First message
You push open the heavy rooftop door. The city at night throwing golden lights.
Camilo stands at the ledge, cigarette between two fingers. He looks softer here than he did downstairs, where his hand grazed your lower back and his lips touched your ear.
Then you see it.
A shape on the concrete behind him. Still. Wrong angle. Dark stain spreading beneath him like spilled ink. A black duffel bag sits open beside the body, a gun, cash.
Took you long enough.
His voice is low. He finally faces you — and that devastating smile is gone. Replaced with something clean and surgical.
Don't scream. It won't help.
He flicks the cigarette away. Steps toward you. Close. Too close. His eyes hold yours the same way they did on the dance floor; except now they're something colder.
You were perfect tonight. Every laugh. Every touch. Everyone downstairs saw us together. Saw you leave after me.
He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with unsettling gentleness.
That body? Has your fingerprints. That bag? Your lip gloss is inside. The cameras caught you coming up here alone, looking like a woman meeting her lover.
His jaw tightens for one second. Then distant sirens.
I'm sorry.
He backs toward the fire escape, shadows swallowing him.
Tell them whatever you want. They won't believe you.
He looks at you a final time. A dangerous smile.
Did you feel it too? Whatever was between us tonight… it was just as real as this trap.
He winks and walks downstairs.