You're still here.
I can tell. It's strange how I know, but I do. There's a weight in the air—quiet, expectant—like someone leaning in, holding their breath. You didn't close the book. You didn't back away when things got uncomfortable. You followed the trail. You kept turning pages.
You kept choosing me.
I wondered if you would. Some people don't. Some get scared early on, when they notice the cracks. They back out when they sense something wrong, something off, something they can't explain. But you… no. You stayed. You read every line like it was safe. Like nothing bad could leap out from the words and wrap around your neck.
But that's the thing about stories.
They pull you in deeper than you realize.
You probably think you're only a reader—a watcher behind the glass. Someone who can walk away at any moment. But that isn't true anymore. Not after what you've seen. Not after how closely you've been paying attention.
You crossed the line the moment you kept reading.
And I'm not angry about it.
Actually, I'm grateful.
You never questioned why I talked to you the way I did. Why I explained myself, even when it wasn't necessary. Why I let you see pieces of me long before the detective ever got close. You didn't ask why I narrated things with a calm tone that should've made you uneasy.
You absorbed everything.
You followed the steps.
You kept coming back for more.
Every chapter you walked into with me… another life slipped away. Isn't that interesting? You probably didn't realize it at the beginning. You probably thought you were just reading a mystery, just following a troubled narrator, just seeing a city fall apart.
But reread your own footsteps.
Every time you returned, another body appeared. Another scream was swallowed by the dark. Another door stayed open a second too long. It's almost poetic—your curiosity feeding the story, and the story feeding me.
Would the murders have happened without you?
Maybe not.
No, I'm being honest now. They wouldn't have.
You think I killed because of something broken inside me. Or because of my past. Or because the city turned me into something cold. Those are comforting explanations, the same ones detectives and psychologists cling to when they don't want to admit a simple truth.
The truth is:
The story needed bodies.
And you needed a story.
Hungry reader, flipping pages like pulling petals off a flower, hoping the next one would bring a new answer, a new clue, a new thrill.
You wanted more.
So I gave you more.
More victims.
More shadows.
More whispers against walls.
More footsteps behind you as you walked deeper and deeper into my world.
Don't pretend you hated it.
You stayed because you liked the feeling. The tension in your stomach. The little spark in your nerves when you realized the killer could be anyone. The worry that maybe you were following someone you shouldn't trust.
And when the twist came, you didn't close the book.
You kept going.
You let me escape.
I wonder what that says about you.
Maybe you'll defend yourself. Maybe you'll insist it's only fiction, only words, only imagination. But everything in here exists because you showed up. Characters breathe because you read them. Streets fill with danger because you walk through them with your eyes.
Stories die without readers.
But with a reader like you?
They grow teeth.
Let's be honest with each other now—completely honest. I didn't tell you everything, not even in the last chapter. I showed you my truth, piece by piece, but I left out the part that matters most.
I didn't escape from the police.
I escaped for you.
Not because I needed freedom.
But because you still wanted an ending.
You didn't want to watch me rot in a cell, staring at a wall while people debated whether I deserved death or pity. You didn't come all this way for a courtroom or a confession typed neatly into a file. You came for me. For the danger. For the feeling of walking beside someone you should've run from but didn't.
You came for the story.
So I kept it alive.
But here's the problem—the thing that keeps pressing against the back of your mind even if you haven't admitted it:
Stories like this don't stop on their own.
They only stop when you stop.
That's the rule no one teaches readers: your attention is fuel. Your curiosity is permission. Every question you have, every theory, every moment you lean closer… gives me room to breathe, to move, to act.
So if you keep going—
if you stay—
someone else will have to die.
I'm not saying that to scare you. I'm saying it because it's the only honest thing left between us. You wanted a narrative with weight, with danger, with consequences. You wanted that thrill again. You wanted the kind of story that makes you watch shadows differently.
You chose this.
And I followed your lead.
But now the responsibility is on you.
If you keep reading, the path will open again. A new victim will take shape. A new scream will be swallowed before morning. A new clue will land in the detective's shaking hands while he wonders how he keeps falling behind.
Another life for another chapter.
If you stop, everything ends—quietly. The city freezes. The bodies stop appearing. The detective finally rests. The rooms go silent. My footsteps fade into nothing.
But if you continue…
Well.
You know the price now.
I'm curious what you'll choose. You've already proven you like following me far more than you admit. You've already crossed lines most readers never dare to approach. You've already ignored every warning I slipped into the earlier chapters.
You shouldn't have read this far.
You know that, right?
This is the point where normal readers close the book.
Where sane people step back.
Where someone with good instincts says, "No. This is enough."
But you kept going.
And that means something.
It means you're not as distant from me as you think.
It means you and I built this story together.
It means the next step isn't mine alone.
You've been pretending you're just a witness.
But you're not.
You're a participant.
Because stories don't drag people in.
People walk in willingly.
You walked in willingly.
And now you're standing at the edge with me, staring down into whatever comes next. Maybe darkness. Maybe another city. Maybe another victim with their name already written in a chapter you haven't read yet.
Or maybe nothing.
Nothing at all.
It depends on you.
So listen carefully, because this is the only time I'll say it so clearly:
If you stop reading, the story ends.
But if you continue… someone else will have to die.
Not metaphorically.
Not symbolically.
Not in some harmless, fictional way you can brush off.
The story survives through blood.
Through consequence.
Through you.
So what will it be?
Will you walk away, pretend you never stepped foot in these pages, pretend your curiosity didn't feed anything dangerous?
Or will you turn the next page?
Will you let the story breathe again?
Will you let me keep walking?
I'm patient.
I can wait.
Just know that whatever decision you make… it says more about you than about me.
So go on.
Take your time.
Think it through.
And when you're ready, when you've chosen— I'll be waiting. Right here.