The scent of blood sat in the air, heavy and pleasant. The killer, who had no name, settled back onto his haunches and breathed deeply. It was delicious and heady, a wonderfully sweet aroma. The vintage was pure, the victim's high class breeding only amplifying what was otherwise a run of the mill meal. He ran his hands along along the victim's sides, tracing the blood onto his hands. He ran them down his face, coating himself in the red and sticky bounty. It shone in the passing lights from the street outside, the powerful soundproofing in the windows crushing the noisy traffic easily. The screams had given it a workout, of course. Thankfully, they were done now and he could feed.
The shower hissed to life as his clothing hit the floor. A bit of red splattered on the tiles and he growled. More to clean, more to do. But his belly was full and his needs were sated. The water was hot and pleasant, full of power and steam. He ran a gentle hand over the dozens of soaps, moisturizers, conditioners, and other products along the walls. Nothing like his bathroom at home. He sighed as the water started to tease tired muscles. One by one, he plucked each bottle from the wall and used it for its dedicated purpose. And when he was done and the blood had vanished down the drain, he used his clean hands to grab the almost painfully fluffy towel and wipe himself dry.
He smiled at himself in the mirror. For a moment, he struck a pose, flexing muscles. He looked good, the killer thought. He splashed some aftershave on his cheeks, stubble threatening to break though again. The mirror shimmered for a moment and then he was standing on a beach. His smile was a little too wide, a little too full of itself. The killer laughed. What a toy. The control panel sprang open at his touch and he began to play, studying how the funhouse mirror could morph his flesh, show him visions of what he could look like, where he could be.
"Show me what I would look like if I were murdered," he said. His voice came out a little deeper than he intended, the tang of blood still clinging to his throat.
The mirror rippled and wounds blossomed over his skin, blood cascading down his chest, his eyes rolling back. He smiled. He wondered if the victim had ever done this. He wondered if the victim appreciated how inaccurate it was. Corpses didn't look like that and few would know it better than him.
He dropped the towel in the laundry chute and he washed his clothes in the kitchen sink. He smiled as he gently wiped the body with a washcloth, until the blood was mostly gone and he almost looked asleep but for the ghastly gash down his cheek. This was why they shouldn't try to fight. It didn't really matter.
He pulled his shirt back on as he gazed out the window, watching the thousands of cars weaving between tall towers. Lights glowed in the distance. Experience told him where the poor gathered around run down apartments and in back alleys. Through this window, there was just parks. He touched it for a moment and the facade fell away, showing the ugly truth of the city. The killer gave a hollow laugh. Must be real fucking easy when you can blind yourself, huh?
He perched the body on the couch and donned his mask again. A couple of taps to load the prepared settings and his voice sounded just like the victims. The camera sat on the coffee table, which was carved from some expensive imported wood by an underpaid and brilliant artisan. He cleared his throat. He mentally reviewed the speech. Of course, he could always do more than one take. But it was always satisfying to nail it first try.
One hand on his forehead, one on his jaw, he hid behind the victim and puppeteered him as he spoke.
"Well hello there everyone! You probably don't know me, but my name is, well, to be honest, I don't fucking care. If you're seeing this, then I must be dead!"
He brought the victim's hand up, forcing it into a thumbs up.
"But I'll tell you what I do know. I know that my fortune was built on the backs of others, built via mass abuse. Yes, that's right, I was responsible for the purchase of a company that made software for hospitals. I was responsible for it upping the prices until those who needed it most had no choice but to enslave themselves paying for a chance to live. And you know what?"
Hard fingers carved the victim's lips into a cruel approximation of a scowl.
"I didn't care! Why should I? I get to live in my lovely apartment, eat my lovely food, take all those delicious drugs, fuck my lovely prostitutes whenever I wanted. Why, I was a bit of a shithead, wasn't I? But don't worry."
The victim smiled by force. He turned his head slightly towards the killer, who stuck his dark mask into frame.
"My new friend has shown me the error of my ways! He's corrected my mistakes for me. He's even arranged for the distribution of my vast fortune, through what he tells me is his usual method. We really must stop securing everything behind biometrics. Hacking is way too easy when you have direct access to the body, and believe me, there was hacking involved."
His hand gestured downwards to the massive gash in his chest.
"Isn't he so heroic? So kind? And you know what he finds funniest?"
The killer paused for a moment, smiling wide behind the mask. This was his favourite part.
"He doesn't care. He would kill anyone, you know? He would kill anyone just to feel it. Because he likes it. He's a real fucking monster and he's proud of it. He's not your martyr and he's not your hero. Sure, he objects to mass murder. But only for the lack of artistry. Factory killings detract from the sheer beauty of the single carefully performed kill, don't you think? You can't taste the blood when you kill via button presses."
The killer chuckled to himself. His voice was rising, passionate.
"He's not your hero. But he likes that he's lauded for these actions. He likes that it gives him a shield, gives him that little edge. He likes that people defend him. He likes that they do so knowing they're complicit, they're guilty. He likes that twist of the knife. He likes hurting people, you know."
The killer released his hand, the body lolling forwards. With one gloved hand, he shoved the back of his head, sending the victim toppling to the floor. In a neutral voice disguise, he continued.
"And by watching this, you prove that you're just like me. Stay cool murderheads. Catch you next time."
What was left of the body went down the built in garbage chute. Condos didn't have to make it this easy, but they sure did. On his hands and knees, he scrubbed the blood from the scene. He was meticulous and why not? He had all the time in the world. There were no hairs. He kept himself bald for a reason. And the gloves had never come off. A bit of bleach, a bit of elbow grease and it was almost like no one had ever lived here. Just to make it feel a little more lived in, he scribbled out the faces on the screens on the walls showing an ever changing cavalcade of old pictures. When he was done, the screens were covered with so much ink, they were probably useless.
Finally done, he sauntered out the front door into the warm night air. He smiled to himself. It was nice to nail the first take. Satisfying. He laughed, pleased. Didn't even need to see the video. Could feel that he nailed it. The comments tonight were going to be good. He almost couldn't wait.