010. A Closer Look

Night had draped its dark cloak over the city, erasing the shock of the day’s murder with a deceptive calm. Flickering candles cast a soft, mournful light near the crime scene, their flames a final tribute from the victim’s grieving friends. Official statements, fabricated by FN's covert network within the police, cited cardiac arrest and severe allergy as the cause of death. The relentless efforts of FN’s Recovery Unit had erased all evidence of the violence and gunfire that once raged through Vieux Port.
As the hours deepened into the night, a figure emerged from the ink-black waves of Plage de Minimes. A woman with cascading golden hair, drenched and shimmering under the moonlight, moved with a fluid grace across the desolate beach. Her thin white dress clung to her curves, accentuating every delicate contour of her body. The fabric, soaked and translucent, highlighted the sleek lines of her silhouette and the subtle sway of her movements. Despite her escape, Miss X had remained close, her presence a haunting blend of beauty and danger.
Her gaze flickered to her left elbow, where a jagged cut from an earlier collision with a metal mailbox marred her otherwise flawless skin. The wound, initially appearing as a mere scrape, revealed a nightmarish secret beneath the surface. As her fingers traced the edge of the cut, the flesh parted to expose a black metal bone, its surface a chilling labyrinth of intricate pipes. These pipes twisted and coiled like dark veins, their glistening sheen hinting at a mechanical complexity beneath her skin. The stark contrast of the cold metal against her delicate flesh was both grotesque and mesmerizing, an eerie testament to her otherworldly nature.
With quick, purposeful strides, Miss X headed towards a small park where sparse trees and decorative bushes promised concealment. As she crossed the threshold into the park, the oppressive darkness embraced her, muffling the sounds of the outside world. The dense canopy of leaves created a tranquil shroud, filtering the moonlight into a soft, dappled glow that caressed the edges of her form.
Her steps slowed as she moved deeper into the park, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot merging with the whisper of the night breeze through the foliage. She navigated the winding paths with practiced ease, her body instinctively attuning to the serene rhythm of nature. The stillness around her was a gentle balm, soothing the tension that clung to her. Though her face remained impassive, the subtle relaxation in her posture and the smooth, deliberate movements suggested an inner contentment. The park’s enveloping silence offered a brief respite, its calm seeping into her very being, as if the natural world was cradling her in its embrace.
"Where are you headed in that wet nightgown, young lady?" The slurred voice of a drunken man suddenly broke the silence, emerging from the shadows of a park bench, half-concealed by the trunk of a tree.
Miss X halted and turned toward the voice. A middle-aged man, disheveled and dirty, had risen from a park bench, his bloodshot eyes fixed hungrily on her. Layers of mismatched clothing bulged beneath his worn-out jacket, the typical garb of the homeless. The stench of alcohol clung to him like a second skin, mixing with the musty scent of the park. He swayed slightly, his gaze lingering on her with a mix of curiosity and desire.
"Bless me! I can see your nipples pointing," the man exclaimed, his voice dripping with perverse excitement. He waved a half-empty bottle of liquor in the air, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "I wouldn't mind sharing my drink with you, beautiful."
Miss X resumed her steps, not to retreat but to close the distance between them. She moved with deliberate calm, each step exuding an unsettling grace that only heightened her allure. As she stopped just within arm’s reach, the moonlight cast a soft glow over her, accentuating the flawless contours of her figure and the delicate curve of her features. Her cold, unwavering stare locked onto him, freezing him in place.
The man’s mouth fell open in astonishment, his breath hitching as he took in the vision before him. Her ethereal beauty seemed almost otherworldly, a striking contrast to the darkness that surrounded them. His crude excitement, which had fueled his lecherous intentions, faltered under the weight of her presence. But even as awe momentarily silenced his depraved desires, the hunger in his gaze remained, his eyes tracing every inch of her form with twisted fascination.
"You're an angel!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with drunken wonder. His eyes roamed over her body, a lecherous gleam darkening his gaze. With a twisted grin, he leaned closer, his voice dripping with vulgarity. "Let me take a look at your divine cunt, my angel."
Just inches before his outstretched hands could graze her hip, the man suddenly froze. His body locked in an awkward position, half-sitting with his rear lifted, bending forward, arms reaching out. For a brief moment, his face registered surprise, eyes widening as if realizing too late that something was wrong. Then, his expression slackened, shifting into a look of drowsiness. With a slow, almost pathetic motion, the drunken man collapsed to the ground, never having touched what he had so brazenly leered upon.
"*Forgive me*." For the first time, Miss X's luscious lips parted, and an astonishingly sweet voice emerged, speaking in ancient Russian. The words seemed to float on the night air, carrying a haunting melody. "*Thou shalt evermore be a part of my eternity*," she continued, her tone soft and almost tender, yet devoid of any true emotion.
Miss X reached out to move the man’s lifeless body but hesitated, her hand hovering in the air. The weight of her actions pressed on her, for she knew the events in Vieux Port had stemmed from her genuine desire to honor her victim, a ritual she felt compelled to complete. A fleeting moment of clarity washed over her, and she nodded in solemn respect, her gaze lingering on the fallen man, oblivious to his earlier sinister intentions.
With a final, measured glance at the sprawled body on the cold gravel, she turned and began to walk away. As she moved, something almost miraculous occurred—her torn flesh, marred by earlier encounters, began to close and heal with each step. The process was subtle yet profound, the gaping wounds sealing seamlessly, as if the night itself was stitching her back together. She left the man behind, his body lying in the silence of the night, as her own form restored to its pristine state, disappearing into the darkness.