Chapter 2

My relationship with Cameron was like the oil paints mixing on his palette, blending and heating up fast, creating a passionate shade I'd never seen before.

My world used to be nothing but black, white, and gray. There were only sterile white walls of the morgue, the gray skin of the dead, and my own black uniform. Cameron's arrival splashed the very first streak of color across my world.

He took me to an art exhibition. In the vast exhibition hall, bright spotlights shone down on colorful paintings. People around were murmuring about brushstrokes, light and shadow, and composition.

I felt ill at ease and instinctively wanted to slip my hands into my pockets. Having dealt with chemicals for years, I bore a persistent faint yellow stain beneath my fingernails, and the skin on my fingertips was rough.

But Cameron gripped my hand firmly, gently unfolding my fingers and intertwining them with his. He leaned in, his breath warming my ear. "Don't be scared. None of these colors is as pure as the world in your eyes."

We did all the things normal couples did, strolling along the riverbank, eating street hot dogs, catching a midnight movie. He'd spend an entire afternoon sketching me on the riverbank.

The charcoal pencil scratched softly against the paper as I watched his focused profile, sunlight gilding his outline. In that moment, I almost felt like I didn't deserve to be part of such a beautiful scene.

The only thing abnormal about him was that he never flinched at my profession.

Sometimes, while mixing his paints, he'd casually ask, "Nat, does the skin of someone who drowned turn a special bluish-purple, with wave-like patterns?"

Or, "I've been trying to capture a sense of fragmentation lately, like... someone who fell from a great height. When bones shatter, how does the tension in the skin and muscles change? The texture must be fascinating."

If anyone else had asked me those questions, I would've found it offensive or downright creepy. But when Cameron said them, it felt like pure artistic curiosity.

For the first time, I felt completely at ease. I didn't have to tiptoe around certain words or give vague answers when people asked about my work.

I could tell him about the bloated look of a drowned body, or talk about the differences in wounds caused by various weapons. Details that would horrify most people became art materials for him to break down and reassemble.

I felt truly seen and accepted, with nothing held back. He was the single ray of light in my otherwise gray world.

During that time, rumors about a "Gardenia Killer" started swirling around the city.

The news said this psycho was going after young, attractive women, and every time he struck, he'd leave a white gardenia at the scene. Four murders in a row, people were seriously freaking out.

One night, we were curled up on the couch watching a movie when the news started reporting the latest on the case. I rested my head on Cameron's shoulder and joked, "With all this chaos lately, aren't you scared living alone as a renowned painter?"

Cameron switched off the TV, and the room fell silent. He turned to me, his gaze intense and unreadable, a smile tugging at his lips that I couldn't quite decipher.

"The only thing I'm afraid of," he said slowly, "is that there won't be any beautiful works left worth making."

I thought he was talking about his paintings, and my heart gave a little jolt. He seemed so genuine, so full of artistry. Even his thoughts felt pure. I didn't notice the chilling, inhuman reasoning behind his words.