Dear Frankie,
I have recently discovered a universal truth about arrogant men: they love nothing more than explaining their own perceived genius to women they deem intellectually inferior. It is a pathetic, fatal flaw. And yesterday, I weaponised it to perfection.
Alexandru Mirov gave me my first official commission. The target was a member of the organisation—actually a very helpful one, but an order is an order. His name was Walter William Withmore. He was brilliant, in a sense that I will explain to you in a moment, but he was an extremely narcissistic and attention-seeking chemist and pharmacologist. As you would expect from small, insecure men of this kind, he became a liability for Mirov and the entire ecosystem. Specifically, driven by his own arrogance, he started doing risky business with people who possessed inflated wallets and big mouths. But worst of all, he spent the last few months psychologically and physically abusing Chloe, one of Mirov's first-line young fixers.
Mirov decided Withmore needed to be deaccessioned from his most recent collection, but his death had to look like a tragic, natural medical anomaly. Something perfectly plausible for a stressed, middle-aged man.
I saw an opportunity. Not just to complete the commission or to erase a self-important piece of garbage from the earth, but to fix the embarrassing aesthetic flaws of my first exhibition project with Marcus Thorne.
I visited Dr. Withmore in his university lab for the first time under the guise of a wide-eyed, struggling biochemistry student seeking mentorship. I wore a cheap, sky-blue sweater bearing the university logo, tied my hair back in a high ponytail, and fed his colossal ego with precisely calculated flattery.
Once the contact was established and he was playing right into my hands, I told him I was struggling with my dissertation project because the other lecturers refused to help me. The indignity of having to play the helpless victim, Frankie, was physically repulsive, but I endured it for the sake of art.
I told him I had a passion for taxidermy, and that I was researching neurotoxins capable of leaving an already sick and dying animal perfectly relaxed, free of any wrinkles or violent spasms, before asphyxiation took place. I asked him, with feigned innocence, how one might stabilise a compound like Clostridium botulinum to bypass the most dramatic reflexes and avoid immense effort in the taxidermy process. Luckily, neither of us had any actual idea how embalming works, so I fed him complete nonsense without him noticing.
He didn't help me straight away—as expected. Instead, he invited me to meet at a bar in Chelsea, so he could show off his "private lab" equipped with high-tech machinery the university lacked. Do you want to know what is truly hilarious, Frankie? He took me—completely oblivious to my true identity—to the exact underground laboratory Mirov had just handed me the keys to. I had accepted the commission knowing of his foolish arrogance, but I wasn't expecting him to be this hopelessly careless. We are both working for an underground criminal syndicate, after all. His inflated ego rendered him completely blind to risk.
Once in the lab—and right before reaching it, I purposely asked naïve questions about the location to see how far his delusions went—he practically tripped over himself to show off. Withmore confidently told me that the basement was part of the FBI headquarters and that they had personally built this lab just for him. It took every ounce of my clinical detachment not to laugh in his face.
He lectured me for three long hours. He showed me how to buffer the heavy chains of the toxin, and how to synthesise it using a specific solvent that allowed for a pure, unimpeded blockade of the acetylcholine receptors. He gave me the exact formula to achieve a descending flaccid paralysis that wouldn't trigger the body's panic response. A slow, silent, graceful shutdown.
He handed me the missing brushstrokes to my masterpiece. I decided I had to thank him, at the very least. And I did.
I offered to make him an Italian espresso, directly imported by me. And he refused! Can you believe it, Frankie? So, I proposed we walk over to the bar where we had initially met instead. He accepted. What a tasteless, useless man; his rejection of premium coffee entirely dissolved the last crumbs of remorse left in my soul.
We sat at a table by the window, perfectly positioned so that Mirov could admire us from afar. Withmore ordered a Smoked Old Fashioned. How predictable. Pathetic.
I didn't order my usual sparkling water because I had to blend in. Instead, I ordered an espresso martini. Caffeine, alcohol, bitterness. Highly functional.
While his back was turned, admiring his own reflection in the window glass, I squeezed a full dropper of the lethal liquid we had just prepared together directly into his disgusting drink. It was a vial I had carefully slid up my sleeve before leaving the lab.
I sat across from him and watched him drink it.
This time, the wave of anticipation hit harder. We had theorised all afternoon, but it was finally time to put theory into practice.
He drank his Old Fashioned completely oblivious to the fact that his end was near, and that he had personally helped me engineer it. Sometimes an inflated ego is useful after all. Now, I merely need to observe how long the incubation takes and verify if it truly results in a quiet end.
As we were finishing our drinks, he insistently asked if I needed a lift. The only way I could extract myself from his repulsive company was by inventing a dinner appointment with an imaginary, wealthy boyfriend. I swear, I am so thrilled with this commission. I couldn't stand the thought of someone so vulgar walking through the very organisation that just adopted my genius.
After I left him, he walked toward his car—a blue Porsche Taycan that he had babbled about for half an hour. Just to be clear, Frankie, I hope you can vividly picture my eyes rolling in disdain as I write this.
I turned toward the closed art gallery and texted Mirov on the encrypted phone: The exhibition is closed.
After that, I locked myself back in Mirov's lab, waiting for further directions. Half an hour later, the reinforced doors opened. Mirov's slender figure appeared, flanked by another man as tall and unsettling as he was. The sterile air of the lab was immediately overpowered by the scent of formaldehyde and expensive dark cedarwood cologne.
Mirov confessed he had been watching me through the hidden CCTV in the lab, and from the window of the bar. He congratulated me on my exceptional manipulation and clinical precision. He also noted that until the toxin took full effect, he wouldn't need anything further from me, but he wanted to introduce me to the man who would file our unfortunate mutual friend Withmore into the archives.
The newcomer was wearing an immaculate, anthracite-grey pinstriped suit. He introduced himself as Dr. Victor Choclaire, Mirov's chief medical examiner, sent to ensure the body showed no foul play before the authorities were anonymously tipped off.
We shook hands, and he said a sentence I will never forget, Frankie.
"Mirov told me you're an artist, just like him, Vera. So I will sign the death certificates, ensuring the critics never realise they are looking at art."
That is all for tonight, unfortunately. I promise I will update you when Withmore finally leaves this world.
Bye, my paper friend.
Vera