It was Monday evening when my assistant’s voice crackled over the intercom.

  “Doctor Von Nacht? Miss Crawford booked an appointment for tomorrow morning. Should I inform her that you're unavailable and move it to Wednesday instead?” she asked.

  “Yes please, I’ll be in Berlin tomorrow,” I responded, locking my phone inside the desk drawer, silent.

  “Got it,” Claire said, typing the details on her laptop. “I’ll update your calendar.”

  “By the way, I’ll be leaving early for a personal engagement.” I paused, smiling. “Before I go, didn't you mention you had a commitment to attend this evening?”

  “Yes, Doctor, I was just preparing,” she murmured, her tone dropping to a shy whisper.

  “I see, have a wonderful time,” I said, disconnecting the line.

  My eyes turned to the certificates hanging neatly on the wall. They reminded me of the effort I had devoted to my practice as an otolaryngologist.

  I am grateful for the freedom to manage my schedule without abandoning my oath, and still have time for other pursuits.

  Hanging my coat on the rack, I waved goodbye to Claire.

  “You leaving early, Lucian?” a colleague asked.

  “Yes, I’ll be running a personal errand.” I nodded, smiling.

  Leaving the hospital for a personal matter never raises suspicion, especially if one can come up with a believable excuse. After all, the word “personal” discourages further scrutiny.

  Inside my car, the sweet melody of “I’ve Told Every Little Star” played softly on the radio.

  My car navigated into the shadows of the Place du Louvre parking lot. I wore a large grey parka to conceal my figure and blend easily with the crowd, along with thick-framed glasses and brown checkered trousers.

  If a municipal camera ever captured me, I had placed a small, flat stone beneath the heel of my right shoe to fake a limp.

  The remaining blocks to the café passed beneath my feet. On Rue de Rivoli, the low evening sun glinted off the shop windows, casting a harsh, amber glare.

  In the café, the barista acknowledged my presence and greeted me warmly,

  “Good evening, what can I get started for you tonight?” he asked, his voice bright.

  “A double espresso, for here,” I said, my voice low. “Black. No sugar.”

  “Excellent choice to wake you up,” he said, punching it into the register. “We just pulled some almond croissants out of the oven. They’re still warm if you’d like one?”

  “Just the coffee,” I said, sliding a bill across the counter, avoiding the barista's enthusiastic gaze.

  “No problem at all. Can I get a name for the order?” he asked.

  “Marco,” I responded.

  “Great, thanks Marco! We’ll have that right out for you at the end of the bar,” he said smiling, pulling the cups from the counter.

  While waiting for my name to be called, I sat near the counter and noticed that the customers were hunched over their laptops, oblivious to their surroundings.

  My gaze drifted from the crowd to one person. There she sat quietly in the corner, a canvas under careful study. Her figure held the stillness and beauty of Aphrodite, and her profile caught the light like a subject in a Renaissance oil painting.

  It seemed only a matter of time before her attention would settle solely on me.

  Rose Fontaine, a saleswoman at Smith & Son. I didn't need to guess her schedule; a simple call to her workplace yesterday, posing as a courier requiring a signature for a “perishable package” had provided me with her entire shift rotation.

  “Double espresso for Marco!” the barista called.

  I stood and walked to the end of the counter to grab a cup, then picked up a newspaper from the stand. Returning to my chair, my eyes never left her corner.

  Her reflection flickered in the window. A neat ponytail of golden hair spilled over a baby-blue satin dress, the fabric hinting at the hourglass figure beneath. Cat-eye glasses gave her oval face an elegant, retro air.

  To observe her unnoticed, I unfolded the newspaper, feigning interest in the headlines. The broadsheet eventually gave way to my phone, where I scrolled idly through stock market trends.

  Her notebook lay open, yet untouched, her eyes wandering over the scattered scribbles. She touched her chin with an index finger, as if deep in thought. I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting my eyes pass over her in a way that wouldn’t draw attention.

  She reached into her bag for her cellphone and opened her messages, a soft laugh slipping out at whatever she read. The sound was faint, almost lost beneath the low hum of the café.

  I finished my coffee, set the cup down, and observed her. She finally packed up her things, pulled several bills from her pocket and left them in the tip jar, and walked away.

  I trailed her from behind, keeping my distance by ducking down a parallel street. Already familiar with the area, I used the alleyways to outpace her, careful not to draw a glance.

  When she finally stepped onto the pavement, I was waiting, tucked into the shadows of an old building. I pulled out my camera, capturing her and the place where she lived.

  She turned and walked away, unaware of my gaze, until she vanished into her apartment building.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Satisfied with the recent development, I turned back.

  Outside the Louvre, tourists swarmed, captivated by the grandeur around them. They snapped photographs here and there, chatting and smiling endlessly. I walked past them, undetected, and returned to the parking lot.

  Pressing the key fob, I watched as the car’s headlights blinked twice. I slid into the driver’s seat and placed my brown messenger bag carefully on the passenger seat. The engine purred back to life.

  Back at the manor at 20:00, I continued where the evening had left off. Rose Fontaine was easy to trace.

  She had the kind of digital footprint people leave behind without realizing it was fragmented, careless, and permanent.

  A brief scroll revealed her abandoned social media profile from eight years ago.

  The account itself was dormant, but her photographs lived on, tagged and shared by a profile named Alena Ivanov. Using a fabricated account, I accessed Alena’s profile and moved through her albums.

  In a photo from 2017, Rose’s head was tilted back in a genuine laugh, her hand resting on Alena’s shoulder with a familiarity she hasn't shown anyone in Paris.

  Further down the timeline, the tone shifted.

  A comment thread caught my attention.

  “WHORE. SLUT.”

  The words sat on the screen like an open mouth mid-scream.

  The account belonged to Yvonne Lee. I followed it. She had been part of the same circle. Group photos confirmed it, and each face was neatly tagged with their names. Rose had not been an outsider. She had been inside something that later turned against her.

  The accusation was predictable, stealing someone’s boyfriend.

  Another photograph held my focus longer than the rest. Rose stood beside a man identified as Franz Moroz. He was tall, brown-haired, athletic and blue-eyed. The type who mistook arrogance for confidence. He had his arm around her waist. Possessive. Familiar.

  I searched further. Older images surfaced, her childhood photographs. A modest birthday celebration. Rose seated on her mother’s lap, and her father clapped nearby, smiling with unguarded pride. The location metadata pointed to Polotsk, Belarus. An aging neighborhood.

  Cracked pavement. Narrow streets.

  “Her family did not appear wealthy; they seemed ordinary,” I whispered to myself, deleting my browser history and disconnecting the VPN before shutting the computer off.

  I locked the study, went to bed at 22:00, set the alarm for 02:00, and fell asleep.

  After preparing my luggage, setting the alarms, and locking the manor, I left at 04:00. At that hour, the Paris streets are a skeletal version of themselves, allowing me to reach Charles de Gaulle well ahead of my 07:00 flight.

  The conference at Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus is scheduled to begin precisely at 11:00; I have no intention of being late.

  The terminal was already surging with the morning rush, a sea of travelers dragging suitcases like heavy anchors. I bypassed them entirely, following the red SkyPriority signage toward the dedicated Business Class check-in area.

  There was no queue. I approached the counter and presented my passport.

  “Good morning, Monsieur. Destination Berlin?” the agent asked, her fingers already hovering over the keyboard.

  “Correct,” I replied, sliding my passport across the polished marble of the SkyPriority counter.

  She scanned the document, her eyes flicking briefly between the biometric photo and my face. A small thermal printer hummed, spitting out a heavy-stock boarding pass.

  “You’re in 2A, Monsieur Von Nacht. Business Class. The lounge is open if you’d like breakfast before departure.” She handed back my passport with the pass tucked inside. “Enjoy your flight.”

  The flight was uneventful. After almost two hours of travel, I arrived in Berlin. Outside the airport, I hailed a cab. The driver helped me with my luggage, and I settled into the back seat.

  “Guten Tag. To the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus, please.” I leaned back, watching the streets pass by as the meter began its rhythmic click.

  “Ja, professional conference?” the driver asked, steering onto the main road.

  “Ja, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Nehmen Sie den schnellsten Weg, bitte? I’d like to avoid the morning rush, if possible,” I said, clearing my throat.

  “Understood,” he replied, nodding as he acknowledged my request.

  At the conference, Doctor Weiss was finalizing his presentation notes.

  I seated myself near the front, alongside surgeons from various international clinics. By 11:00, the Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus was at capacity, the air thick with the scent of espresso and the rustle of leather-bound files.

  The session lasted three hours before the first break.

  “Doctor Von Nacht, you made it to Berlin. How are you finding the symposium so far?” a colleague asked.

  “It’s been a great symposium. The innovation in the new protocols is long overdue. But honestly, I’m primarily here to support Weiss. Herr Doctor Weiss remains a remarkable mentor.” I said, nodding as I held a cup of coffee.

  “Ja, excuse me. I’m Doctor Klein.” He reached out his hand.

  I extended mine to acknowledge the gesture.

  “Herr Doctor Weiss has a keen eye for potential, ja? He always mentions you as a future mentor, a senior,” he said, his voice warm, reassuring.

  Everyone here seemed buried in their own lack of observation. Naturally, I’m the only one with true potential.

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I don’t see myself that way. I simply do my job.”

  He didn’t reply, his expression clearly saying, “I agree.”

  After the conference, I lingered at a café for a while to rest before making my way back to the airport for my 16:00 flight back to Paris.

  At the airport, where I was boarding the plane, the stewardess had assisted the passengers until we reached our seats.

  When the airplane touched down on the runway in Paris, I waited for the passengers to leave before finally standing up and exiting the plane.

  I returned to the manor at exactly 22:00. After parking beside the ancient oak, I carried my luggage to the front door, the jingle of my keys cutting through the silence of the moonlit grounds.

  As I stepped inside, a draft of freezing air exhaled from the dark hall. I locked the door behind me, flicked the wall lights, and walked directly to the master bedroom.

  In the bedroom, I opened my luggage and pulled out the laundry, placing it in the laundry basket. Then I opened the bathroom door and took a shower before deciding to go back to sleep.

  The sunlight woke me from my slumber. The groundskeeper, Mr. Dubois, was already pruning the hedges. I stood up and walked to the bathroom to take a shower and prepare for work.

  “Mr. Dubois, can you please instruct Mrs. Moreau to buy some groceries this afternoon and also get new flower seeds for the garden?” I instructed before starting the engine of the car.

  “Oui, Doctor Von Nacht. Which particular flower seeds would you like in the garden?” Mr. Dubois asked.

  “Black Dahlia,” I responded, then left.

  I departed the manor at exactly 06:00, driving my car to the hospital.

  On the boulevard, two vehicles had collided, a mess of shattered glass and twisted metal born from a biker’s impatient overtaking.

  A loud whistle pierced the air from the sidewalk, where a traffic enforcer waved his hands frantically at the swelling tide of motorists. I glanced at my wristwatch, counting the seconds lost to the chaos.

  “Just a few blocks’ walk, or should I wait for this traffic to clear?” I thought.

  I maneuvered the car into a public parking lot, then stepped out and continued on foot. A crowd had gathered around the two motorists as they traded insults, while a traffic enforcer wrote a ticket. Impatient horns blared, adding to the chaos.

  The cold morning air brushed against my face as I moved along the sidewalk. Leaves swayed peacefully, a stark contrast to the commotion around me.

  When I reached the hospital, people were lined up along the hallway. Nurses moved briskly back and forth, assisting patients as they went.

  “Good morning, Doctor Von Nacht,” Doctor Elie Weber greeted, her usual demeanor seeming a little more positive today.

  “Good morning, Doctor Weber.” She followed me to the elevator, clearly trying to start a conversation.

  “Have you seen Weiss's new girl? She nearly handed me a sedative instead of a chart this morning. I don't know where her head is, but it certainly isn't in the ENT ward.” she said, her left hand holding a freshly bought coffee.

  It looked as though she hadn’t taken a sip.

  “No, why?” I responded, staring at the elevator’s LCD screen as I waited impatiently to reach my floor.

  “She seemed to be always absent-minded,” she murmured. “If she were my assistant, she wouldn’t last a week.”

  “Give her a break, she just started,” I said, clearing my throat. I turned my wristwatch. It had been two minutes.

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m too judgmental.” Her gaze turned to the LCD screen. “This is my floor. Bye, Doctor Von Nacht. Nice talking to you.”

  I watched her as the elevator doors closed.