'One moment, my hair isn't right.'
'I say, Kiki, he's quite the…eccentric type. Are you sure he's the right fit?'
'Have you not read a single fashion magazine? This is Giorgio we're talking about; of course, he's the right fit.'
Giorgio heard their murmurs from behind the camera and revealed a faint, smug smile. He relished in their compliments and couldn't help but smirk back at the handsome face he saw in the hand-sized mirror. Everywhere he went, his ego was fueled like coal in a fire; he felt untouchable. He twirled the ends of his dirty-blond hair before lowering the mirror and carelessly handing it to an employee beside him.
'Say, can we be quite quick here? I have another engagement to attend to.'
Kiki shot her attention towards him at the sound of his voice and signalled for the camera crew to be prepared. She was the director of the photoshoot, but everyone listened to Giorgio.
After every flash of the camera, Giorgio rearranged and contorted his body to form new, unseen poses. It was like watching a ventriloquist manipulate their puppets; he had total control of his body, and it followed his every command like clockwork.
The multi-coloured sequins on his red blazer sparkled in the cameras' luminescence, exerting rays of mystical-looking beams which made the final product look ethereal. Giorgio always knew what to wear to stun his audience; he never wore the same outfit twice in a row, and he made sure to always be seen in something avant-garde and exclusive. His tailors worked tirelessly to ensure his catalogue of clothes was unlike any other, with each piece evoking something different in the viewer's eye. He was truly a master of his craft.
Once he grew bored with the photoshoot, he walked off the set and towards the exit.
'Hey, we weren't done, you know,' Kiki started after chasing him down, 'your contract said we can use you for three separate covers, meaning three different outfits per shoot.'
'Please, you have plenty to go off of there. And, I must say, my hair was looking extra pristine, wouldn't you say? That alone makes up for two covers.'
He spoke with his classic, arrogant smirk, which generally acted as the force to pierce the hearts of anyone he interacted with. But it wasn't working on Kiki; it never worked on her. She was the only one to never succumb to his charm, and, therefore, he constantly felt defeated when faced with her.
'It is really humbling talking to you, you know that?' he sighed with excessive loudness and drooped his body low to the ground, resembling that of a child. 'Fine. One more picture. But can we just put on an overcoat or something over the blazer? I really don't feel like changing.'
Once out of the studio, Giorgio stared up and down at a small piece of paper which he pulled from his trouser pocket. It was left at his bedside table and found earlier that morning; he considered it strange to find it where it was, for all messages were typically handed to him in envelopes via his butler. However, this paper was clearly torn and written very quickly, whilst also managing to enter his room under the tight surveillance of his guard. The paper bore an address, with the words meet me, 1:30, written in a familiar hand but one still too obscure for Giorgio to make out. It was now 1:15. Giorgio had planned to leave the studio earlier, but Kiki's persistence stopped him. Because of this, he was greatly annoyed, as he normally felt when things didn't work out his way. Now, time was moving fast, and he still had a great distance to walk; he began wondering if he would make it on time. Then a thought struck him like thunder, along with the same tenacity and explosive nature it has on the object it strikes: his favourite ice cream parlour was nearby.
He became giddy. This would be a perfect way to blow off some steam. He truly loved this ice cream parlour; the way they blend different flavours together to make one, eruptive and succulent taste was unmatched.
On his way there, a homeless man grabbed Giorgio's trouser leg, tugging at it hard enough to cause him to divert his attention towards him. He stopped, towering over the homeless man, but refusing to meet his eyes.
'Spare some change, sir. You look well off, with this nice suit; could you help a man?'
Giorgio's temper rose to unprecedented heights. He felt great, uncontrollable fury towards the man; how dare he touch his suit and then beg for money? Giorgio was rational, but his temper often became the dictator of his actions, and now, he was inches away from opening the burner of his heart and allowing his fire to be unleashed.
But then he stopped to consider the homeless man's position, and grew less infuriated. His rationality had returned, allowing his fury to become controllable. He took deep breaths and relaxed his demeanour; 'Sorry, I got nothing.'
The homeless man sneered in disbelief at Giorgio's lying strut as he grew closer to the ice cream parlour. It was only a few buildings away, but Giorgio walked in shamelessly, unaffected by the prying eyes of the homeless man, who he felt had followed him the entire journey.
'Giorgio! You want the same as usual?' the store owner asked, with a friendly smile from ear to ear.
'You know me too well! Actually, instead of the strawberry, let's change it to vanilla.'
'So that's four scoops of vanilla? Coming right up.'
He waited patiently, paid the hefty sum, and departed with a wave. He had checked the clock above the store counter and saw that it was already nearing 1:25. With at least ten minutes left ahead of him, he began walking to the address at a slow yet steady pace, to allow himself the full luxurious pleasure of enjoying his ice cream.
After a while, the building at the address was in sight. Giorgio stopped to look at himself in a shop window one last time before stepping onto the grounds. He rearranged each individual strand of hair to ensure they were just as he liked it. Afterwards, he did a thorough check on his musk; he smelt every inch of his body, before finally smelling his breath. All around, he projected the sweetest, gourmet fragrance of vanilla, which had been further heightened by the ice cream. He was now thoroughly prepared to approach the building
It was an apartment complex. Moss had begun to grow up the walls, whilst most of the windows were filthy, especially the ones on the lower floor, which had been continuously sprayed with mud. Giorgio almost decided to turn back around, afraid that getting any closer would somehow contaminate his appearance. He sighed and sniggered in disgust. Never had he been to this part of the city, and never again did he wish to return. He rapidly grew to resent the area and its poorly kept conditions: even while walking down the street, he felt mortified. The paths were littered with rubbish, and nature's life seemed completely void here; even the grass around him had withered away.
As he stepped away from the building, sure that his late arrival had made his presence futile anyway, a thunderous crash, and then an ensemble of cries, came from the top floor. Giorgio darted inside the building, now completely intrigued as to what the commotion was about and whether it was related to the mysterious note he had received. The stairs creaked in pain during his march, where he almost fell over the tight gaps between each step. Finally, he arrived at the top floor; the cries continued during his climb, but had ceased two floors ago.
A little down the hallway, one door was open, and Giorgio could see an ever-increasing pool of blood emerge onto the carpet. He approached calmly, for he trusted in his ability to counter anything inside. A body lay just inside the room; Giorgio guessed before anything else that the man had tried to escape, only to be slashed from behind. He stepped over the body and entered the apartment.
Blood was sprayed everywhere; the walls were completely painted in it, whilst the floor had become a graveyard for premature deaths. Those who lay on the ground were perceived to be ordinary people; Giorgio could not sense anything sinister among their fleeting souls. Their eyes showed terror, bloodshot and bulging from their skulls. They had been mutilated with great precision; each cut deep enough to kill the victim instantly, whilst also remaining clean. Whoever murdered these people truly understood the way of the blade.
Giorgio held his composure and will, ensuring that his breathing remained focused, in case the murderer were to strike him unprovoked. His footsteps remained silent whilst gingerly avoiding stepping on any blood; to get blood on his shoes would be world-ending. Following the trail of bodies gradually led him to an open room in the apartment. No furniture was here, only wooden crates which were filled to the brim with different sorts of objects, most of which glistened with gold and silver.
Then, his heart sank. Across the room, a man with long, crystal white hair stood over a pile of bodies. An oddly shaped blade protruded from one of the bodies in an upright manner, soaked in blood from blade to handle. It was a bloody massacre in the truest sense. The black longcoat of the murder bathed in the blood; he was completely unaware, unbothered by his surroundings. His focus was solely on a large piece of paper in his hands, which had become brown from its age.
Giorgio shook as his legs were plastered in one spot. His eyes were wide, mouth hung open uncontrollably. His entire body had lost its will to move.
'Nero… What have you done?'
'Giorgio, you're late.'