He's kneeling next to her, reaching out for her hand, taking it carefully into his.

The blue lines of the veins under her skin are the same color as his gloves.

He examines her hand, turning it around to look at her palm. He feels the urge to cut into her skin. Not in a gruesome way, more as if to perform autopsy on her.

He's gentle, trying hard not to leave any bruises on her. His gaze is now moving up from her hand, passing her chest and neck, to her face.

She is quite beautiful - was. Her body is motionless now, so is her blood. It will still flow, though, if he cuts her. And he will. He always does. Does cut his victims, those beautiful women. Cutting them to collect some of their blood. He lets it flow into a small bottle, filling it with this exquisite liquid. There's always one of those small bottles in his jacket pocket.

He lays her hand on her stomach, reaches over her to get the knife. The handle firmly in one of his hands he picks up hers again with his other. This one small vein, the one that goes straight over the knuckle of her thumb, really caught his attention. It looks perfect, perfect to cut into.

The tip of the knife is now on her skin. He's positioning it over the ideal spot, adjusting pressure. It doesn't take much and he slowly carves through the tissue. The blood begins to well from the gash. Quickly he opens the bottle, holding its opening to the wound.

When he's filled it he closes it neatly and puts it back into his jacket pocket. To do so he puts her hand down onto her stomach like he did before, but he's not so careful with her anymore.

He gets up and takes off the gloves, puts them into the same pocket as the bottle and pulls a Kleenex out of the other. He cleans the knife and tucks it into the sheath he has fixed on his belt.

Without looking back he walks away into the night, leaving the body of the young woman behind like he's done it with so many others before her.