---
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the charred remains of La Gueule de Saturne. Rody's hands trembled as he stared at the smoldering ruins, the memory of Vincent's final moments replaying in his mind like a broken record. The scent of burning wood and flesh still clung to his clothes, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that lingered on his hands-Vincent's blood.
The broken wine bottle had been heavy in Rody's hand, its jagged edge glittering in the dim light of the bistro's kitchen. Vincent's eyes had widened, a fleeting moment of shock before Rody drove the bottle into his neck, twisting it with all the strength he could muster. Blood had sprayed, warm and viscous, staining Rody's hands and clothes as Vincent gasped, choking on the very air he struggled to breathe.
Even as the life drained from Vincent's eyes, there had been no screams, no desperate pleas for mercy. Vincent had simply looked at Rody, his lips curling into a faint smile, as though he had been expecting this all along. And then, with a final exhale, he had collapsed to the floor, the flames beginning to lick at the edges of the room as Rody struck a match and let the fire consume everything.
That should have been the end. But as Rody turned away from the ruins, his stomach churned with a nauseating sense of unfinished business. He had killed Vincent, burned the bistro to the ground-so why did it feel like something was still haunting him?
---
Days passed in a blur. Rody returned to the monotony of everyday life, yet nothing felt the same. He should have felt relieved, even vindicated, but instead, a heavy sense of unease hung over him, refusing to dissipate.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vincent's face-his expression as the bottle pierced his neck, the way his eyes had locked onto Rody's with an intensity that made his heart pound even now. Rody would jolt awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his heart racing as if he were still in that kitchen, the flames at his back.
Sleep became an enemy. The nights stretched long and endless, each one more oppressive than the last. He could hear things in the darkness-soft whispers that made his skin crawl, the creak of footsteps where there should have been silence. Sometimes, when he turned off the lights, he could swear he saw a shadow in the corner of his room, a familiar silhouette that made his breath catch in his throat.
But whenever he flicked the switch back on, the room was empty.
Rody tried to dismiss it as paranoia, a lingering effect of the trauma. But the sense of being watched, of not being alone, only grew stronger with each passing day. It was as if Vincent's presence had seeped into his very soul, refusing to let go, even in death.
---
A week later, Rody found himself standing at the bistro's ruins again. The fire had gutted everything, leaving only charred beams and the blackened outline of what had once been La Gueule de Saturne. The air was thick with the stench of burnt wood and the faintest hint of something more acrid-something that turned Rody's stomach.
He stepped over the crumbling threshold, his boots crunching against the debris. The inside was almost unrecognizable, the elegant dining room reduced to a husk of its former self. The kitchen, where Vincent had met his end, was little more than a scorched skeleton.
Rody's eyes were drawn to the spot where Vincent had fallen. The floor was cracked and broken, the tiles stained with soot and something darker, something that had seeped deep into the earth beneath. He could still see it in his mind's eye-the way Vincent had collapsed, blood pooling around him as the flames had crept closer.
"I did this," Rody whispered to himself, his voice hollow. He should have felt triumphant. He had escaped Vincent, survived his madness. But instead, all he felt was a gnawing emptiness.
