Heart-to-Heart

1

__________

Is the Villain Dead?

My dear readers, I was recently overtaken by an alarming thought. What if the Villain, who killed all those people last year, is still alive and at large? How is this possible, you ask? I'll tell you: let us recall the recent scandal that rocked the ranks of our valiant defenders. The son of the head of the Central Police Department, Familiar, was brutally killed by a certain avenger. The police held a press conference, at which the head said: Familiar appeared to be the notorious Villain—the maniac who had killed five people between July and November of last year. But then who was the mysterious avenger who killed the Villain?

I'll tell you who.

It was the real Villain.

Are you surprised? Well, look at my arguments. The first one I have already told you about. The most obvious reason that the killer was uncatchable was that he knew all the details of the case and conducted his dark deeds based on science, diverting the investigation in the wrong direction and deliberately focusing on evidence not directly related to him.

The second argument? Well, yes, I have it! The Villain is physically developed. I believe it was he who handled the death of Familiar (who was mistakenly or deliberately nicknamed the Villain) and the professional guards of the summer house development where he had been. Let me remind you: Familiar was extremely strong and also armed. You need to be an authentic demon to enter direct confrontation with such a person and get out of it safe and sound, leaving behind only dust and ashes.

Still not enough arguments? I have left the most exciting thing for dessert!

It's time to take off the masks. It's time to reveal the truth. The truth, which may cost me my life, but I am ready, ready to risk everything to expose that purulent abscess on our society, that scoundrel who pushed our world to chaos, blood, and death.

As you know, I was one of the first to tell the country about the Villain. Moreover, I was the one who gave the maniac his name. Many questions then arose: Where did I, a simple journalist, get information about each murder before anyone else? Many guessed: I had an informant. A mole. He sold me information for a substantial price, and the price was myself: my soul, my body, and my honor.

In other words, I slept with an informant. Now there is none. There will never be. But I still have a massive vault of unpublished information that has not been recorded anywhere and which has been saved in the safest vault of all—my memory.

Ladies and gentlemen, truth number one is that the Villain is not only directly related to the police but, in fact, to the group that was conducting the direct investigation into the case. I know this because I slept with one member of this group (check out my pun!).

And truth number two, which is also a most interesting truth, is that the Villain and the killer are distinct personalities. The killer everyone was looking for was indeed Familiar. A physically strong man, he broke skulls and strangled people with little difficulty. Still, Familiar was not very clever: the murders in the hospital almost went to hell precisely because they did not require brute force.

And here we come to the most important truth: the Villain is a brilliant manipulator, using his intelligence and slyness to play games that he alone understands—criminal games, bloody games, but games that in their own way are beautiful. He pulled off a streak of kills with his tool, Familiar, but when the latter crossed the line and began to get headstrong, the Villain readily got rid of him.

And that means true evil is still alive.

If they kill me after publishing this article, know this:

I WAS RIGHT.

And remember: I did not die in vain, but for the truth.

Best regards and last bow,

Yours going to the slaughter,

Pink Flaminga

__________

On Monday, three officers from the Central Police Department reacted to the same event at different times.

The first, at noon, wordy but unintelligible cursed into his mustache and angrily pounded his fist on the table.

The second, at about 16:00, moaned: "Oh no, Flaminga…"

The third, at exactly 19:07:35, was the most laconic. He simply grunted: "Shit."

***

Dia, who was sitting next to him, looked at her husband worriedly.

"This is… very bad, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh. Sorry for swearing."

"It's okay."

Cord smacked the magazine against the sofa.

"You tore a page," Dia smiled.

"Sorry," Cord apologized again, "but this foolish journalist does not even understand what she has done."

"She came up with this herself? On TV, they said that the Villain is dead."

"That is a lie."

"Then what?"

"The police said the Villain was killed, but the truth is, we don't know for sure. And if the killer is still alive, she just signed her own death warrant."

"And about the fact that she slept with—"

"It's true."

"Do you know with whom?"

"I know."

"With Force?"

"You are quick on your feet."

Dia smiled shyly.

"I only know him, and I know you worked with him on the Villain case."

"He, apparently, fell in love with the journalist and made mistakes because of his hot head," explained Cord, "but nothing terrible happened. Therefore, I did not interfere with him."

"But weren't you supposed to, by law, inform your superiors?"

"I should have, but friendship is more important to me than laws."

"Well, what a husband I have!" Dia whispered delightfully and clung to Cord. "Now you will disappear again until night?"

Cord kissed the top of her head gently.

"Hardly. Unless the Villain kills this Flaminga."

2

Entering his apartment, Force slammed the front door so loudly that even the neighbors heard.

He was in a great hurry. What Flaminga did was unthinkable and unacceptable. She exposed not only herself to danger but him too!

Sure… I had put my career ahead of her life. But never mind!

Taking off his shoes and then kicking them out of the way, Force went directly to the phone. The dial spun furiously: the man dialed the number of the woman who had betrayed him.

During the beeps, he tried to give his voice maximum severity, but this was not required.

"Hello?"

Her voice brought back pleasant memories, but he dismissed them.

"Flaminga! What have you done!"

"Who is this? Force?"

"You mean you don't recognize me?"

"Listen, don't shout. My head is already spinning."

"No doubt it is spinning after such a trick! Do you have any idea how much you have set me up?"

"What? You? Are you only interested in that?"

"What did you want? Tell me? Scandal? Ratings? My call?"

"Your call? Aren't you confusing something? You are so fat that you have your own gravitational field, and now you think you're the center of the universe?"

Force was taken aback.

"What?"

"I said, fat-boy, aren't you taking on too much, huh? Calling here with your claims, although you should be apologizing?"

"W-what?" Force's head deflated faster than a balloon pierced by a needle.

"So, you left me here with all this shit, and now you run me over!"

"I didn't leave you!"

"Really?"

"We just had a fight…"

"Seriously? We just had a fight, right? Six months without calls, and now suddenly here you are! Something like maybe my dick still wants you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything! Everything!" The voice in the receiver was muffled by tears of rage. "Who confessed his love to me, who said that he would always be with me and as soon as I made a little mistake immediately left? And now, when they seriously come after me, threaten to fire me and bury my whole life, he, the fucking bastard, calls and yells that I am scum?! What am I, bitch, a bitch who spoiled his career, huh? And here, you go, bitch, retaliation! Okay?"

"Flaminga, I—" Force's voice trembled.

"What Flaminga? What Flaminga?"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"Forgive me, please."

There was a pause. Neither of them could say a word; only poorly concealed sobs were heard on the other side.

"I— I really didn't do justice to you. After all, I'm a man, and I had to… You know… I just didn't have to do this before, and now… I'm a weakling, probably, yes, you think so now, and you're right, of course, I even failed this conversation, but listen, I want to make amends, I… We could… Meet—"

"Come on… Friday. In the evening," Flaminga interrupted him in an icy tone. "On Thursday, I will call and tell the time."

"Okay," Force was taken aback.

"Bye," she hung up.

Force listened to the beeps for a few more seconds and then collapsed exhaustedly onto the chair. The conversation had been harder for him than he had thought it would be. But now everything would change, for sure. He would try.

3

The next morning, Cord burst into his boss's office.

"Have you read it?" he began right off the bat.

Chief nodded curtly.

"I think, sonny, that you have a solution to this problem?"

"It depends on what is considered the problem. If a scandal breaks out, you have to take the rap, but about the journalist… I think I should talk to her."

"Okay, I'll allow you to. We once talked about a mole in our ranks. Do you have any guess who it is?"

"If we believe the journalist, then there are not too many people under suspicion. I think a conversation with her will clarify that."

"Good. Report back when you return."

***

Cord visited the statistical office, where he got the personal file of Pink Flaminga (the face in the photo seemed vaguely familiar to him) and the address of the publishing house in which the editorial office of the magazine she worked at was located.

After an hour and a half and a traffic jam (some idiots crashed into each other at an intersection), Cord reached the publishing house, a perfect example of stupid modern architecture—a seven-story glass "candle" which spoiled the harmonious combination of beautiful three-story Baroque buildings around it. What could be done? Fashion in transparency.

Entering the lobby, Cord learned from the girl at reception the location of the desired office. Taking the elevator to the third floor, he reached his destination.

In a large hall, journalists, text editors, and proofreaders all labored away. He went to the editor-in-chief's office. She was an unremarkable middle-aged woman in glasses with very thick lenses. After a brief dialogue, Cord learned Flaminga was not at her workplace yet: she was late today, although she had not warned her.

Strange! Had the Villain really come for her?

Deciding to wait at least half an hour, the investigator went to her workplace and sat on an office chair with wheels. Whirling about here and there, he brightened up overhearing the conversations of journalists:

"Listen, how to formulate 'this week luck is waiting for Virgos,' so as not to repeat the past horoscope?"

"Were they lucky even then?"

"That's the point!"

"Write: Virgos should be more careful in their desires."

"I already wrote this about Leos!"

Approximately twenty minutes later, the door to the room opened again, and Cord turned to the person entering…

***

Flaminga was dumbfounded. Sitting at her workplace sat him. And he smiled.

"Hi, Flaminga."

***

Seeing her in person, he immediately recognized her. Life had brought them together again after ten years, and the occasion was again far from joyful.

"I won't take up much of your time." Cord got up from the chair and walked over to her. "Is there a less crowded place here?"

***

They were now sitting on the ground floor, at a table in the corporate dining room. Apart from them and the cooks, there was almost no one there: breakfast had already passed, and there was more than an hour before lunch.

Flaminga ordered coffee to calm her nerves a little. It did not help; rather, it even aggravated them.

"You know, I didn't know the Pink Flaminga was you. That would have explained a lot."

"Explained what?" She tried to speak confidently, but her voice broke on the "what".

"The plots of your articles, focusing on me, without names, of course. You're not stupid, but whoever needed to, noticed."

Flaminga said nothing.

"I think you can guess why I'm here."

Flaminga sipped her coffee. Her hands were trembling.

"You accused the police of lying and concealing the truth, and target some officers and in fact claim that one of them is the Villain. I'm curious: do you understand the consequences of such accusations?"

Flaminga said nothing.

"We held a council," Cord lied for added formality, "and I persuaded the authorities to give you another chance. A journalist, what could we take away from her? True, I had no idea who you were, but… The decision has already been made. You have exactly one option. In the next issue, write an article with the following theses. First, admit that you lied and falsely accused the police having no rights or good reason to do so. Say that you did it to regain your former glory, or to raise the circulation of the magazine, or something else like that. Second, you need to refute that Villain is alive; after all, as you know it, he is dead. Third, you must apologize to the police, the readers, and everyone who believed you."

"Such an article would not be published…" Flaminga muttered softly.

"It is in your interests to achieve publication. You can do so in another magazine but under your own name. Otherwise, well! Prison! Or, if your guess is correct, death at the hands of the Villain. Or, if you avoid all that, I'll just tell everyone who you are. I think that is your main secret, isn't it?"

"This is blackmail!"

"Of course," agreed Cord. "You shit on us, and I'm blackmailing. We're both crossing lines, right? But I, unlike you, have a true source of information. Your case, remember? It turned out to be not too voluminous, but the information in it, well, they will chew off your ass. And if you consider how our society does not like these, letter P…"

Cord looked at the journalist thoughtfully.

"You know… you don't look like a bad person to me. And back then, it did not seem so either. I thought that after your release, you would sincerely try to start a new life. And you almost did it. If you got out of this shit with the Villain on time, we wouldn't be sitting opposite each other right now. How did all this happen?"

"I was forced to." Flaminga's coffee was lukewarm, but she continued to drink it. "They said I would be fired, and this job is all that I have—"

"It's not true. You also have Force. The key thing is not to push him away."

4

"I guess there's really is no mole." Cord put the folder with the journalist's case on Chief's desk. "And the Pink Flaminga is her."

The boss untied the ribbons and opened the document. On the first page, a frightened thirty-year-old woman, a literature teacher at Secondary School No. 69, was staring at him.

"To be honest, I did not know who Flaminga was. Sorry."

The boss continued to study the documents thoughtfully. It was an old Cord case, one of the first. It was after this case that Chief's attention was first drawn to the young investigator, a friend of his son and a constant participant in various drinking functions. He seemed to him to be smarter than he looked and smarter than he behaved in public. Having inquired about him, Chief learned that Cord's study style was very specific: the guy ideally passed the interesting and, in his opinion, necessary subjects for the profession (mainly related to practical orientation), but he was a hack in everything else.

Solving this case had been ingenious in its own way.

It had happened in winter. The parents of three fifteen-year-old boys from School No. 69 began to discover strange bruises and scratches all over their sons' bodies, and from time to time, red stripes appeared around the shins and arms, which then quickly disappeared. The puzzled parents tried to find out what was happening from their sons, but they were as silent as partisans.

Everything was solved by chance. One mother, suspecting something was wrong with her son's answers, filed a complaint about rape at the police station. There they studied him, put the boy in protective custody, and then summoned him for interrogation—silence. Well, since there were no complaints, why worry? But the mother continued to insist that something was wrong. For show, a newcomer was sent to her. They told him what to do: chat with her, calm her down, and everything would be okay.

The newcomer was Cord. Having come to their house with a more experienced colleague, he talked to the mother (the colleague snapped his nails with a bored look throughout the conversation), then she took them to her son's room. He sat on his bed and patiently waited for the idiots to finally leave so he could go out to see his friends.

His mother ordered him to show his bruises, and the son obediently, but with some contempt, stretched out his arms to Cord. There was a thin red stripe around the wrists. The boy then pulled up his trousers, the same around his shins. He then pulled back the throat of the turtleneck—the same on the neck. And then Cord, smiling, uttered a phrase that later became legendary:

"So, you like to masturbate with a little suffocation?"

The bored colleague was in shock. The mother was in shock. The boy was in shock.

And in the next moment, tears gushed from the mother's eyes; the son, widening his eyes, moved his mouth like a fish thrown ashore; the colleague froze at the door.

Then the boy told everything about his teacher, about the other guys. He sincerely did not understand why everyone was getting so upset, because they themselves had offered the thirty-year-old woman to do that, and they all liked it…

The next day police came for the teacher. She was accused of child abuse, pedophilia, and sent to jail for ten years. She served eight and a half: she got out on parole for exemplary behavior. She changed her name, got a job as a journalist, and lived peacefully for some time.

"So," Chief looked up from studying the case, "why do you think that there was no mole?"

"Because the information in these articles is nonsense."

"But she was close to the truth."

"Really? I didn't study them too much because they initially seemed like horse-puckey to me. The texts are either superficial, or speculation, or generally pure fantasy. No specifics and no information that could have interfered with the case."

"Hmm…" Chief moved his mustache thoughtfully. "And what can you say to the fact that Pink Flaminga more than once indicated some anonymous source of information?"

"Can't a journalist of a yellow women's magazine write whatever comes into her head?"

"What about the last article, where she wrote she slept with one of the investigators?"

"Speculation. She told me she was forced to write an article. Probably the circulation had dropped. Then Flaminga tried to create an info-bomb. And in truth, nothing stands behind her except for fear of being fired. And again, remember how she helped you during the scandal with your son? If she really wanted to harm us, she would have tried to finish off our Department in the person of you."

Chief nodded.

"You know, sonny, something worries me," he said slowly, choosing every word carefully. "If Flaminga, in her last article, truly resurrected the Villain, the consequences for her could be dire."

"I know. Can we provide her with protection?"

Chief shook his head.

"We have no reason. The official position of the police is that the Villain is dead. We can neither isolate the journalist nor assign our people to protect her. If we do, we will simply discredit ourselves. That's not considering that she slandered us."

"I see. Hence, all that remains is to wait."

5

Cord dropped wearily into a chair. Force looked at his friend, puzzled.

"You're kind of tortured," he remarked.

"Yes, I went to the publishing house, resolved the issue with Flaminga."

"Who's this Flaminga?" Force pretended not to understand who he was on about.

"The journalist. She wrote an article published yesterday about the Villain and us. Unsubstantiated nonsense, but a couple of points she should have cleared up first. Listen," Cord leaned slightly towards his friend, "I really need to talk to you, and it is crucial. Can we do it today?"

"Today?"

"Well, yes. Let's go to our old bar, sit, have a drink, and relax. After work."

"Okay, let's go. Today I still have no plans."

***

Luckily, their usual table was not occupied. The bartender, recognizing them, smiled:

"I thought I would never see you guys again."

"Come on, only five years have passed," Cord shook his hand. "We decided to take in a little less alcohol, that's all."

"Health is not the same; you understand that yourself," Force sighed, taking over the handshake. "Thirty-two isn't twenty-seven. It's a half-day hangover and a vow never to drink again."

The bartender laughed.

"Well, what will you have today?"

"We'll start, as usual, with a liter of light beer, and then maybe we'll go over to the dark side," Cord chuckled.

They sat down at the table and waited for their order. In five minutes, a pretty waitress with a playful smile set two full beer mugs and a plate of hors d'oeuvres in front of them.

"Well, cheers!"

"Cheers!"

The two friends clinked their glasses so that foam spilled onto the table. They burst out laughing.

"We aren't even drunk yet, but we're already pigs!" commented Cord. "Okay, let's get started!"

With valiant gulps, they drained half of the mugs, put them back down on the table, and exhaled. That went down well!

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" It seemed to Force that he was already getting a little drunk.

"About you and Flaminga," Cord looked at his friend seriously. "I know you were the one who leaked information to her."

Something sank in Force's chest.

"And… For long?"

Cord nodded.

"The first suspicions crept in back in September. And when I threw you the idea about a religious motive, I had no doubts. Well, now Flaminga has actually confirmed this in her last article."

Force muttered thoughtfully:

"As for the religious motive… I just remembered: it was not in your report."

"Exactly."

"I didn't even pay attention to it. And so what? You called me here today to say that you are going to tell Chief about my actions?"

"No."

"Then for what?"

"Oh, these secrets are annoying. I wasn't going to turn you in at all."

"But why then?" Force was surprised.

"Well, my friend found happiness. Why destroy it?"

"By law—"

"Oh, that? Neither you nor Flaminga did anything terrible. Important information was not disclosed, and speculating on such an event as the advent of a maniac is not prohibited by law."

After a brief pause, Force replied:

"Thank you."

Cord finished his drink in one gulp and beckoned the waitress. She took the glass and went for another batch of beer, now dark.

"However, that is only half the story. I will not harm you and say something to someone, but about Flaminga… It's none of my business, really, but still… Have you had a fight?"

Force nodded.

"Why?"

"Because she turned out to be…" Force sighed. "In general, she lied to me."

"About her past?"

Force looked at his friend carefully.

"Did you recognize her?"

"Yes."

"Here. I thought that she only contacted me to take revenge on you. As if… I knew from the very beginning that she was using me, and it was fine with me. I thought everything would start like that and then it would be okay, but… I could not date someone who uses me to take revenge on my friend."

Cord smiled.

"What a fool."

"Well, listen…" Force was embarrassed. "I'm saying that sincerely!"

"Anyway, you got into a fight over a shit called Cord."

"Yes. Uh, I mean… It's not that simple. Do you know she was in the crowd at the scene of the first murder?"

"No," Cord was sincerely surprised.

"She admitted it was then that she recognized you and decided to mock you a little in her articles. But…" Force sighed. "It seemed to me that this may not be the whole truth. Flaminga could be the Villain, not a killer but a manipulator. I had no proof, but I could not share my opinion with you because I was afraid you would give me up. Such is the vicious circle. Perhaps Flaminga had figured it out and therefore felt safe."

"I understand." Cord took a thoughtful sip of his beer. "Do you love her?"

"Yes."

"And does she love you?"

"I think so."

"So, apologize."

Force sighed.

"Yes, I understand," he smiled. "On Friday. But considering what I've just told you… What if she really is the Villain?"

"Presumption of innocence, Force. What is the point of avoiding a loved one just out of suspicion? First, prove her guilt. But even then, if you love her, no problem. Except, of course, you have to have sex in the visitation room."

A moment of silence—and Force laughed heartily.

The waitress brought two fresh glasses of beer to the friends. Having just finished his own, Force immediately and with pleasure drank up the foam from the dark drink.

"The third reason—"

"Wait, I thought you said we were done with the second half."

"You know, I'm an investigator, not a mathematician." Cord smiled and clinked glasses with Force. "Actually, I just forgot. Anyway…" Cord paused, not knowing how to soften what he had to say. He decided to speak directly. "I'm going to quit."

Force, barely raising the mug to his lips, slowly put it back on the table.

"What? Why?"

Cord sighed.

"I don't get any pleasure from catching bad guys anymore. Now I get a rush from family life. And soon I will become a father. You probably noticed Dia's belly when you drove the wood grouse to her."

Force nodded.

"Well. The thought of quitting became entrenched in my head after Familiar fired at me. I thought: damn it, if the next time his assassination attempt succeeds, I will lose everything I gained. And then I decided: that's enough. Stop chasing bandits, risking your life and all that."

Cord looked at the beer. Soon it would be disgustingly warm, which meant it was time to quit chatting.

"And even earlier… Do you remember that bullshit with the masks? I considered it a challenge from the Villain. Earlier I would have been delighted: an actual player, an intellectual battle, who would win?! I think any decent detective would have confronted the murderer. After all, it is an honor to defeat a strong enemy. And then I sat down, I believe it was in the evening, on the sofa and thought: but I don't give a fuck. The Villain mocks me, yes, and so what? I did not feel that it posed a danger to my life. If he wanted to, he could have easily set me up after the hospital massacre, but he didn't. Apparently, it was just that he had started a game that was understandable only to him, maybe to prove my professional incompetence, maybe for other reasons. But to really damage me, well, he did not want to. And then I thought that before when I was at work late studying material, or when I went to the crime scene in the middle of the night, I felt a sort of like a superhero crime-fighter… And now I just feel like asshole. Not because Dia somehow reacts to something like that, but because I myself don't want to leave her anymore."

Force nodded.

"I understand you."

"And also," Cord smiled, "I had always considered myself a good detective, capable of solving any crime. The Villain proved that, in fact, I am just a dud."

"We're duds!" Force corrected.

"Well, then…" Cord raised his glass. "To duds!"

6

Flaminga spent her entire working day in thought. She was honored—the first figures on circulation showed a significant increase, the CEO himself noted this and praised the cunning journalist—but she didn't care.

She could not get the conversation with Cord out of her head, or rather, the phrase that he threw out there when he said goodbye.

You also have Force. The key thing is not to push him away.

Cord knew about my connection with Force? For how long? And why didn't he do anything? Why?

And the wording… He said there is, not was. And he hinted that Force still wanted to be with me. If so, it is time to make a choice.

Will I be an influential and successful journalist—or will I keep the man who truly loves me.

***

On the way home, she decided on everything, but really there had been nothing to decide.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked sadly at the empty cognac bottle. What got into me then? In fact, I sold my conscience. Yes, I did not know precisely what had been the fate of the Villain, but to slander the police? It was lucky that they had given me a second chance. I will use it. And I will get back Force. Damn, I will even apologize to him because that's the only way that second chances work—with full dedication.

She sat down at the typewriter and began typing.

__________

Redemption

My dear readers! Today I want to talk to you very seriously and confess: I lied. Every one of us, at one time or another, needs to be forgiven. Isn't that right? And I want to ask you for yours.

__________

No, it is bullshit, starting with the headline.

Flaminga glanced at the bottle again. Eh, before its contents had filled her with inspiration…

Hmm, maybe like this?

__________

An Intimate Talk

__________

No, that won't work! Something else…

__________

Heart-to-Heart

My dear readers! Today I want to confess to you. I hope you will listen to me and try to understand.

__________

Better already! Still not very good, but later I will edit it...

__________

We are all not without sin… No, and do not think that this time it is about religion. I just want to admit that lying has always been a part of my life. And now it has become a part of yours by my efforts.

Let's be honest with each other, huh?

The Villain never existed and never was. I made him up.

__________

Is it worth saying it right away? Maybe come up with a lead-in? Or will just cutting to the chase be the best option?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Short and abrupt. Flaminga listened again to see if perhaps she had imagined it.

No, another one, twice. It looks like someone really wants to see me, but who? A friend calls first, Force too, maybe neighbors?

Someone was sincerely pushing the doorbell.

Okay, I need to open the door.

But as she approached the door, Flaminga was suddenly overcome with fear. What if it was the Villain? What if he came after my soul? Her skin was covered with goosebumps, but the journalist conquered her fears and looked through the peephole.

On the stairwell stood a handsome young man in a red and green uniform and a cap with the words "World of Flowers" written. In his right hand, he squeezed a beautiful bouquet. In his left—a clipboard with a ballpoint pen attached to the top.

"Fool," Flaminga cursed herself inwardly, but still, she only opened the door with the chain intact.

The young man, seeing her face, smiled and cheerfully recited:

"Good evening! I am a courier of the flower delivery service 'World of Flowers'! We bring joy from the flower beds to your heart!" The young man glanced at the clipboard. "Are you Pink Flaminga?"

Flaminga couldn't help smiling. The young man was charming and seemed to radiate happiness.

"Yes, but I did not order any bouquets—"

"Of course not! After all, it was ordered for you! Wait a second." The courier looked into the bouquet. "There is a card, 'To my beloved Flaminga with a preliminary apology.' I will not read what is inside because that is probably personal!"

Flaminga smiled shyly; her soul felt warm. Well, definitely Force with his awkward flirting! "Preliminary apology" well, who else could formulate such a phrase!

"So this, you… Uh-uh…"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry." Flaminga closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it. "Come in."

The young man smiled even wider.

"Thank you!" He took a step over the threshold. "Could you sign here—"

And, as soon as Flaminga stretched out her hands to the clipboard, the young man stabbed her in the chest with the bouquet. She felt a sharp pain, and her eyes widened in surprise and terror.

The young man threw the clipboard to the floor and, closing the door with his free hand, said:

"Sorry! Actually, I wasn't supposed to kill you. I should have been resting for a long time, but you know what? To hell with that! Because someone just can't keep his mouth shut! I only had to kill two. Two! Do you know how many I had to kill? Oh no, don't fall…"

The killer grabbed the poor woman by the waist. Their faces were almost right against each other's. Flaminga's fading consciousness still managed to capture the image of the killer's face, although her eyes had already started to go dark.

He continued to chatter away:

"So, just so you know, I have already killed six, counting you! So, can you imagine that, please?! Three times more corpses than what was required! And what's the most shameful thing? No one knows who the killer is! Even Cord still hasn't figured it out! I've already given him signs and evidence, but he doesn't care! And now he can't catch me."

Flaminga let out a final wheeze, her eyes rolling back. The killer sighed in disappointment.

"Damn, you're already dead. It's a shame."

The killer laid the woman carefully on the floor of the hallway and lifted the clipboard.

"Everyone still thinks that Familiar was the Villain. Ha! I'm not even the Villain; what could anybody say about that fool!" The young man looked appraisingly at Flaminga's prostrate body. "If you want to know the truth, your death saddens me more than anyone else's. It should have been an accident, but it turned out like this. It's a shame. Once again, I apologize to you."

Having looked at the woman's body with the bouquet sticking out of her chest for the last time, the killer grunted in satisfaction and left the apartment.