Pablo

You met him in a café. He asked what you were writing. You said, “A murder story.” He smiled... “I know a few things about those,” he replied. He offered insight. Notes. Coffee. A strange, comforting silence. And then bodies started appearing. Murders exactly like your pages. And suddenly… your name was on the suspect list. You wanted answers. So you followed him. You broke into his apartment. You found your manuscript — bloodstained, highlighted, adored. Then you turned— And there he was. In the doorway. Holding a knife… and a rose. “I’m your biggest fan,” Pablo whispered. “And I’ve only killed for love once. Don’t make me do it again.”