Victor Morrow's fingers traced the edge of the photograph, careful not to leave prints on the glossy surface. The smile, captured from thirty yards away with his telephoto lens, seemed directed at him alone.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's been waiting for me.

The basement preparation had taken weeks. The reinforced door. The soundproofing. The bathroom with no mirror. The bookshelf with titles he'd observed him reading at the public library. Even a record player with Tchaikovsky—he'd overheard him mention the composer to a friend at the café.

He slid the photograph into the album alongside dozens of others—entering his apartment building, reading on a park bench, laughing with friends outside the diner. Each image a moment stolen, preserved under plastic like the butterflies mounted in glass cases lining his study walls.

A car passed on the distant road, headlights briefly illuminating the darkening room. Victor checked his watch—6:42 PM. He knew his schedule by heart. Monday evenings, he worked late at the small accounting firm. He'd be catching the 7:15 bus home, walking the three blocks from the stop to his apartment building alone.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved to his closet. From inside, he retrieved a neatly pressed dark coat, laying it on the bed with reverence. The leather gloves followed—soft, supple, purchased specifically for tonight.

"This is for his own good," he whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears. "He'll understand. Eventually."

His heart hammered against his ribs, a physical sensation that both exhilarated and nauseated him. He swallowed hard, tasting something metallic. Fear? Anticipation? The line between the two had blurred weeks ago.

In the bathroom, Victor stared at his reflection. Hazel eyes looked back, unreadable. He adjusted his tie, combed his thinning hair meticulously to one side. Appearance mattered. First impressions mattered, even if he wouldn't remember this one.

He'll see the real me later. When he's safe. When he's mine.

From the medicine cabinet, he retrieved the small amber bottle of chloroform purchased from a chemical supply company three towns over. The receipt was filed away in his desk drawer, filed under "Household Supplies," alongside the receipt for the reinforced door lock, the sound insulation, the bed restraints.

Victor uncapped the bottle, the sharp, sweet scent making his eyes water. His hands trembled slightly as he folded a pristine white handkerchief, monogrammed with his initials. A gift from his aunt years ago. The cloth was soft against his fingers as he practiced the motion—a quick, firm press over mouth and nose. Ten seconds of resistance, then compliance.

He'd practiced the movement hundreds of times on his pillow.

From his desk drawer, he removed the small notebook where he'd documented his habits for the past four months. Monday, page 32: Leaves work 7:05-7:10. Takes Elmwood bus line. Exits three blocks from apartment. Walks alone. No doorman. No witnesses.

His finger traced the words, feeling the indentations his pen had made in the paper.

The butterflies in their cases seemed to watch him as he gathered his supplies. The luna moth, his prize specimen, had taken weeks to find. Its pale green wings were perfectly preserved, caught in a moment of frozen beauty.

That's what I'm doing for him. Preserving him. Protecting him from decay.

Victor packed his supplies methodically into a small black bag: the chloroform, the handkerchief, the roll of pre-cut tape, the nylon rope. His movements were practiced, efficient. The same precision he'd used when mounting his butterflies.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a small glass of brandy. Dutch courage, his father would have called it. The liquor burned his throat, warming his chest, steadying his hands.

Through the window, he could see his car in the driveway—a nondescript blue Ford, recently washed. The trunk was lined with a soft blanket, another detail meticulously planned.

Victor checked his watch again—7:01 PM. Time to leave.

As he stepped outside, the evening air felt electric against his skin. The distant rumble of thunder promised rain later—perfect. Fewer people on the streets. Reduced visibility.

Behind the wheel of his car, Victor placed both hands at ten and two, breathing deeply. This moment, this threshold between intention and action, felt sacred somehow.

After tonight, everything changes. After tonight, I won't be alone anymore.

He started the engine, the vibration traveling up through his fingers, his arms, settling in his chest alongside his pounding heart.

"We're going to be very happy together," he said to the empty passenger seat, already imagining it occupied. "You'll see."

The car pulled away from the house, gravel crunching beneath the tires. In the rearview mirror, Victor watched his home recede—the place where they would return together. The place he had prepared so carefully.

The chloroform bottle clinked softly against the loose change in his coat pocket as he turned onto the main road, heading toward town, toward him, toward destiny.

Victor parked his car three blocks from his apartment building. The chloroform-soaked cloth rested in a sealed glass container in his coat pocket. The weight of it pressed against his ribs with each breath.

Darkness had fallen completely by the time the bus stopped at the corner. Victor watched from his position in the shadow of a storefront awning as he descended the steps, carrying his portfolio case.

The street was deserted. The nearest functional streetlight was half a block away. The timing was ideal—perfect, even. Just as he'd planned.

Victor pulled on his gloves, feeling the leather stretch across his knuckles. He followed at a careful distance, his footsteps silent on the pavement. His heart beat steadily in his chest, neither racing nor faltering. This wasn't impulsivity or passion. This was the culmination of careful planning.

The scent of his cologne reached him as he closed the distance between them—something woodsy with an undercurrent of vanilla. Victor had researched it, found the exact brand. A bottle waited on the dresser in the basement room.

Three steps behind him now. Two.

His footsteps faltered as he sensed his presence. Victor removed the container from his pocket, unscrewing the lid with practiced fingers.

Now.

As he began to turn, Victor moved forward, one arm wrapping around his waist while the other pressed the cloth firmly over his mouth and nose. His body went rigid against his, his surprise manifesting as a muffled sound against his palm.

"Shhh," he whispered, his lips close to his ear. "Don't fight. It only makes it worse."

His struggle was brief but intense—exactly as he had anticipated. Victor held firm, feeling his consciousness slipping away as his body gradually relaxed against him.

Like catching a butterfly.