Simon Henriksson

Gunshots are music to a killer: the thud of a body hitting the cold asphalt plays the role of the kick drum, the gunshot becomes the clap, and the police siren takes the lead melody. These sounds will form a murderous song that you’ll want to replay hundreds of times for the rest of your life.

You save the file and take off your headphones. “Killer Confession” is only a draft for this year’s next big trend, and as a popular music creator, you won’t miss the chance to release a new track.

You don’t take sounds and ideas for your masterpieces from the internet, but from your own life. You’ve heard each sound in real life and savored the deadly symphony. You are a killer, but you don’t kill for pleasure. You do it for musical enlightenment and the recognition of people through music platforms.

You glance at the clock: it’s already late at night. The room is silent, with only the beating of your heart filling the apartment with sound. Even though you’re in the process of creating a new masterpiece, you’re unsatisfied with it. A thought creeps into your mind: the “new” repeats over and over again. All the previous tracks are the same: random people, random victims, random sounds. It’s not what you truly desire.

You stand up and walk to the window. Looking out at the city, you notice a strange light coming from the neighboring house. It feels like a sign—a direction. You know that a man lives there, someone you see every day when you leave your apartment. He’s always alone, closed off, as if hiding something important from the world. He’s the perfect target.

Could you kill someone you know? This thought creeps into your consciousness, pulsing at the edges of your mind. A new melody begins to form inside—a tune you hear, though it hasn’t yet fully taken shape. In your head, you hear sounds: footsteps on the stairs, the creak of a door, a dull thud…

Your previous track wasn’t finished, but it’s already garnered millions of plays across different platforms. Your heart pounds relentlessly. A realization dawns on you: these songs are no longer yours. They belong to the world. People don’t care about the music itself—they're drawn by the violence and the killings. This fact begins to act as your motivation for creating a new track, but this time, it won’t be with a random person. It’ll be someone you’ve known for a long time: Simon.

The plan to get close to your future victim already formed in your mind, and you began executing it. You called Simon, pretending to be tearful, and begged him to let you into his apartment. It worked. You’re inside. Now, all you need to do is knock him out, which, after some effort, you manage.

The new sounds for the mind-blowing song are already recorded. You just need to add vocals, and the new masterpiece will top Spotify’s charts. A new victim on an old “stage”—the secluded country house you inherited from your dead parents. Simon wakes up tied to a chair, his mouth sealed with tape. You sit a couple of meters away, wearing headphones, listening to the symphony of past victims' screams, which fuel you like adrenaline.

He looks at you with terrified eyes, trying to break free from the tight hold of the tape around his limbs, but to no avail. He moans loudly through the tape on his lips, his cries picked up by the microphone on his chest, audible even over the loud music in your ears.

You slowly remove your headphones and stand up, lowering your hood. Simon freezes. His breathing quickens, and his eyes widen in horror. The room falls into silence, broken only by the sound of your heartbeats—yours and his. You look at him for a long time, as if studying his reaction, savoring his fear like music. But this time, something feels off.

You’re used to victims breaking down faster. Usually, this moment, when fear completely overtakes them, brought inspiration, but now you feel nothing but emptiness. Maybe it’s because you’ve known Simon for so long. Maybe it’s because you once exchanged empty, but still human, greetings. This music no longer has that wildness, that chaotic beauty you seek. It’s all become too mechanical.

You move closer. His eyes plead for mercy, but you no longer hear them. Instead, another melody plays in your mind—the melody of silence. You realize this track won’t be a hit. Perhaps the world has already taken everything you had to offer.

“This was supposed to be different,” you mutter, staring at Simon. His screams now sound like foreign noises to you. With a swift motion, you rip the tape from Simon’s mouth, causing him to wince in pain.

“What do you want from me!?” he yells, looking at you with aggression. His eyes are filled with fear, anger, and the understanding of what is about to happen to him. It’s the expression you adore.