The man was already half-dead when they found him.
Stripped, bound, and gagged in the wine cellar of an aristocrat's townhome—someone too powerful to bleed in public, but not powerful enough to keep his secrets safe.
Carmen had followed him from the brothel. He liked girls barely grown, broken things pretending to giggle. He liked cruelty hidden beneath coins.
Julian had followed her.
She knew it. Had felt him in her shadow as she watched the man drag a girl by the wrist down a dark corridor.
She made her move at midnight.
And Julian was already there.
The girl was gone by then. Escaped, maybe. Carmen didn't ask. She only saw the man—the monster—choking on his own whimper, wrists tied to a rusted pipe, eyes wild.
He reeked of piss, wine, and arrogance.
Julian stood in the corner like a phantom dressed for a funeral, candlelight licking the edge of his smile.
"You found him too?" he said.
She didn't respond. She walked past him, her hands calm, steady. The scalpel from her corset gleamed as she pulled it free.
"Shall we share?" he asked, mock-gentle.
She said nothing. Just slit the man's cheek with a flick so clean, he didn't feel it until the blood traced his jaw.
Julian watched. Eyes sharp.
Then he laughed. "You know, I dreamed of you once."
"I don't dream," she replied.
He stepped closer.
"He begged," Julian said, nodding toward the bound man. "Called for his mother. You'd think that would make it harder."
Carmen turned, blade in hand. "You talk too much."
Julian grinned. "You kill like an artist."
She moved toward the man again. Not quickly. Slowly. A performance. She made him look into her eyes. Made him understand that the last thing he'd ever see was not mercy, not vengeance—but pleasure.
She pressed the blade beneath his chin and whispered, "Do you think God hears men like you scream?"
He moaned. Not an answer. A prayer.
She slid the blade across his throat like drawing the first line of a painting.
He gargled. Twitched. Bled out into silence.
They stood over him. Breathless. Still.
The candle trembled.
Julian spoke first.
"You're not from here, are you?"
She glanced at him. "You are."
He took a slow step closer. "I remember your hands. Not your face. Not your voice. But your hands. They always knew what to do."
She should've killed him right then. Stopped it before it started again. But something in his voice—That quiet reverence. That memory beneath madness.
She whispered, "If we do this again… it needs rules."
He raised a brow. "Rules? Between murderers?"
"Yes," she said. "Because murder is easier than betrayal."
Julian tilted his head. "Go on."
Carmen began to pace, eyes on the corpse.
"Rule One: No attachments. Not to anyone. Not even each other."
"Rule Two: We kill only those who deserve it. For now."
"Rule Three: No names. Not real ones."
"Rule Four: If either of us breaks the pact… the other ends it. Completely."
"Rule Five:" She turned to face him. "No falling in love."
Julian smiled, slow and cruel. "Ah. That one we'll break first."
She stared at him. Cold. Unreadable.
Then extended her hand.
He took it.
Their palms pressed together over the cooling body of a man neither would remember by morning.
That night, they were not lovers.
Not yet.
They were architects.
And blood was their blueprint.