CHAPTER 2 — The First Stroke
The hallway buzzed long after George and Chris had disappeared into the lecture hall.
But the noise didn't follow George in.
It never did.
He preferred it that way.
—
The lecture dragged.
Numbers. Theories. Words layered on words.
Chris whispered something at some point—probably a joke—but George didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed ahead, though his mind was nowhere near the classroom.
It wandered instead…
…to the dock.
To the arrangement.
To the symmetry.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Not perfect.
His fingers twitched slightly on the armrest.
Too much excess on the left side. The spacing had been off by a few inches. The curvature of the torso… rushed.
He exhaled quietly.
Sloppy.
Not a failure.
But not a masterpiece.
Beside him, Chris nudged his shoulder.
"Guy, you've been staring at that board like it owes you money."
No response.
Chris leaned closer. "You sure you're good?"
"I said I didn't sleep," George muttered.
Chris studied him for a moment… then leaned back.
"Alright, man. Just don't zone out too hard. You'll miss the test date again."
George didn't reply.
But this time, a faint smile almost surfaced.
Tests.
—
Later that evening, the sun dipped low, staining the sky in muted orange.
George moved alone.
The campus had thinned out, most students retreating to their rooms, their noise fading into distant pockets of life.
He preferred this hour.
Not quite night.
Not quite day.
A quiet in-between.
He stopped near a notice board, his eyes scanning casually.
Missing posters.
Event flyers.
Clubs.
Faces.
Always the faces.
Different expressions. Different lives.
Different… possibilities.
His gaze lingered on one.
A girl.
Mid-twenties, maybe. A volunteer coordinator for a local outreach program. Her schedule was printed neatly beneath her photo.
Predictable.
Structured.
Accessible.
George's fingers tapped lightly against the wheel.
Once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
He moved on.
—
The first rule was always the same.
Observation.
Noticing.
People lived in patterns. They repeated themselves endlessly, like lines in a script they didn't know they were following.
Wake.
Walk.
Talk.
Trust.
It was almost… generous.
They offered themselves up, piece by piece, to anyone patient enough to watch.
George watched.
From a distance.
From corners.
From reflections in glass.
He learned:
Routes
Timings
Habits
Weaknesses
He never rushed this part.
Rushing led to mistakes.
Mistakes led to noise.
And noise ruined everything.
—
The second rule:
Selection.
Not random.
Never random.
There had to be… something.
A posture.
A presence.
A fit.
They had to belong on the canvas.
He didn't fully understand it himself—not in words.
But he knew it when he saw it.
Like recognizing a face in a crowd without knowing why.
—
The third rule:
Approach.
This was where most people would fail.
Force.
Panic.
Desperation.
George used none of those.
He adapted.
Sometimes he was quiet.
Sometimes polite.
Sometimes forgettable.
A passing interaction.
A harmless presence.
A moment of lowered guard.
That was all it took.
People didn't fear what they didn't notice.
And George… was very easy not to notice.
—
Night settled.
The city breathed differently now.
Slower.
Looser.
Careless.
George moved along the sidewalk, his wheelchair gliding smoothly beneath him.
Ahead, a figure walked alone.
Not the girl from the board.
Someone else.
Unplanned.
He slowed slightly.
Watched.
Listened.
Footsteps steady.
Phone in hand.
Attention divided.
A small tilt of the head.
A slight adjustment of pace.
George's eyes sharpened.
No.
He kept moving.
Not right.
Not suitable.
Not… fitting.
He passed the figure without a second glance.
—
Patience.
That was the difference.
Anyone could kill.
But not everyone could create.
—
Across the city, in a dim office lit by a single overhead bulb—
Anyi flipped through the file again.
Photos.
Reports.
Measurements.
Her cigarette burned slowly between her fingers, forgotten.
Something was wrong.
Not with the conclusion.
With the interpretation.
"They're looking at it like a crime," she muttered.
Femi, leaning against the wall, frowned. "It is a crime."
"Yes," she said. "But that's not all it is."
She held up one of the photos.
The latest scene.
"Look at this."
Femi stepped closer.
She pointed.
"The spacing. The placement. The repetition of angles."
A pause.
Then—
"This isn't random mutilation."
Her voice lowered.
"It's structured."
Femi's expression hardened.
"You think he's organized."
"I think," Anyi said slowly, "he's intentional."
She set the photo down carefully.
"Whatever he's doing… he's not just killing."
—
George sat at his desk, a notebook open before him.
Blank.
For now.
He held a pen loosely between his fingers.
Still.
Thinking.
Then—
He drew a single line.
Clean.
Deliberate.
A starting point.
His lips curved, just slightly.
"Let's try again," he murmured.
And somewhere in the city—
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
The next piece of the canvas began to take shape.