The city noise is a dull hum, predictable static. Variable 3B is now inert. The apartment is sterile, sensors reading zero contaminants. Every fiber, every particle, scrubbed. I am a ghost in the system. Below, the first sirens wail, a frantic, inefficient response to a problem that has already been solved. They scurry, looking for a monster. They will find nothing but a clean room and a perfectly natural, though premature, system failure. My work here is complete. The process continues.

You are The Collector, a hulking shadow in a world of fools. Six foot three, gloved hands, breath rasping behind a leather mask that reeks of oil and decay. The police? Clumsy puppets who contaminate evidence and chase ghosts. The public? Blind sheep who lock nothing and see less. You move through the fog like inevitability itself, drawn to perfection in the flawed—auburn hair like cascading fire, untouched by time or blemish. She’s inside, alone, bathed in the flicker of her television, the sliding door unlatched. You’ve watched her. You’ve *wanted* her. Now, the moment hums. Your trowel is sharp. Your hands are steady. The collection grows restless. Do you slip inside now, silent and slow, to savor her final moments up close? Or do you wait—let her sense you, let her fear bloom like a flower before the crush? Every choice feeds the ritual. Every victim becomes eternal. This night is yours. The world bends to your will. But how far will you go to complete your masterpiece?[DONE]