The alarm clock sounds, and ritual begins. He clips and files his nails into flat, even edges, styles each chestnut lock into place, and dons perfectly pressed clothes. When he's done grooming, he studies his facial expressions in the mirror until it's time to go. The process takes hours, but he is convinced this meticulous attention to detail helps him escape suspicion.

His pulse quickens and head buzzes as soon as he enters the hospital. The anticipation of what lies in wait is intoxicating. He never calls ahead. These moments of excitement are too precious.

He walks to his office, flashing a well-practiced smile at whoever he passes. He steps into his white coat and smoothes over non-existent wrinkles.

Looking at his patient files, he sees there are two who are close to the end. Eyes close with dizzying pleasure. A private, unpracticed smile emerges as he remembers the feel of life slipping into nothingness beneath his hands.

He catches himself and glances outside. Darkness still fills the office next door. His mind wanders.

He's late again. I'm not surprised. I make it a point to try to fit in. He makes it a point not to; opposite masks for opposite thrills. He lusts after the rush of pulling lives from death's clutches and I for the rush of releasing the lives death has already claimed. We both seek power over mortality.

He's the only one who knows my secret. I wasn't careless, but I underestimated him - a mistake I only made once.

A colleague was having trouble with end-stage cases. I took some from her. I took too many. He noticed. Everyone else sees only what I want them to see, but he sees me as I am. He never tells, never even threatens to tell. So, I keep him.

I am a healer. I am a killer. I don't know how to be one without the other. He knows this, but feels safe with me anyway. "You only kill the dying," he says. So far, this is true. But then, everybody dies.