17Please respect copyright.PENANAzv9g4Bupnf
Ella Vasquez didn’t do “casual.”
Especially not with men who lingered in shadows and spoke like they were dissecting your soul.
But when Vinci Fernandez texted her—
“I have a theory. Want to talk over coffee?”17Please respect copyright.PENANA7uCPNRKPph
—she didn’t say no.
She told herself it was for the case. For research. For profiling.
But the flutter in her chest when she saw him waiting at the corner café said otherwise.
He stood by the glass window, clad in black again—like he belonged to the night even under sunlight. His hair was tousled, dark curls falling into his eyes as he studied a sketchpad. There were smudges of graphite on his fingers.
Art and blood. That’s what she saw.
And yet she still walked in.
“Ella.” His voice was warm, low, and it slid across her nerves like silk over a blade.
“You said you had a theory,” she said, slipping into the seat across from him.
“I lied,” he said. Then, before she could react, added, “Half-lied. I wanted to see you again.”
Her breath caught.
Professional. Professional.
“You think you’re charming,” she said, raising a brow.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think I’m curious.”
Their drinks arrived—black coffee for her, some bitter green tea for him. His hands cupped the mug like it was something alive.
Ella studied him.
“There’s something off about you,” she murmured.
Vinci chuckled. “Only something?”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You profile people. Not just for art. I saw how you moved during the seminar. You scanned the room like a hunter.”
“Maybe I was,” he said.
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Electric.
Then he asked, “What do you see when you look at me, profiler?”
Ella took a slow sip. Then met his eyes.
“I see a man trying too hard not to be seen.”
He stiffened.
“And under that,” she added, voice softer, “I see someone drowning in guilt. Or maybe ghosts.”
Vinci tilted his head, amused. “And if I said I see someone who’s trying to fix everyone but herself?”
She blinked.
He was right.
The deflection came fast. “This isn’t a date.”
“No,” he said, smiling faintly. “It’s foreplay.”
Her cheeks heated, and she hated how fast her pulse jumped. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are.”
The air thickened. For a moment, she forgot the case. Forgot why she shouldn’t be here.
Forgot the fact that two blocks away, a woman named Clarisse had gone missing last night.
You’re getting too close, a voice in her head warned.
But Vinci leaned forward just then, lowering his voice.
“There’s something I didn’t say earlier.”
Ella tensed.
He looked down, fingers tracing the rim of his mug.
“The murders. The poses. It’s more than rage. It’s… remembrance. Like the killer is reliving something. Over and over.”
She nodded slowly. “Grief, maybe. Or obsession.”
“Or punishment,” Vinci added, quietly.
The way he said it—
Like he knew.
Like he’d tasted it.
Ella opened her mouth to press him further, but he stood suddenly.
“Walk with me?”
She hesitated. Then followed.
Outside, the sky was bruised with orange dusk. They walked along the riverbank, side by side, not touching—but charged.
Ella finally asked, “You said you weren’t dangerous.”
“I’m not,” Vinci said, smiling slightly.
Then, without looking at her—
“But the other me might be.”
She stopped walking.
“What do you mean?”
Vinci turned, eyes unreadable.
“Nothing. Just another theory.”
Before she could question him further, he reached into his coat and handed her a folded sketch.
She opened it.
A woman’s face. Screaming.
It wasn’t her, but it was… close. The resemblance was haunting.
“Why did you draw this?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe because I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That I’ll hurt someone I shouldn’t.”
Ella’s hands trembled as she folded the sketch back.
She didn’t know if this was a confession.
Or a warning.
But as she walked away that night, Vinci remained by the water, staring at his reflection.
And Eon, in the depths of his mind, smiled.
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