What did it matter if he had vivid waking dreams? He knew the difference between fantasy and reality, and oaths sworn to imaginary beings did not count. He would kill Miranda quietly, steal her briefcase discreetly, and make his own immortal name in another city. That was it. He needed the information in her briefcase to complete the story of Walther Grey, the greatest serial killer in history. And to remove evidence of any connection to him. Yes. That was why he was killing her.

“You poor thing. You really have been used. You aren’t even sure why you’re doing this.”

He moved his neck and shoulders uneasily, trying to force his body to relax. This was too much introspection. Everything was perfect: the time, the means, the escape plan. To falter now would only give the game away.

An old clock tower, obscured by the taller modern buildings of the City’s center, chimed a few brief bells. Julian settled his bill and left to begin a leisurely walk to meet Miranda, moving slowly in order to keep himself calm and resolute. Everything must be casual. There was a small square opposite her office; he could easily linger there until she came out. He would plan his trajectory to cross her path as she joined the crowd on the busy boardwalk. Until then, it was a shoulder-jostling jaunt through the inner city, dodging people and vehicles. He kept a hand in his pocket, fingering a capped fountain pen, and waited to cross yet another street.

Miranda! Here? Now? There she was, crowded with a few other intrepid souls on a small brick island in the middle of the traffic.

He moved to the curb, nudging his way through the other pedestrians, keeping his gaze on where she stood. There was a moment when she vanished from his view, but she soon appeared again, looking unusually grim. She must have had a bad day. She glanced quickly, misjudged, rushed out into the relentless traffic, and was narrowly missed by an omnibus driver with better judgment and reflexes. Julian was there to catch her as she nearly stumbled trying to reach the sidewalk.

“Do be careful, miss,” he said, grasping her by the arms and yanking her out of the road.

The pen was uncapped in his hand. She cried out and pulled away as the nib scratched her arm. No one noticed. She was already shaken from the brush with the omnibus, and most people were already continuing on their various routes, desperate not to block the flow. Julian took the briefcase before she dropped it, slipped the pen carefully into his pocket and into its case, and let the crowd carry him away. His heartbeat accelerated. She might still have time to cry out, to point a finger at him. He refused to look back; that would be too obvious. He crossed the road, walked on for a while, waited, then glanced around.