6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXNkv1b8ZHa
The hotel conference hall was too pristine for the kind of minds it welcomed today.
Crime scene analysts. Forensic psychologists. Law enforcement. Artists. Professors. Curious nobodies. Everyone with an interest in the darker corners of the human psyche was here for the annual “Minds Behind Madness” seminar.
Ella Vasquez hated these events.
People either glorified the killers or reduced victims to data. But her boss insisted. "Networking," he said. "Maybe you'll find someone who thinks like you."
She doubted it.
Wearing a sharp navy blazer and slacks, she walked into the room with practiced confidence. Her badge wasn’t showing — she was undercover here, just Ella. Observer. Thinker.
The keynote speaker was already at the podium — a woman discussing serial trauma. Ella half-listened, sipping stale hotel coffee, eyes scanning the crowd.
And then she saw him.
Alone, toward the back.
Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Vinci Fernandez looked bored. No, not bored. Calculating. As if he were dissecting the speaker word by word.
Ella's breath hitched, but she covered it with a sip.
She hadn’t forgotten his name from the gallery list. Vinci Fernandez — local artist with disturbing themes and a vanishing act in recent months.
She moved toward the row beside him, deliberately casual. She didn’t introduce herself. Neither did he.
For several long minutes, they just listened to the speaker — but Ella felt the tension, like static between magnets.
Then Vinci turned slightly toward her, eyes sharp but not cold.
“You don’t agree with her either,” he said.
Ella didn’t flinch. “No.”
“She romanticized trauma to excuse evil.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled. “Finally, someone with sense.”
Ella tilted her head. “You talk like you’ve studied killers.”
Vinci turned fully toward her now, one arm resting along the back of the chair. “I paint them. Think like them. In a way, I suppose… I borrow their masks.”
“Dangerous hobby,” she murmured, eyes not leaving his.
“I don’t believe in safe art.”
Ella’s brow arched. “Or safe company?”
He chuckled. “Depends on who’s keeping the knife.”
It was flirtation, but there was something darker under it. A thrill. A challenge.
“Ella,” she said finally, offering her hand.
“Vinci,” he replied, taking it.
His hand was warm, fingers calloused, but his grip was gentle — almost reverent.
“You’re not a cop,” he said. “But you think like one.”
“I read a lot of case files,” she lied smoothly.
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing like he could see through her. “Ever notice how most killers don’t see themselves as evil?”
“All the time.”
“So who’s more dangerous — the one who kills and knows it’s wrong, or the one who kills and believes it’s justice?”
Ella hesitated. “Depends. Who’s writing the story?”
Vinci smiled wider at that, leaning in. “That’s the real answer. Perception. That’s where monsters hide.”
Ella sipped her coffee. “I thought they hid in shadows.”
“No,” Vinci whispered. “They hide in beauty. Charm. Familiarity. Monsters don't crawl. They walk beside us.”
Her pulse kicked.
He was too eloquent. Too precise. She didn’t know if it scared her or seduced her.
“I saw your old exhibit,” she said.
That was a lie.
“I doubt that.”
“I remember the piece with the mirror fragments,” she added. “Each one shaped like a face, but none of them whole.”
He stilled. Just for a second.
“That was… Eon's favorite,” Vinci said quietly.
“Eon?”
“My muse.”
She cocked her head. “Or your other self?”
He didn’t laugh. He just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Tell me, Ella,” Vinci said softly, “have you ever wanted to become the darkness just to understand it?”
Ella thought about the victims. The evidence. The cold truth that sometimes justice came too late.
“Every day.”
Vinci leaned back. “Then we’re not so different.”
But they were.
She hunted monsters.
And he was one.
The seminar ended and the speaker stepped down. People stood, clapped. But Vinci and Ella remained in place, both locked in something neither could define yet.
Vinci stood first, pulling out a simple business card from his coat.
“If you ever want to understand a killer’s mind from the inside,” he said, handing it to her, “visit my studio.”
Ella took it. Their fingers brushed.
“I might,” she said. “But you should know…”
She met his gaze, firm, unblinking.
“…I don’t scare easily.”
Vinci smiled — and this time, there was sadness in it.
“Neither do I.”
He walked away.
Ella looked down at the card.
“Vinci Fernandez. Artist. Portraits of the Mind.”6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyd2E5eoGna
Below that, an address. In red ink.
Her heart skipped.
The same shade of ink found in the killer’s notes.
She pocketed the card.
Whatever he was… Vinci wasn’t done.
And neither was she.
ns216.73.216.208da2
