The Point of No Return

The weight of Becker's stare hadn't left me since the night she 

caught me dragging the wrapped body across the studio floor. It 

clung to me like wet clothes, heavy and suffocating. Every time I 

closed my eyes, I saw her standing there — frozen, horrified, her 

entire world crashing in front of her. 

We hadn't spoken since that night. She hadn't screamed. She 

hadn't run. She had walked away in stunned, mechanical silence. 

And now, here she was, standing across from me in the dim light 

of my studio, her jaw clenched so tight I thought it would snap. 

"I know what you are," she finally said. Her voice trembled, but 

her eyes burned with something sharper than fear — betrayal. 

I swallowed, something cold stirring in the pit of my stomach. 

"Becker, I—" 

"Don't," she cut me off, her voice cracking. "Don't try to explain." 

The silence that followed stretched, brittle and unbearable. 

"You killed her." She gestured vaguely, like she couldn't even bear 

to say the victim's name. "You killed all of them. And you painted 

them like they were your masterpieces." 

I wanted to say something. Anything. But what words could stitch 

together the mess I had made? 

Becker shook her head, her hands trembling at her sides. "I 

thought I knew you. I thought you were broken, but I didn't think 

you were... this." 

I took a step toward her. "You have to understand—" 

"I don't need to understand!" she snapped, stepping back like I'd 

burned her. "I'm going to the police." 

My throat closed up, a bitter taste flooding my mouth. "Becker, 

please—" 

Her eyes locked onto mine, wet with unshed tears but steady. 

"You can't stop me." 

That's when something inside me snapped — clean, like glass 

breaking. 

I nodded slowly, forcing a breath into my lungs. "I know." 

For a moment, she looked relieved, like she thought I was going to 

let her go. 

But I couldn't. I wouldn't survive her honesty. 

The decision settled over me like a funeral shroud. It wasn't rage. 

It wasn't even panic. It was necessity. It was survival. 

The moment Becker turned to leave, I moved. 

My hands closed around her from behind, pulling her backward 

with brutal force. She fought, of course. Becker had always been a 

fighter. She screamed, kicked, scratched at my arms, but I had 

made peace with this already. I held her tightly, whispering 

apologies against her hair, as if that could undo what I was about 

to do. 

Her strength was fading by the second, her sobs muffled against 

my chest. My hands moved automatically, pressing against her 

throat, tightening, until the struggle slowed… then stopped. 

I stood there for what felt like hours, her weight limp in my arms, 

my breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. 

When I finally let her down gently onto the cold studio floor, I 

realized something terrifying. 

I had crossed the line I thought I would never cross. 

Becker was supposed to be different. 

Her disappearance didn't just leave a void. It ignited a storm. 

The city roared louder the next day. Her name was on everyone's 

lips — Becker Lane, missing without a trace. Friends, family, 

reporters — they all circled like vultures, speculating, grieving, 

tearing themselves apart. 

And then came the part that made my skin crawl. 

I was the last person seen with her. 

Every headline, every broadcast, every whispered conversation 

pointed toward me. 

And I knew, deep down, it was only a matter of time. 

The walls were closing in.