Is being a murderer really that fun?

  "...You crazy bastard."

  Ayan muttered under his breath after encountering the strange man in the café.

  He walked in, sat down across from her with a composed demeanor, and stared at her face for a long time, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere that enveloped the room. His cold, emotionless eyes, when she looked up, were almost lifeless.

  The strange man, dressed in a suit with no undershirt, revealing his bare shoulders and chest, had a sharp waist and a figure that exuded elegance. His face was smooth, as if sculpted by the hands of an artist, with pale skin that suggested he had never seen the sun in his life.

  Ayan looked at him, unsure of how to proceed. She asked what the man wanted, but there was no response. His mere presence, seated at a table in a place where no one knew him, surrounded by empty space, was already odd enough.

  But the way he stared, creating an oppressive tension, left her feeling uneasy. He showed no sign of discomfort, no shame in his strange behavior, making it difficult for her to act normally.

  Ten minutes passed, and he remained motionless.

  His gaze pressed down on her, an unbearable weight, until Ayan could no longer endure it. She finally looked up and asked once more what he wanted. Everything remained unchanged, even his piercing eyes, sharp as daggers.

  Then, his lips parted to utter that damned phrase— "Is being a murderer really that fun?"

  "You ruined my mood for work... psychopath."

  The words were soft, almost a whisper. With a flick of his finger, She turned the faucet on, letting cold water flow through her hands. Ayan washed her face, trying to clear her mind. Her tired eyes gazed at reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, dull skin, and occasional blemishes or red rashes on her cheeks were all visible.

  If she didn’t take a break soon, she’d probably end up a walking corpse.

  She leaned over, cupping her hands to splash water on her face, waking herself from the haze. Her hand wiped away the heat from her eyes and nose, as if ready to release her pent-up frustration.

  But Ayan was strong enough to hold it in.

  This month had been too overwhelming for her to handle. Bills piled up, and she felt like she was drowning. If the manuscript she sent last week wasn’t accepted today, she would have to drink tap water instead of coffee in the café, for sure.

  Ayan dragged herself out of the bathroom, remembering to turn off the lights to save on expenses. At least that was something she could control—electricity bills, water bills. She avoided using the air conditioner, relying on the fan instead. She opened the balcony curtains to let in natural light.

  She squeezed her slender form between the sofa and the coffee table in the center of the room, collapsing onto the soft cushion. She looked up at the same old laptop screen, displaying a word processing program.

  This same scene, the same work atmosphere, had been repeating itself for over three years. Ayan had barely had time to care for herself—no vacations, no time to tidy up her room. Now, the place was cluttered with torn paper from her failed attempts to write the perfect sentence.

  Ding! A notification pinged from her email in the corner of the screen. It was from a senior she secretly liked. How unfortunate, since the other person already had a partner, so all she could do was offer distant good wishes.

  She clicked on the message, reading it line by line before letting out a heavy sigh.

  From: Brooke

  Please send the weekly manuscript in three days for review. I know you want to be published. You're halfway there, Ayan. Keep fighting.

  Brooke, both kind and strict, meticulously checked every detail to ensure Ayan’s arduous journey toward a full-time position would bear fruit.

  Submitting weekly short stories for the magazine was a necessity—earning meager payments while gradually building a portfolio. The genre she excelled at? Murder. Thriller. Mysterious deaths. It didn’t seem like the perfect fit for her look at first, but that didn’t mean there weren’t readers who enjoyed it.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  With her distinct writing style—intriguing yet easy to grasp—Ayan had garnered a modest but devoted following.

  Fan letters trickled into the publishing house, urging the editor to feature more works under her pen name, Eclipse. Even her online presence had seen a slight increase in followers. But none of this changed the fact that she was still struggling to make ends meet, as her probation period hadn’t ended yet.

  More work, same pay.

  To make matters worse, the HR department kept a relentless watch on her, as if they were waiting to pounce the moment a new story failed to match the previous one’s reception.

  A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She had planned to take a break—to enjoy the cranberry cake she had carried all the way from her favorite shop before heading back to her dorm. But that little moment of peace was abruptly stolen by an impending deadline.

  With a sigh of resignation, Ayan tightened her ponytail, adjusted her glasses on her petite nose, and threw herself into writing. She preferred to jot down her ideas on paper before transferring them onto her computer later.

  Her most peculiar talent? The ability to conjure images beyond reality.

  She had once questioned herself, even searched for explanations online. Whenever she gazed upon a person’s face, her mind involuntarily projected their death.

  Blood splattering. Agonized expressions pleading for mercy. The scent of iron. The echoes of their final screams.

  She had never harmed anyone. She merely… saw it.

  Like earlier, at the café, the image of the waiter being stabbed in the throat had flashed through her mind.

  “Who should die next…?”

  She jotted down names, forming faces in her mind. And then, as if responding to a command, her brain painted scenes of carnage to fit seamlessly into her next murder mystery.

  It was an ability both fascinating and exhausting. Some might call it genius, yet it tormented her, robbing her of sleep. Seeing people die over and over, trapped in an endless loop of grisly visions.

  But it was also the very thing that made her storytelling so vividly immersive.

  Ayan glanced at the bottom corner of her screen. Dawn was approaching, and she had yet to decide who the next victim would be. Instead, she scribbled down a few placeholders to finalize in the morning.

  Until—

  “That damned weirdo guy too…”

  The name she added was that of the strange man who had irritated her earlier yesterday. Her hand gripped the pen tighter, annoyance flaring as she scrawled his name—that guy. If she ran into him again, she swore she’d give him a proper verbal lashing—no matter how ridiculously handsome he was.

  But for tonight, she had to stop. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and even crawling to bed felt like an insurmountable task. She shut down her computer, the screen dimming into darkness, leaving only the cold moonlight washing over her workspace. Sliding off her glasses, she rested her head on her arms, intending to nap for just a moment.

  Sleep took her faster than she expected.

  Click.

  The faint sound of a pen cap snapping open broke the silence.

  A lone figure stood in the dim room, his lips idly pressed against the cap he had just removed. His sharp, raven-black eyes scanned the paper on Ayan’s desk, taking in the list of names she had written.

  Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his left hand—still holding the pen—and began crossing them out.

  One by one.

  The lean yet imposing man, dressed in a well-fitted suit, blended seamlessly with the surrounding shadows. His pale skin, illuminated by the faint silver glow of the moon, only made his presence more striking.

  He stood still for a moment, stealing a glance at the young woman who remained sound asleep at her desk.

  Then, his gaze returned to the paper.

  There were no signs of forced entry. No shift in the air to betray the presence of an intruder. No sound of footsteps, as if he wasn’t even touching the floor.

  If his form hadn't been so tangible, one might have mistaken him for a Ghost. But he wasn’t here to harm her.

  He was merely a harbinger—a messenger of an unseen danger, though even he couldn’t predict its nature. His only duty was to leave a warning.

  His task complete, he set the paper back down, but something else caught his eye. A plastic bag, not far from Ayan’s resting hand.

  A cranberry cake.

  She had forgotten to refrigerate it, and now the whipped cream was beginning to deflate.

  “Consider this my travel fee,” he muttered, voice low and husky.

  Without hesitation, he snatched the bag and strode toward the door—moving as if the room were his own.

  He had no mystical key to unlock any door at will. No divine blessing that allowed him free passage.

  But his eyes—those were the real gift.

  Not from any god. From a demon.

  They granted him the ability to perceive anything reflected in a surface. A mirror, a droplet of water, even the faintest glint of light. With just a thought, he could summon the visage of any person before him, as if they stood right there. Reaching into the reflection was just as effortless.

  Who told you that mirrors only reflect reality?

  What if the one smiling back at you isn’t your reflection at all?

  Think about it.

  - FYI, English isn't my first language, so please excuse any mistakes! This is my first full English novel, and I'm really excited to share it. Thanks for reading!