Apartment 703, Divakar Heights. 11:57 PM. 31st December.

  Under the trembling amber light, silence reigned, and a body lay on the cold floor—hands folded, lips drained, eyes forever closed.

  Death had dressed it neatly, cradled by the cold indifference of the night.

  By the desk, a man crouched, blood-slick hands steady despite their tremor. He wrote each letter sharply, deliberately. His handwriting was neat and beautiful, unlike the room.

  He stood up, the lines of his face way too perfect, too beautiful, perhaps—a mask sculpted by cruel gods with too much time on their hands.

  His eyes fell on the art he created. The body lay sprawled near the sofa, face turned to the side, its pallor stark against the deep crimson that seeped across the Persian rug. The eyes stared unseeing, half-lidded, as though caught mid-thought.

  "Beautiful," he said, almost tender, like a lover’s confession.

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  The walls, painted a once-warm cream, bore reminders of a life lived—or staged. Picture frames hung in perfect alignment, though some had cracked in the chaos. A photograph of a smiling family—man, woman, child—was smeared with a streak of blood, their joy now a cruel irony.

  The man with his bloodstained fingers brushed lightly against one of the frames. He tilted it, examining the fractured glass and the faces beneath it, his own reflection blending with theirs. His lips curled faintly,

  And then? A soft laugh escaped him, like a chuckle shared between old friends. A quiet ripple. But it grew—wild, jagged, unhinged. It tore through the silence, clawing at the walls, shaking him until his knees buckled. He doubled over, laughter spilling out like blood from a wound.

  A minute passed. Perhaps longer.

  And when it stops? The room felt emptier. He straightened, wiped his face, and smoothed his tie. Calm, clean, controlled. The mask slipped back into place.

  At the desk, the note read:

  "I laughed. I escaped...Because I could."

  Folding the note, he placed it gently on the body’s chest, his fingers brushing the lifeless fabric before retreating. His reflection flickered in the broken window—sharp, perfect, and yet hollow.

  With a final glance, he turned, his footsteps soft, and measured.

  Behind him, the dead stayed silent....forever.