Chapter 3 Elias

Elias

Elias had never fit in-not in school, not at art academy, not in the real world. People bored him. Their conversations were dull, their routines predictable, their passions fleeting.

Art was different. Art was pure. Honest. Eternal.

He learned at an early age that he didn't feel things the way others did. When his father died, he felt nothing. When his mother cried for weeks, he stared at her, wondering how long it would take for her skin to sag and stretch from exhaustion.

He studied anatomy obsessively-not for medicine, but for mastery. He believed the human form was the highest expression of art. But most artists painted from life. Elias painted from stillness. True stillness.

He found his first subject-Claire-on the train. Her laugh struck him. Loud. Unfiltered. He followed her for days, sketching her. She never noticed. When she did, eventually, he was ready.

He didn't kill for pleasure. He killed for truth. In death, his subjects became eternal.

By the time Detective Rourke got to Elias Granger's studio, he had already matched two paintings to pieces sold at a private gallery the year before. The signatures had been scrubbed, but the brushwork was unmistakable. A fake complaint about a gas