I got my lips pursed kissing the mascarons

Haven understood. His testing wasn't over. It had just begun. He now had empty time and nothing to distract him. The day they'd been sent home he had returned to his room and slept the day away. Waking, quite confused, just after sunset, he'd dressed and headed out. His surface thoughts were on supper yet somehow he found himself stepping off the tram at the South Central terminal in Goldenrod Hill just as the secondary curfew bells rang out.

His travel pass was pinned in place. His armband declaring him a skilled technician in a vital industry was on his left arm. He wasn't worried about security personnel even though he normally would be. The incompetence of those people was something he now knew as fact.

He also knew where the few functioning security cameras were. He knew that vehicle patrols were literally just for show. Those patrolling would only respond to calls coming directly from their precinct headquarters. They could be this way because the populace had had the messages drilled into them until those messages were a mantra. They're always watching. They're always listening. Except they weren't. Not really. Only where the wealthy lived was it true. Only if you were fool enough to say the wrong things too loudly and too often.

He was under more surveillance at work than he was when on the streets. Because he only mattered when he was doing the only thing that gave him value in the eyes of the government.

He set off down a nearly empty street, almost overwhelmed by the feeling that he was walking around upon a stage after finally realizing that he was in a play. So much was a facade. The appearance was deliberately deceptive. So that the audience never realized that they too were on the stage.

He knew where he was although he'd never been there. He had spent so much time examining maps of the district that he could envision himself as though from a bird's eye. This was 91st Avenue. Eight blocks up it was crossed by High Hold Boulevard. If he went west on it and went five blocks he could go north up Sexton Way and in ten blocks reach the apartment block of Maria Thessolanaki. Victim number five. Half a mile to the northwest on 113th Street was where Sulinda Meier, victim number eight, had lived.

He was in the map now. He could feel, could actually sense, where each woman had lived in relation to where he stood. On a dozen nights just like this they had been taken from the world of the living. On perhaps hundreds of nights just like this a monster wearing human form had walked these streets. Hunting. Planning. Fantasizing about what it would do. Knowing that it would choose exactly when doom would come for a terrified young woman who didn't know that the clock was running out on her life.

He felt numb. Within. Not from the weather. He also wasn't disillusioned. That was impossible. He expected nothing from the world. The security services not caring about the murder of lower class young women was disappointing but not a surprise. The entire management of the company he worked for being arrested was a bit of a surprise but he fully understood why it had happened. An inefficiently run weapons factory was not acceptable when there would soon be a great demand for its products. Corruption was allowed until it became a liability that could effect the government's plans.

He found himself on Sexton Way. Standing in front of the building with the address number of 216E. He looked around. There was nobody in sight. That made sense. It was after dinner, after curfew, and bitterly cold out. He looked at the dark and narrow alley that ran between 216 E and 214E. Up that alley at the far corner of the building on the ground floor was where Maria Thessaloniki had lived. If Holmbrau was right, the killer had brought her out of the alley, across this street and into the alley to Haven's right.

The feeling of being in a bleak and empty space just outside of normal life, this strange alternate version of the city's daylight reality, it convinced him that Vinezzi was right. These crimes centered around sex. What else could drive you to do what this beast did; to do it and carry your victim into an empty night with your thoughts unrestrained by distraction?

He understood why the government didn't care. These deaths meant nothing to it. Hundreds died daily from other causes. What he couldn't quite grasp was the apathy displayed by the individual people working for the government. Random murders happened daily, yes, but there was usually a simple reason behind them. These murders weren't random and were clearly connected. How could that be ignored? How could anyone with a soul just look the other way and not care at all?

He started into the alley which led to where the killer had most likely left his vehicle but stopped. There was no light down it at all. It was narrow and not completely straight so that he couldn't see through to the next street. He gathered his courage and continued, using one hand on the wall to his left as a guide. That hand encountered no windows or doors. He registered that as his eyes spied the first hint of light ahead.

Reaching the next street he crossed it and continued on into an equally dark alley. Again he used his hand as a guide. When he reached the courtyard he was stunned. There was but one shielded lantern near a loading door. It gave out so little light that he hadn't detected it until he could actually see the lamp.

The maps only hinted at just how ideal this escape route was. He had to know more. He went to 113th Street. 112N, the building where Sulinda Meier had lived, sat in an exact same fashion. An escape route without light and no windows to pose a threat of a witness looking out.

This was perfect for the purposes of a furtive killer. Unlike with 216E no windows opened onto either stretch of alley he'd just transited. The courtyard was so poorly lit that for all he knew there could be half a dozen others hidden in it right now. He honestly couldn't tell.

He was convinced of two things. First was that the theory about the killer's movement were true. Second was that this killer was meticulous and careful. The man knew his hunting grounds. He chose victims not just on a whim. He made sure the situation fit his needs.

Just to remove any doubt he went to where Annalisa Dobranov and Sarah Thwaite had lived. Both fit the pattern perfectly. Just to be certain that he wasn't projecting a false correlation he explored other municipal alleyways at random. The majority of those that passed between apartment blocks had windows facing on the alleys.

Maybe that was the real reason that the killings were accelerating. The beast knew where it could hunt best. It's territory known so well now that It could quickly decide if a potential prey was suitable.

He didn't want to know how that felt. To walk the night secure in its embrace and feeling that you had the right to decide upon life and death. He didn't want to know how such a man was made. It wasn't about evil or the devil or wicked influence. It was about a heartless selfishness and arrogance. A belief that you were above the morals and judgement of others. A certainty that you had the right to do anything you chose because you were superior.

It began to snow and the world took on that particular hush. Everything seemed normal. Beautiful even. Safe. This was a civilized society. The weather could be defied and thus it was beautiful too. There were rules and laws. Things that told you that when you were at home in bed you were safe.