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- Chapter One – Morning Rituals The alarm never startles me. I wake before it goes off. Always. A man should never be caught off guard in his own bed. I move the way I always do — one motion, feet on the floor, spine straight. No hesitation. Hesitation is weakness. The shower is hot enough to burn, but that’s the point. If you don’t scrub until your skin feels raw, then what’s the point of washing at all? The Reader insists on it. He likes things clean, controlled. I don’t argue. Some rituals are useful. Shoes on by 5:15. The streets are mine at this hour, and I claim them the only way that matters: speed. Nineteen miles per hour. That’s my record. I remind myself of it with every stride. Faster than them, stronger than them. People see running as exercise. They don’t understand. It’s dominance. Every mile is proof that I am built to outlast. The Performer likes to whisper when I run. He says I should slow down, let someone watch, imagine the awe on their faces when they realize what I can do. Fame, glory, recognition. He’s loud. Too loud. I ignore him. For now. By six, I’m at the diner. Unlock the door. Flip the switch. Coffee starts to drip, bacon sizzles, the fryers hiss. Routine. Control. The Reader approves. This is the part of the day when I am most convincing. Polite manager, dependable worker. They believe it. They always believe it. Lisa arrives at 6:35. Always 6:35. Routine again. She sits in her booth, the one by the window. Her coat is torn, her hair uncombed, but her eyes… her eyes are softer than the rest of this world. I bring her coffee before she asks. She smiles. I almost feel something then. Almost. David likes her. He thinks she deserves saving. He imagines himself the detective, the noble one, protecting her from the cruelty he sees everywhere. The Performer laughs at him. He says tragedy is more interesting than safety. He says Lisa’s story isn’t finished until it bleeds. I shut them both out. Lisa is untouchable. For now. They call it dissociative identity disorder now. Back then, when the doctor first sat me down, they called it multiple personality disorder. I was fourteen. Too young to know what it meant, too old to believe it wasn’t my fault. The doctor thought naming them would help. “If you give them names,” she said, “you can tell them apart. You can learn to manage them.” I don’t think she understood what she was asking me to do. You don’t name storms and expect them to calm. You name storms so you can track the damage. So I named them. The first was The Reader. That one was easy. He always had a book in his hands. Always reading, always muttering passages like scripture. He’s the one who hates germs, who scrubs and scolds and nags. He believes in order. He thinks he’s the parent. He’s not, but I let him think he is. Then came David, The Lover. That name I didn’t invent — I stole it. A TV character from when I was a kid, some charming detective who got every woman and solved every crime. I used to pretend I was him, before the killing started. Now David is just a ghost of that fantasy. He calls himself a protector. He says he fights for justice. But he doesn’t protect me. He just gets in the way. The third I didn’t want to name, but I had to. The Performer. Loud, arrogant, greedy. He wants the spotlight. He wants my killings to be bigger, grander, unforgettable. He says greatness means being seen. He makes the others nervous. He makes me nervous too. Because when he takes over, it’s hard to get him back in the cage. And then there’s Baby. I didn’t name him either. The others did. A child trapped in time, wandering the streets of my mind, always looking for home. Always looking for her. My mother. Sometimes he sees her in strangers. Sometimes he won’t let go, won’t give me control back. That’s when accidents happen. The doctor thought naming them would give me control. But control is a word therapists use when they don’t know the truth. The truth is simple: I am not in control. I never have been. “You’ve dressed them up nicely,” Michael says. His voice is clear, steady, like he’s sitting right across from me at the counter. “The Reader. David. The Performer. Baby. All those masks. All those excuses.” “They aren’t excuses,” I answer. I don’t move my lips. No one notices when I speak to him; it’s all inside. “They’re doors,” he says. “And you keep unlocking them. You pretend you’re the one with the keys, Jonah, but I’ve seen it. Sometimes, you’re the one locked out.” He’s right. He isn’t wrong about much. Michael leans forward in the corner of my mind, elbows on the table like we’re still teenagers. The first time. His grin spreads. I can see the night in flashes: his laugh, the heat in my chest, the way my hands moved faster than my thoughts. The blood. The silence. The first taste. “You didn’t even mean to kill me,” he whispers. “But Baby held on too long, didn’t he? You saw your mother in me. Then The Reader came in after, scrubbing, cleaning, muttering like a priest. You should thank him. He made it look neat.” The memory fades, replaced by another. A woman this time — blonde, smiling too much, asking too many questions at the diner. “That was David’s mess,” Michael continues. “He tried to play detective, tried to reason with her, talk her away. But when she didn’t stop pressing, The Performer shoved him aside. Oh, he loved that one. All the flair, all the drama. The Reader cleaned again, of course. Always cleaning.” And then the jogger. The sound of sneakers scraping pavement, his breath hitching as he realized he couldn’t match my pace. The moment he understood too late what kind of race it was. “Baby thought he was Dad,” Michael says softly, almost laughing. “You let him chase you too long. Then The Performer made you finish it. A spectacle in the dark. You loved it, Jonah. Don’t lie to yourself.” My jaw aches. I hadn’t noticed I was clenching it. Michael’s grin sharpens. “Each of them has their role, Jonah. Each of them leaves their fingerprints. And you? You’re just the host. The stage. The audience watching the show.” I swallow, slow and heavy. He’s wrong, but not completely. I tell myself I’m in control. That I decide when and how. That the cage is mine to lock. But Michael just shakes his head, smirking like the night I killed him. “You can pretend. But you’ll always come back to me. To us. To the kill.” And I know he’s right. Chapter Two – Act One I wake with the taste of copper in my mouth. My head feels swollen, my body stiff. I wasn’t the one steering last night. Turn on the TV. “…bodies discovered early this morning outside the 4th precinct police station. Authorities say the victims… were stitched together… A message painted in blood: ‘Act One.’” The camera cuts to flashing lights, yellow tape, a blur of uniforms. Two pale forms slumped together like grotesque mannequins. Red letters screaming against concrete. ACT 1. The Performer laughs behind my eyes. Michael whispers softly, amused. By the time I push open the diner doors, the smell of burnt coffee and fryer grease wraps around me like a blanket. Lisa Bennet is in her usual booth, coat frayed, hair unkempt. Paper cup between her hands, her posture stubborn, almost defiant. “Morning, Jonah,” she says. “Morning, Lisa,” I reply, steady. I refill her cup without asking. “You look like hell,” she mutters. “Didn’t sleep much,” I answer. “They’re saying some lunatic left a couple bodies stitched together like dolls.” She shakes her head. “World’s going to hell.” I study her. Lisa has lost more than most—her home in a fire, her job after that—but she clings to the diner, to this small bubble. Maybe that’s why I haven’t let her go. The diner hums with rhythm. I step into it like a conductor. Antonio Grimm slams a pan, Scotty moves behind him, muttering. They blame me for taking the diner, for opportunities that slipped past them. “You sure you’re doing that right, Jonah?” Antonio snaps. “I’m doing fine,” I say smoothly, never stopping. Scotty mutters “showboating.” I ignore him. Efficiency is camouflage. The Performer stirs, whispering, chaos could be delicious. I suppress him. By 2:00 a.m., the diner is quiet. Normally, one of the brothers locks up, but not tonight. Tonight, I take the keys. The alley behind the diner is dark and damp. The stink of refuse and decay doesn’t bother me. I know the way, every crack, every loose grate, leading to my hidden room below the old sewage drain. Inside, everything is sterile, organized, precise. Hooks line the walls. Ropes, blades, surgical tools—all in place. Michael whispers: Tonight. Choose carefully. I watch her stumble along the sidewalk, bag bouncing. David would charm her into following. The Performer hisses: No talking. Kill her here. Make it grand. I shake my head. Calm. Collected. I am not him. I am not a wild beast. I plan. I strike when perfect. She doesn’t notice me. Every motion is deliberate. The alley behind the diner waits. My room waits. Every tool accounted for. Step by step, I guide her from the street, through shadows, toward the grate leading underground. She protests faintly; I whisper calm reassurance. Grate opens. Trunk waits. I secure her, the chloroform knocking her out smoothly. Michael murmurs, approving. Perfect execution, patient, precise. I carry her down into the room beneath the diner. Hooks line the walls. Blades gleam. Ropes and straps coiled. Every movement meticulous. The Reader grumbles about mess. Baby hums faintly. David whispers about restraint. I strap her to the chair, making sure every knot is exact. The Performer huffs, wanting spectacle, wanting chaos, wanting more. I allow him a hint of thrill. But I am in control. Tonight, it is calm. Tonight, it is preparation. The next act will come—and when it does, it will be on my terms. Michael smiles. Danger masked as order. And the city sleeps above us, unaware that the curtain is rising once more.
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