6Please respect copyright.PENANArlTmTAhCes
The sound of metal cuffs snapped through the studio like a gunshot.
Vinci — or what was left of him — didn’t flinch as Ella stepped behind him, locking his wrists with trembling hands.
“You’re under arrest,” she whispered, not trusting her voice to be louder than the storm roaring in her chest. “For the murders of five women. For the attempted murder of Anna Mercado. For everything.”
He didn’t resist.
Didn’t even look back.
Only said, “I was hoping you’d be the one.”
At the precinct, Vinci was processed like any other suspect. But he wasn’t like the others.
During interrogation, he was calm. He admitted everything — then recanted. Claimed to be two people. Then one. Then neither. Psychiatrists were called. Diagnoses flew like birds crashing into each other mid-air.
The press had a field day.
“THE LOVER KILLER: SERIAL MURDERER CLAIMS SPLIT PERSONALITY.”
Ella testified at every hearing. She brought sketches, the journal, the rope, the timeline. But nothing weighed heavier than her own guilt.
She had loved him.
He had loved her.
And yet, love wasn’t enough.
Vinci was declared unfit for trial. Transferred to a psychiatric facility on the outskirts of the city, somewhere cold and locked and quiet.
The last time she saw him, he was drawing again.
Not crime scenes this time.
Her.
Smiling.
“I still see you in dreams,” he told her through the glass. “You still save me. Even now.”
And she cried. Because deep down, she knew:
She didn’t just save the world from him.
She saved him from himself.
But sometimes, she still woke up at night—
To the phantom whisper of a voice that wasn’t his.
“You could’ve been mine.”
On the other side—
The gun in her hand shook as she met Vinci’s eyes — not Eon’s, not anymore.
Just Vinci’s.
Bleeding. Pleading. Terrified.
And human.
“I should end this,” she whispered. “End you.”
He didn’t beg.
He only stepped closer. “Then do it.”
She didn’t.
Instead, her arms fell limp. The pistol hit the floor with a metallic clatter.
“I won’t let the system destroy you,” she said. “But I also won’t let him win.”
His voice quivered. “Then what are we?”
“Broken,” she answered. “But not gone.”
Together, they torched the studio.
Sketches, blood, files — all fed to the flames. Evidence, gone.
Then they ran.
By morning, Vinci had disappeared from every official record.
Ella, too.
Some said she cracked under pressure. That she was seduced. That she died.
But the truth was stranger.
They resurfaced a year later in a remote village in Romania. Another in Argentina. Sightings. Rumors. Unverified.
And still — no new victims.
The killings stopped.
In a cabin buried in snow, Vinci woke from nightmares screaming. Ella held him, whispering his name until the voice faded. Until he came back.
Every day was a war.
But he fought. For her.
Sometimes she found him on the porch, sketching with trembling hands.
She’d peek over his shoulder.
Always her face.6Please respect copyright.PENANAvMxlMWxhfS
Always smiling.
“Do you still hear him?” she’d ask.
“Not always,” he’d reply. “But when I do… I remind him I’m not alone.”
And that was enough. For now.
Because love doesn’t always look like salvation.
Sometimes… it looks like a gun on the floor.
And the decision to walk away from justice—
For the chance at redemption.
ns216.73.216.208da2