Dear Paper Franky,
I must admit, I was fully prepared to be thoroughly underwhelmed.
When that pathetic, blood-obsessed creature Adrian handed me a black card and spoke of an "organisation," I envisioned a cliché gathering of mobsters in a damp warehouse, smoking cheap cigars and discussing primitive violence. I am an academic. I am a curator, an artist. I have no interest in associating with thugs who use guns and blunt force to solve their intellectual shortcomings. This offer only piqued my interest because the location was Chelsea, not Brownsville.
However, I lack resources at present. I needed a sterile environment to perfect my art, a sanctuary. So, I put on my best tailored coat, my most expensive custom perfume, armed myself with a healthy dose of scepticism, and went to Chelsea at precisely 10:00 PM.
The address belonged to the Mirov Contemporary Art Gallery.
The gallery was closed to the public, plunged in darkness except for the strategic spotlights illuminating some immaculate, derivative, minimalist sculptures. I raised my hand to knock on the reinforced glass door, but a man in a suit let me in before I could even reach the cold, spotless surface. Without a word, he pointed me toward a narrow, dimly lit staircase in the back.
Descending those stairs, Frankie, I noticed a distinct shift in the atmosphere. The air smelled of expensive cedarwood, fresh oil paint, and a faint, sharp tang of something metallic. It smelled like absolute, consequence-free power. Intoxicating, perhaps, but let us not get ahead of ourselves, Franky.
At the very end of those razor-edged stairs swallowed by shadows lay a speakeasy. It was bathed in sultry amber light, vibrating with the soft murmur of jazz and the hushed conversations of people who clearly owned the city above them. It was a VIP lounge for the untouchable.
I was led to a secluded booth in the back. Sitting there, waiting for me, was a man whose presence alone could choke the noise out of a crowded room.
He was impeccably dressed in a velvet-green suit that played a flawless artistic contrast to the burgundy leather of the booth. His silver and black hair was perfectly swept back, and his eyes—dark, grey, and entirely dead—studied me with the exact same clinical detachment I use when examining a flawed old canvas.
"Vera," he said softly. His voice was smooth as polished marble, though carrying a noticeable Eastern European accent. "Please, sit. I am Alexandru Mirov."
I slid into the burgundy leather booth, keeping my posture rigidly perfect. I did not touch the glass of sparkling water his bartender silently placed in front of me. "Adrian said you appreciate a clean aesthetic," I stated coldly, deciding to skip the pleasantries. "I assume you know about the incident at the university."
"I know about the intentions behind it," Alexandru corrected smoothly, resting his elegantly folded arms on the table. "You attempted to use Clostridium botulinum to orchestrate a silent, flaccid paralysis. A beautiful concept. A poetic erasure. But your execution... your execution was a loud, graceless display."
I bristled. My ego flared defensively. "I am a curator, not a biochemist. The vision was flawless; my medium was simply impure."
"Exactly," Alexandru smiled. It was a terrifying smile, completely devoid of warmth. "You used a dull chisel on a piece of Carrara marble, and you act surprised that the magical depth of the sculpture shattered. You have a magnificent, ruthless intellect, Vera. But an artist without a proper studio is just a vandal."
He leaned forward, and the ambient noise of the jazz seemed to fade away.
"I am a gallery director, Vera. I deal in exclusive art. But the people in this room—the titans, the politicians, the billionaires—sometimes require a very specific kind of void created in their lives. A business rival erased. A loose end silenced. They pay millions for that silence. And they hate noise just as much as you do."
I stared at him, my mind racing, calculating the variables. "You want to hire me as a hitwoman," I said, the word coming out with absolute disgust. "I do not shoot people. I do not plant bombs. I am not a mercenary."
"I am not looking for a mercenary. I have an army of those," Alexandru replied, his grey eyes locking onto mine. "I am looking for an Artist in Residence. I want to offer you a blank canvas. We have a state-of-the-art underground synthesis lab. We have medical-grade centrifuges, untraceable solvents, and a global supply chain of rare biological agents. And if you ever drop a paintbrush, we have Adrian and other comrades to clean up the mess before the police even know there is a canvas to look at."
He slid a heavy, black titanium keycard across the polished wood of the table.
"In exchange," Alexandru continued softly, "you will take on occasional commissions for my elite clients. You will curate their problems out of existence. Silently. Aesthetically. Without leaving a single biological trace."
I looked down at the black keycard.
I felt a profound, intoxicating rush of clarity. I wasn't just joining a criminal syndicate. I was being given the keys to the ultimate museum. I would have infinite resources. I would have complete immunity from the mediocre, ridiculous laws of the world above. And, most importantly, I would never, ever have to suffer the humiliation of a flawed extraction again. I thanked my curiosity enormously for taking me here; if I had left it to my arrogant rationality, I would have been caught the next time I felt like creating art.
I looked back up at Alexandru Mirov. I didn't smile—smiling is a sign of submission—but I let him see the cold, calculating hunger in my eyes.
"I dictate the methodology," I told him, my voice steady and authoritative. "I choose the neurotoxins. I design the spatial execution. I will not be rushed, and I will not compromise the aesthetic purity of my work for the sake of a client's impatience."
"I would expect nothing less from a true visionary," Alexandru murmured, dipping his head in a gesture of profound respect.
I took the keycard and slipped it into my tailored coat.
I am writing this from my new, underground lab, Frankie. The stainless steel tables are gleaming. The ventilation hums with a sterile perfection, acting also as the perfect white noise I need for concentration. I have finally found my patron.
The amateur is dead. The gallery is now officially open.
I'm getting excited.
See you very soon, Frankie.
Bye.
Vera