The night air was crisp as he stepped out of Vucko's. The martini bar's neon sign buzzed a dull blue, casting eerie shadows on the damp pavement beneath his feet. He had indulged in two martinis before leaving—enough to feel the warm buzz but not enough to dull the sharpness of his senses. His footsteps echoed against the silent storefronts as he made his way down the block.
Reaching the end of the row of darkened businesses, their lights turned off as they waited for opening hours, he slid into a chair at a small table outside a shuttered bakery. Its darkened window reflected a distorted version of himself, a man unrecognizable even to his own eyes. He glanced at the watch encircling his wrist, its hands pointing accusingly at 8:50. Time was crawling; anticipation churned inside him.
From his vantage point, he had a clear view of Vucko's entrance. People filtered in and out, their laughter spilling onto the street. It wasn’t a very large bar, the niche of martinis drawing in only a select few. But really, none of them mattered except for one—Bryce Brentwood, who was nursing a few drinks inside. He’d seen Bryce drinking them, flirting coyly with the cute blonde bartender with the ample breasts.
He knew quite a lot about Bryce Brentwood. He’d followed Bryce, studied him, just like the first three. And Bryce had been just as predictable as the others, a creature of habit trapped in his routine. He had studied Bryce Brentwood with the diligence of a scholar, and he knew that every Tuesday and Thursday evening at 8:00, like clockwork, Bryce would saunter into Vucko’s, and by 9:15, he'd stumble back out and arrogantly slip into his luxury sedan. His drive home was a reckless endangerment, not only to himself but to others on the road, including the family that awaited him: an unsuspecting wife and a daughter tucked in bed.
Seated at the small table, he let the slight buzz from the martinis settle into a focused calm. A passing breeze carried the scent of buttery croissants still lingering around the closed bakery. He glanced at his watch and his hand twitched involuntarily as it drew closer to 9:15. He longed to feel the familiar weight of the knife against his palm, its handle worn smooth from use.
He felt no remorse for what was to come. Instead, a surge of excitement pulsed through his veins, an electric current charging him with purpose. Soon, very soon, Bryce Brentwood would exit the bar, and a fourth victim would be claimed.
As he watched, a couple approached Vucko's, their laughter punctuating the evening hush. They were inconsequential, yet he watched them enter, his gaze sharp and unyielding. As they disappeared behind the door, he feigned interest in his phone, thumb scrolling over the dark screen. The facade was crucial; he was just another patron enjoying the night, invisible and ordinary.
He stood up abruptly, as if the act itself could speed up the universe. The streetlights cast long shadows, and he became just another silhouette against the closed businesses and the sidewalk. He couldn't wait anymore; the need to act was visceral, an itch deep within his bones. He had planned every detail meticulously, but he could feel those plans giving way to a primal urge.
With a measured pace, he walked back toward Vucko's. His steps were deliberate, unhurried, yet full of purpose. There was a lightness to his gait; to any casual observer, he would appear as just a man enjoying the evening air.
Then, Bryce appeared—a few minutes ahead of schedule—pushing through the door, his eyes glued to the bright screen of his phone. A smile played on his lips, ignorance blissfully cocooning him.
Just ten yards away from Bryce, his heart thrummed in response, a drumbeat syncing with the sudden adrenaline surge. Closing the distance between them felt like moving through water. Across the street, a group of people from somewhere unseen yet dangerously nearby erupted into laughter, their joy slicing through the tension. It was loud and unexpected, but nothing would keep him off his course.
He eyed the narrow alley beside Vucko's, a grim sliver of darkness. Out of sight, away from the prying eyes of CCTV. His thoughts raced, plotting trajectories and movements, ensuring the deed would be swift and unseen.
Coming to within just a few yards of his target, his fingers curled around the knife's handle. Its familiarity provided a perverse comfort. He quickened his pace, his senses trained on the man before him. Bryce, still ensnared by the light of his phone, was unaware of his approach.
In a fluid motion, he slid the blade from his pocket, the metallic whisper almost musical to him. Bryce's gaze snapped up, the smile vanishing as he took in what waited for him. Fear etched itself across his features and he opened his mouth to say something but he seemed unable to find the right words.
Bryce's instincts kicked in, and he lurched away, but not quickly enough. His assailant’s hand shot out, latching onto Bryce's arm with a vice-like grip. They struggled for just a moment, the presence of the knife sending a fright through Bryce to the extent that he was too focused on the glint of the blade to put up a proper fight. He dropped his phone and it clattered on the sidewalk, the screen shattering.
The people across the street were too caught up in their own merriment to notice the life-and-death struggle mere yards away. With a final, desperate heave, he propelled Bryce into the darkness of the alley. As Bryce stumbled into the darkness, a cry of fear rising in his throat, the gleaming of the knife seemed to catch every possible streetlight nearby and for a moment, it flickered like a comet in the night.