Page 178 of The Beautiful Dead

His ragged breaths filled the stairwell, panicked and shallow, like he was trying to breathe before he ran out of time. But it wouldn’t matter. He had no time left.

He reached the last step, hesitating, his body locking up. His knees wobbled, his spine stiffening as though some pathetic instinct to fight, to flee, to beg was finally trying to take hold.

But Domino was faster.

The gun pressed harder against his skull. A sharp gasp left Casius’s lips, and I smirked as he shuddered.

“Keep moving.” Domino’s voice was calm.

Cassius obeyed.

The heavy steel door groaned as we stepped into the gallery, and the space swallowed us whole.

Casius staggered forward under the harsh glare of the spotlights, his breath coming in shaky, uneven gasps as he took in the empty white walls—the blank canvas waiting for his body to be displayed.

The gallery was a mausoleum of silence.

The girl from the opening was still at the forefront of my mind, hanging in the corner next to his bed, her pale limbs twisted, her dress a ruined thing of dried blood and lace.

Casius had tried to make her art, but he was sloppy—crude in his execution, uninspired in his vision. A hack.

Her blood had long since dried, staining her delicate white dress into something reminiscent of an oil painting—deep crimson bleeding into fabric, an abstract masterpiece of suffering.

Her glassy eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling, her mouth parted in an unfinished scream.

I tilted my head, drinking the memory of her in. There was beauty in her death. She had suffered, but she had not died for nothing. She and the countless before her had brought me here. They had sealed Casius Moreau’s fate.

And now, the gallery—his gallery—would become his tomb.

The space was vast, with double-height ceilings stretching into darkness. Chandeliers hung from the pinnacle, useless relics of grandeur, outshined by the spotlights lining the stark white walls.

A blank canvas.

For me.

For us.

A metal beam ran the length of the room, meant for suspending sculptures and installations. And at that moment, I knew. This would be my biggest stage.

My masterpiece.

My vision, displayed for all to see. Casius would not be hidden away. He would be put on display. For his victims. For the world. For me.

I turned toward the storage area, leaving Domino to hold our trembling victim. Casius was whimpering now. Tears streaked his face in silent pleas that I did not care to hear. He had no prayers left to offer, no salvation waiting for him.

Even if he repented, even if he wept and clawed at his flesh, he would burn. His sins were etched too deep into his bones, his depravity woven into his DNA.

I found the industrial rope I’d spied when we’d walked past, coarse and heavy in my hands. Perfect. I slung it over my shoulder and strode back into the gallery, my pulse thrumming with anticipation.

This would be a death worth remembering.

This would be art.

Domino looked up from where he held Casius, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Where do you want him?” he called, his voice almost bored. Like Casius was nothing more than another task to complete, but he did it anyway.

I smirked. “Center stage.”

Casius choked on a sob, shaking his head. Domino wrenched him forward, forcing him under the beam as I unwound the rope. The fibers rasped against my fingers, biting into my skin. It felt good. It felt right.

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