Chapter 25: Crestfallen - The Night Market

The lift juddered as it climbed, slow and stiff, its cabling creaking under the effort. The interior was scrawled with graffiti – names, obscenities, someone’s declaration of eternal love for the colourfully named ‘Gravediggers’. A single flickering light buzzed overhead like it might give out at any second.

The man she’d left the Kingfisher with was taller up close. Not broad, but contained – like the shape of something powerful hidden beneath tailored layers. He didn’t smile, just gave that short upturn of one side of his mouth that ignited something in her. And, truth be told, she wasn’t looking to extinguish it just yet.

Viola stood besides, shoulder to shoulder, eyeing the floor count creeping slowly upward.

‘You always take girls up in lifts that look like murder scenes?’

He smirked.

‘If I were going to kill you,’ he said smoothly, ‘it wouldn’t be a cliché. Not now, not in this part of the city where people find it easy to forget. No. It would matter, done somewhere with luxury. Satin sheets. Large windows. Champagne on ice. I would give you those last moments to treasure . . .’

She laughed – that short, sharp laugh of someone caught off-guard in a good way. It was playful. Amusing. Mysterious. She liked mysterious.

‘Before you stole them away,’ she stated.

‘Before then, yes.’

‘That’s good to know. I’d hate to be a boring headline.’

His tone was dry, self-aware. It disarmed her, made her smile. She liked a man with poise. He still hadn’t told her his name.

The lift let out a final clunk and the doors rattled open.

They stepped out into the night. The rooftop was wide and flat, bordered by waist-high concrete ledges. Thirty floors up, the city stretched in every direction – a hundred thousand lights blinking like stars fallen to Earth, traffic threading like veins below, pulsing red and amber. The sky was dark velvet, scattered with a handful of real ones. Sure, it could be seen from Leroux Tower, but here, it was like she was smothered by it.

He offered his arm, and she looped hers through it. The rooftop was bare except for a few scattered pipes, an old satellite dish, and the night.

Viola’s breath caught a little.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘This is—’

‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Up here, the noise isn’t so jarring. None of the traffic. None of the troubles of people. Rare, isn’t it?’

Her fingers constricted around his arm. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who likes quiet.’

‘I like perspective. It seems like the only ones who appreciate it these days are the birds. And they don’t judge.’

Congregations of pigeons mumbled in their little groups as they continued.

They crossed a small bridge between roof levels – just a metal gangway, aged and rust-streaked – and came to a rooftop garden. No more than a scattering of planters and wind-battered pots, but someone had clearly put time into it. There were herbs, little sprouts in rows, a trellis bent with ivy. Planters of ivy, herbs gone wild in old crates, a battered watering can catching the moonlight.

She brushed her fingers over a crooked rosemary bush.

‘This yours?’

‘No. But I respect the effort.’

‘Thought as much. You don’t strike me as the gardening type.’

‘You don’t strike me as the type to go for a drive with a stranger,’ he countered.

Viola smiled. ‘Ah, but you’re not a stranger. I think you’re more like a . . . surprise in waiting. A bit like an unwrapped gift.’

‘And that appeals to you?’

‘More than you’d guess. I’m interested in finding out what I’ve got.’

The tension between them was soft, warm, growing thicker with each step. She hadn’t felt this electric in ages. Not like this. With Canis it was always a dance, a smirk, a tease with no destination. This man said little, did even less – and still offered her more than Canis ever had.

They stood at the edge, the garden behind them and the city at their feet. The park below glowed softly, moonlight caught in treetops. Roads shimmered with motion. From here, the city pulsed like a living thing.

He took her hand, drawing her closer.

‘You like the view?’ he asked.

‘I love it,’ she said, not looking away. His short chestnut hair fluttered silently. ‘Like you said. Nobody here to judge.’

His fingers traced hers. The wind teased her coat, and her pulse kicked up as he stepped close. When he leaned in to kiss her, it was gentle. Measured. Like he’d been waiting years for his mouth to find hers. His hand moved to her cheek, his touch comforting, and then to her jaw, brushing the line where her pulse beat strong. She exhaled against his mouth. His attention was warm and lingering, coaxing her to taste deeper, kiss faster. And then, when the excitement and the thrill became too heady, she raised her chin and exposed her neck to him.

His lips brushed the skin below her jaw. She let out a breath, eyes fluttering. The bite was soft – more pressure than pain. A curl of heat rather than a burst of fire. Her breath caught in her throat, the dizzy sensation blooming in her head. The rush. The danger. The ecstasy.

But then she felt his grip tighten.

The hand on her back. Another at her wrist. Not rough, but firm. Holding.

Viola tried to shift her weight. Tried to speak. But the strength wasn’t there. The pleasure dulled, becoming distant. Something was draining out of her, quick enough to steal her voice. Her vision blurred. Her body weakened. She made a sound – not a word, but something trying to be.

She blinked, her vision tipping sideways as her legs surrendered. He held her close, still calm. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her breath stuttered.

He held her just a moment longer, enough for Viola’s world to become shrouded with shadow. Then, with an effortless press, he eased her limp body backward, away from him.

And the ledge.

Viola’s eyes found his one last time as the world tilted, slipped, and raced away.

For the first time, she saw him fully.

His face indifferent. His eyes dark and knowing. The guarded composure. These weren’t weapons to charm at all. They were to deceive.

And as Viola spun in nothing, the pavement raced up to greet her, until there were no more stars, no more lustful kisses, or regrets. The screams from onlookers that followed sent a shock of life through the pigeons, and they set off in a flurry into the night sky.

Her murderer dabbed the trickle of blood from his lips, looking down to admire his handiwork, poised all alone on the rooftop.

Alone, with nobody there to judge.