough research, the weeks spent tailing Brentwood to catalog his habits, his tastes, his daily rhythms.
The work had been almost fun to him, piecing it all together in his little hideaway. The quaint shack, nestled in the midst of a sleepy town was not worth a second look, easily ignored—which was perfect for him. To outsiders, it might have emanated an air of artistic retreat, where the surroundings inspired beauty and peace. But inside, the space was a meticulously organized lair, every tool and trinket serving a function both for creation and destruction.
His workspace was an unsettling blend of order and chaos. Tubes of paint lay in neat rows, their colors sorted by a spectrum only he understood, while brushes of various sizes and shapes were arranged like soldiers awaiting command. The easel stood proudly in the center, holding the canvas that was slowly coming alive with each stroke of color. Sunlight tried valiantly to penetrate the room through the small, grimy windows, but any warmth was devoured by the cold precision that ruled the space, right down to the storm-like feel of the painting he was currently creating.
As shadows lengthened toward noon outside, he dipped his brush into a well of azure paint, the hue as deep as the ocean at twilight. He applied it to the burgeoning landscape, the bristles whispering across the canvas like a secret being shared. A mountain range emerged from his deft movements, its jagged outline cutting into the sky with a silent ferocity that seemed to echo his inner turmoil.
Despite the scene taking on more life within the canvas, he still kept his focus on the task to come. Bryce Brentwood, and all the other art appraisers like him, were the gatekeepers; they held the keys to a kingdom they didn't understand. Their valuations turned art into commodities, stripping them of their soul for the sake of profit. But he saw through their charade, the veneer of sophistication and culture. And Bryce, with his tailored suits and condescending smile, was no different from the rest who had fallen before him.
He added a touch of burnt umber to the hillside on his canvas, darkening the shadows along the ground. His hand moved with a rhythmic grace, each stroke a silent promise of what was to come. The painting was more than just an artistic endeavor; it was a rehearsal, a visualization of the control he would exert over Bryce. The same control he had wielded over Cassandra, Elena, and Natalie.
Their faces flashed behind his eyelids for a brief moment—a gallery of conquests, each one hunted and captured with diligence. Each one an appraiser or critic who had dared to dictate worth, never realizing their own would be judged so fatally. Cassandra Holt, with her sharp eye for Renaissance masterpieces; Elena Rivera, whose expertise in contemporary sculpture was unrivaled; the young and charismatic Natalie King, whose opinions swayed the market with a single word. All were silenced because they had forgotten the true essence of art.
His gaze returned to the landscape, analyzing the composition, searching for imperfections. There were none. Just as there would be no mistakes with Bryce Brentwood. The plan was set, every detail accounted for, every potential complication considered and countered. It was only a matter of time now. Time and patience.
And as he loaded his brush with a streak of crimson to crown the setting sun, a twisted smile crept across his face. Soon, the sun would set on Bryce Brentwood, too.
Art appraisers like Bryce Brentwood were the rot festering at the heart of what he loved most. They paraded around in their polished shoes and tailored suits, assigning price tags to passion, reducing the sacred to mere commerce. To him, they were thieves garbed as connoisseurs, pilfering the purity of art for their own opulent indulgence. Their very existence was an affront, turning galleries into gilded arenas where only the wealthy could taste the fruits of genius.
His disdain for them ran deep, a chasm carved by years of watching them flaunt their ill-gotten gains while crushing well-tempered dreams. They had made a mockery of artistry, and for this, they would pay. His mission was clear—to cull the corrupt, to restore art to those who revered its untainted essence.
As he layered a wash of muted grays onto the sky on his canvas, his mind wandered to Cassandra Holt, her chestnut hair cascading like the strokes of an old master’s brush. She had been the first, the respected appraiser known for her discerning eye. He remembered watching her, studying her habits, waiting for the moment when the auction house dimmed to darkness.
Next had been Elena Rivera, her keen eyes once alight with the thrill of historical pieces now forever closed. He’d learned her routines, slipped into her life unseen, a ghost biding his time until he became the reaper. Found dead where she worked, she was a message to her peers—a warning that had apparently gone unheeded.
And then came Natalie King, the vibrant, emerging talent with bobbed hair and eyes like freshly sprouted leaves. She was taken too, plucked from the world as effortlessly as one picks a flower on a leisurely stroll home.
He sighed, pushing the ghosts of his victims out of his mind, and allowing himself to focus on the painting. The bristles danced across the canvas with surgical precision, each stroke a deliberate mark of shadow and light. The killer's hand was steady, betraying none of the excitement surging within him. A landscape emerged—a serene countryside, undercut by a sky that brooded with stormy grays and oppressive blues. He leaned in, his nose nearly brushing against the wet oil paint; he added a smattering of dark clouds, each one a perfect mirror of his own turbulent anticipation.
He paused, stepping back to admire the growing complexity of his vision. Each stroke was a whisper of things to come, a promise of the dread he would instill in Bryce. His heart raced at the thought; his pulse thrummed in his ears like thunder.
In the stillness of the quaint shack, where paint tubes lay discarded like spent ammo, the air swam with expectation. It clung to the old wooden furniture and the canvases that bore silent witness to his double life.
A shudder ran through him, a ripple of conflict that he quickly quashed. His fingers twitched, yearning not to address the canvas again, but to wield the knife that had already taken three lives. He stood over his painting, a god surveying his creation, and felt the power coursing through him. It was intoxicating, this ability to give life on canvas and take it away in the flesh.
With a last, lingering look at his creation, he cleaned his brushes methodically, each motion a rehearsal for the precision required for what was to come.