At the foot of the castle, I saw her true form. I heard people call her a toad—would have been one if she wasn't human. I heard many things about her appearance, something out of a children's tale to ward them off from going against the rules. I wasn't allowed to see her.
We were running up the hill, my friends and I. They saw Maeve on top of the castle. I did not know why at the time, but they shouted and ran. I followed.
Nothing has ever matched the beauty that beheld me that night. The toad of a woman became an angel, as though she descended from her heavenly cliff to deliver me a message.
She showed me the true beauty of mankind—how our normal forms limited what made us pretty. When she jumped from the castle and landed on the border of boulders, she told me what to do.
"Declan!"
"What? What?" He growled at his bar mate. "I heard you the first time!"
Rory laughed against his ferocity. "Look at this tool! I called his name a dozen times, and nothing! Now he's acting all pissy!" He hit Declan's shoulder.
The man sighed. "Yeah, yeah, just let me hammer myself and my demons up, and talk to me then."
"I just wanted to congratulate your wife on winning the Rose of Tralee! For her age, I never'd have thought she'd—"
That got a laugh out of Declan. "If she heard you say that, she'd throw you off Gallagher Castle!"
"That sweet hen? Lad, even my mum loves her, and she'd spit on anyone's shoes if they even looked at her funny! Just look at mine!"
Declan smirked a solemn smirk at him, then rose from the bar stool, drink held high. "Right, raise a glass, lads! To our free lives, the beauty of the natural world, and the future. All drinks are on me, tonight!"
Through the pub's cheers, a man in a suit and tie stood at the door.
"Welcome to Tralee," his earpiece rang. "Your targets are Declan and Keyla O'Brien. On the outside, a picture-perfect couple, their story is something out of an ideal romance novel. The struggling artist coming from an impoverished family, who fell head over heels for the saintly beauty. How true love wins out in the end. It's an image that couldn't be farther from the truth, one carefully constructed by Keyla.
"Declan is a retired serial killer, whose identity remains a mystery save for his moniker, 'The Artisan.' His MO has been described as sickeningly gruesome, leaving victims in what he coined as 'works of art.' He was known to utilize special equipment he built himself, making the final moments of his victims all the more painful. He was eventually found and cornered by a detective in the late 90s but was released due to a lack of evidence only because his wife, Keyla, knew the right people to butter up.
"Keyla, a fashion mogul who climbed out of the lower class, has been called many things, with 'perfect' being most common. Her profile describes her as obsessed with her self-image, likely the reason she rescued Declan from the guilty verdict and avoided association with the bombshell of drama. The couple's later actions saw them take a vacation to one Haven Resort, and since then there has only been good news surrounding their lives.
"Ever since the trial, the O'Briens moved back to their hometown of Tralee, where they adapted to a tranquil life in their luxury villa; undisturbed by the lives they ruined. That is where we come in. The client, the detective that pursued Declan in the 90s, has turned to us to exact retribution.
"The Rose of Tralee festival has wrapped up only recently, and naturally security is tighter than normal. Keyla, the current winner, can be found roaming the town with the other Rose candidates, while Declan, as you can see, is indulging himself with drink at the local pub.
"Happy hunting, 47."
Location: Tralee, Ireland
Target: The Beauty, The Beast
Through the light atmosphere, the hitman noticed one of the local patrons out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think I've seen you around. What brings you here, lad?"
47 kept staring ahead. "Work. I won't stay long."
"Y'know, drinks are on the house, tonight. Courtesy of Declan! You from, uh, the States? We don't get a lot of—"
"I don't drink."
The man chuckled, unsure where to take the conversation. Thankfully for him, the arrival of another provided a convenient exit. "Yvaine! You made it..."
47 also took that opportunity to leave.
Beyond the pub, he made it to the streets of nighttime Tralee—the quiet aftermath of the parade days prior, with the occasional litter or ribbon strewn as evidence for the whole thing.
The Rose of Tralee festival already ended, but the contestants had not yet left—indicated by the group of women parading the sidewalk, with one standout leading them.
"That is Keyla O'Brien, a fashion mogul in her prime, and now living peacefully with her husband. Can't say the same for the victims she helped cover up."
One woman, Bridget, prodded Keyla. "I barely see your husband out. Is he the type to stay cooped up in your home?"
She scoffed. "What can I say? He's an artist, and sure as Hell living the life of one! But he does find his buyers, and they pay a lot for his works, so who am I to complain?"
"Maybe he's one of those anonymous artists?" another further back spoke.
"Like Banksy? Lucky lass."
"Isn't he the brother to that girl, Maeve—?"
"Fia?" Keyla's voice, a sudden sharpness to the jovial air, left a bout of silence. "Those are some lovely earrings you have! Can I see them?"
"O-Oh? Um, sure thing!" She scurried up to the front.
"Those are gorgeous! Where did you buy them? Maybe I should get a pair for myself?" Fia sighed a silent sigh of relief. So Keyla wasn't annoyed for some reason.
"I think it's along this street! We can stop by when we get there."
Soon, they passed earshot of the man reading a newspaper.
"Hm. No records exist of them purchasing art materials of any sort. However, they have ordered all kinds of worn blades and metallurgy equipment online. 47, I have their home address. Perhaps you could find some 'inspiration' there?"
He left the newspaper on the bench.
Agent 47 found his car in the lot of the pub, starting it for the short drive.
Two targets in public, each accompanied by an entourage.
The pub is small and crowded. The locals know the bartender. Only place to hide is the restroom.
The streets. Clothing and accessory shops. Constantly on the move. Unlikely.
Change their paths. Make them move.
47 drove past the house. He parked a short distance away.
It was an ordinary suburban home—identical to every other on the block, save for the color of the walls. And, like them, the most defense it had was locked doors.
Nothing to a lockpick.
Hopping over the fence into their yard, 47 made his entrance through the backdoor. The air, cold and still, meshed with the darkness inside. From what he could see, it was exactly what you'd expect a neighborhood home to look like: orderly, clean, and idyllic.
Nobody liked to show their imperfections.
Only his footsteps creaked throughout the building as he walked upstairs. Down the hallway was an office room with a computer—the only thing in the house turned on. Locked via password.
There was a hatch in the roof, made apparent by a string to its handle. He pulled it, dropping a ladder for the attic. 47 took the nearby flashlight.
Hidden in the dusty darkness were sealed cardboard boxes and picture frames strewn about. He promptly set about digging through the storage. Clothes, old antiques, and toys.
Then a hammer and chisel, with the faintest traces of red on the heads of each.
Then different kinds of pictures—ones lacking the smiles and beautiful innocence like the others. 47 laid each one of them out. "Oh, dear..." Diana uttered. "That photo, the one where the man is... cut into a flower shape. That's the most infamous of the Artisan cases. Peter Lavery was reported missing, then found days later in that exact brutal fashion."
The date was drawn in white in the corner of the picture.
47 snapped his own picture of the polaroid.
He had what he needed. Putting the date into the computer, he was in. The first thing to pop up was their MuchTalk social media.
In the private messages, the most recent one was from a profile titled "Jackrabbit." Its profile was that of a simplistic, drawn rabbit on a pink background.
"Worked like a charm!" their message began. "Our game squealed and writhed in your tool! My hubby gave very good praise, and we got amazing reviews for our show, too! 3 It's a thing of beauty and we need more ASAP xoxoxo"
47 went to their feed and set to work.
...
She wanted to be anywhere but here.
These girls were too simple-minded—too unrefined. They followed like a set of ducklings; how could anyone have thought they could be the Rose of Tralee?
Such thoughts hid behind the dimpled smile of Keyla's.
But she couldn't leave. What friendly, sociable girl would leave now? She didn't win the festival just to switch to home mode in the immediate aftermath.
Now, in the jewelry store Fia recommended, she was considering making up an excuse. An 'I need to pick my husband up from drinking,' or an 'I feel tired, so I will head home early.' It was impossible when at least one of the several girls glued themselves to her.
This time around, it was Moira. "Honestly, jewelry and the like all just looks gaudy to me. And, no offense to you or Fia, but do you really want those?" she mused.
Keyla laughed at her jest. "See, that's why you didn't win! I say let people wear what they want to wear." Please go away.
"Amen to that!" one woman said.
Fortunately, Keyla's prayers were answered. A bald man pulled Moira aside with a phone in hand. Something about an "interesting MuchTalk post."
This let her "browse" the store on her own for a while. For what little time of quiet she had, Keyla savored it.
Behind her, Moira went to another woman in their group. Then she went to another, and the woman prior went to another. Each of them was on their phones, now.
When Keyla glanced around, the change was near instant. They either had one of two reactions: a nervous stare, or a fast look away—as if they had never stopped browsing the catalog.
Keyla bit her lip. Ignore it. Ignore it... It has to be nothing. She looked to the closest Rose participant. "Fia! You—"
"Keyla, is your husband hammered again?" Moira asked, having gathered the courage to approach her.
Her brow almost twitched. A roar would have escaped her lips if she hadn't clamped down with her teeth. Silent breaths... "What?" she said, smiling.
"He's up to some weird shite!" Moira showed the phone with a light chuckle, but she didn't sound convinced with her tone.
A silence fell amid the girls as Keyla read. A singular laugh escaped her. So that's what the staring was. "Right, he really can be a strange lad sometimes!" She snatched the phone away, scrolling up and down the post as if to check if she misread any of it. But the post read plain with polaroid clear in the background:
I was the Artisan. I killed seven people, desecrating their bodies to my liking. I shaped Peter Lavery's corpse into a flower.
Keyla laughed again. "He's absolutely hammered! I told him he oughta stop drinking for a change!" The other girls laughed with her, but she could make out the wedged discomfort in their voices.
Hand falling to her phone, she offered one last smile. "Sorry for the abruptness, but I should really get going."
None of the girls stopped her.
Why here? Why now? Why when things are perfect? Keyla found Declan's contact. Her body demanded to scream, to let something out. She smiled at each passerby-for once she wanted them to look away.
Keyla made it to her car. Her call picked up. "What are you thinking?!"
"The feck're you screaming for?"
"Don't treat me like an idiot, you're the only one who could have posted that!"
"Posted what?"
"Moira. Showed. Me. The post! It was a picture of Peter! I told you to throw everything away! And why would you tell everyone what you did? How could you do this to me? Don't you appreciate what I've done for you? I sacrificed so much to save your skin and this is how you repay me? What is wrong with you?"
"I don't know what the fuck you are talking about, I didn't post shite! And please, we both know the only thing you were in love with was yourself. I owe you nothing."
"Home. Now."
"Oh, fuck off, I can't even drink in peace with you about!"
"I don't care, you need to fix this!" The phone beeped. Silence. "Piece of shit..."
Keyla sped off, driving past the suited man on a bench. His earpiece rang. "That's Keyla on the way. However, I'm not detecting any movement from Declan."
He rose promptly, heading to his car. The next stop was back to the pub.
One short drive later, the rambunctious atmosphere returned. There was a different air, this time.
"Aw, what? The night's still young!"
"It's fecking 2 a.m., you tool! His wife probably misses him plenty!"
"Fine! Fine! See you tomorrow, Declan."
The target leaned against the bar, wincing through a grinding headache. He waved them off, but Rory took his wrist. "Lad, no, you're not driving when your blood is all alcohol." The look Declan gave told him he'd go regardless. "Sure look, I'll drive you, alright?"
"Fine."
"Right. My car's already unlocked, so you oughta go take a seat while I use the jacks." Declan sighed but obeyed nonetheless. The two men separated.
Rory waltzed into the restroom, whistling freely to himself as he found a stall. But the whistling became choking gurgles; an arm wrapped around his neck. When it stopped, Rory had fallen asleep on the toilet.
In the car's passenger seat, Declan buried his head in his arms. At the door opening, he perked up. Seeing Rory's jacket was enough to satisfy him. "Rory... Take me to a motel for tonight, I'm not going home."
As the car started, Declan rolled down the window slightly. When the vehicle picked up speed and the breeze ran against his sweat, he felt like he could breathe again. He took the chance to light a smoke and hold a pack of cigarettes out to his driver. "Want a smoke? It's Lambros, the best in the world."
The car continued along the road.
"Right, duh, not while you're driving." He blew a cloud into the air. "My wife, Keyla, started being a pain in the ass for no reason. Well, I say started, but she's always been a pain!"
"Not as pristine as she makes it sound."
"Yeah, yeah, she always lies about stuff like that. I've known her since we were wee children. My mum liked to coddle me plenty, but Keyla—she was our neighbor's daughter—one day she clung to me, and we've never really separated. I used to play with my sister; always tried to make her happy, because nobody else would... I was always like that, wanting to make people happy."
"And now?"
Declan laughed a pressed laugh. "I fucked up somewhere down the road, I know that much. Maybe when I let that hen into my life? I would hear Keyla always being reprimanded for not being good enough. I guess part of me couldn't push her away because of it. I remember I used to think she didn't deserve someone like me. Funny to think that we... that we..."
"You both hit rock bottom."
"Aye. But we'll bounce back. That's how it always goes, eh?"
"Not always. Some die on the spot."
Declan laughed. "Maybe that'd be for the best."
They slowed to a stop. "We're here."
Relieved, he stumbled out of the car... where Gallagher Castle beheld him. Declan spun around. "Hey, what the fuck, Rory!"
"I figured you needed a breather."
Declan scoffed. Yet, he remained. His gaze softened, looking the tower up and down. "I'd probably have yelled at the inn lad, anyway..."
He trudged up the hill. He paused at the tribute of burnt-out candles and aging flowers, then continued, disappearing into the monument.
...
She deleted the post, but everyone had seen it already. Already, there were screenshots. Theorists. Accusers. Keyla only had the ticking clock to accompany her in the silence, and each tick felt as though hours lasted between them. No matter how she sat or fiddled with her fingers, he was not home yet. Where is he. Why is he abandoning me. Why does he—
A knock at the door.
She swung it open. It was not Declan. "Mrs. O'Brien?"
A bright smile with puffed cheeks had replaced the sullen anxiety. "Yes? What is it?"
"I saw your husband heading up Gallagher Castle, drunk. I'm concerned for his well-being."
Keyla gasped. "Really?" Of course he's back there... She clasped her hands beside her head. "Thank you! I was getting worried sick about him!" The woman chuckled politely, putting a hand on the bald man's shoulder. "You don't need to worry, he often wanders like a lost child, but he always comes back home! There's nothing wrong with him! Thank you again for telling me!"
"No problem."
She closed the door.
Soon enough, their garage opened, and Keyla sped out in her car.
She arrived at the castle, running up the hill.
Keyla paused to scowl at the memorial. "Why won't you leave us alone..." She took one of the roses and continued into the tower.
No matter how many times she told him to move on, he always circled back.
Pluck. A petal fluttered on the stairs.
When he was happy, when he was sad. Whenever he felt nostalgic.
Pluck.
Maeve was winning again. That awful melancholy part of his brain poisoned his rationality. How could she have known trying to put Maeve in her place would throw her off the tower? Least of all Declan's "awakening" that followed like a line of dominos?
She made it to the top. Keyla crushed the flower in a fist. "Declan!"
He spun around, flickering into horror, then rage. "How the fuck did you know I was here!"
"You told me you let go of the past." In an instant, she was in front of him. "I thought after all the shite you've done, you'd get over it!"
"I am over it. I've done fuck all, not just today, but every other day of my life! It's exactly what you wanted!"
Keyla showed her phone and clicked on a post about Declan's confession.
"I didn't post that."
"At least try to lie! What, do you think someone broke into our home just to find shite you kept and confess your sins on your account? I took care of everything! I sunk so much to keep you free..." Water trickled down her face. "Don't you love me?"
Declan rubbed his temples, wandering the roof in a circle. "No. No! I don't love you!"
"Let go of me, you—"
"You're not like the other girls I've met. You don't listen, they were so obedient, and they let me make them beautiful! Maeve taught me what real beauty is, but all you care about is you, you, you."
They spun around, and now Keyla was closer to the castle's parapet, clutched by her shoulders. "You won't kill me, Declan, you know what will come after. They'll find you. Your whole side hobby will crawl out the grave I dug for it, and you know? Nobody will be there to shield you this time. Not your parents, not Maeve. You understand!"
"You never understood!" Declan pushed her further. They were almost against it, now. "Maeve won't leave me alone. She wanted everyone to be just like her, that's why she showed me what she became, and ever since you stopped me... I've felt like a failure."
"You're delusional!"
"No. I'm done."
Declan shoved her against the parapet.
Only, it crumbled. The brick gave way, revealing the open air behind it. Keyla shrunk.
Something grabbed Declan's foot—his wife.
The man felt his head hit the floor, then skid along it until there was no more ground.
He could see it all: the frozen horror on Keyla's face, the nightlife of quaint Tralee... his half-sister's tribute, and the exact spot she landed. In his drunken stupor, his mind cleared for just this moment.
At the top of the castle, I learned something. This what you saw, Maeve, before you became beautiful. This is what you felt. Everything I have worked for and seen, ending in the blink of an eye.
You told me to make everyone beautiful. Like you did to yourself. I thought I was helping them; showing them the same enlightenment you achieved.
But, Maeve...
What happened to you, is happening to me. So why doesn't this feel beautiful? Why am I scare—?
"Both targets eliminated. Good work, as usual, 47."
Hammer and chisel in hand, the hitman emerged from the castle. He walked past the memorial, past the fallen rubble, and the mangled bodies on top of them.
A car sped off, leaving the town of Tralee behind.
ROSE OF TRALEE WINNER DIES IN TRAGIC FALL FROM CASTLE
Keyla and her husband Declan O'Brien were found dead next morning at the foot of the local Gallagher Castle.
On the night of the Rose of Tralee's conclusion, winner Keyla O'Brien and her husband tragically fell from the top of Castle Gallagher.
During what is speculated to be a romantic getaway, married couple Declan and Keyla O'Brien likely had no idea it would be their last. Making it to the top of the local Gallagher Castle, they were looking out near the edge when the wall they leaned on gave way, and they slipped and fell. Their bodies were found the next morning, mangled and surrounded by fallen bricks.
Witnesses told authorities Declan was incredibly drunk on the night of their death. As one witness says, "He was so [drunk] that a lad had to drive him, instead. It never crossed my mind that would be the last time I saw him."
Declan, on the other hand, has had a much more shoddier past. It has recently come to light that he was the primary suspect of a serial killer known as "The Artisan." The last post on his social media account—now deleted—is even a confession to this, with a photograph of a graphic, never before seen polaroid of Peter Lavery's mutilated cadaver.
Early speculation theorizes that their deaths were a suicide pact and that Declan confessed his crimes shortly before the fact. However, other Rose of Tralee contestants claim Keyla was unconcerned and didn't think much of the post before leaving, believing it to be a drunken post from her husband.
This begs the question: is there more to these deaths than meets the eye?
Gallagher Castle is a singular castle tower built around 1177 but is little known as a result of its compact size and empty interior. It has remained open to the public in the modern day.
Incidentally, Gallagher Castle is been the location of Maeve O'Brien's—Declan's half-sister—suicide decades prior.
Authorities have closed off public access to the castle, and are now looking into the social media post...
THE WILD LIFE OF WARREN PAXTON
In just over a month, Warren Paxton went from a successful software developer to a criminal fleeing the country with charges of kidnapping, assault, illegal possession of drugs and firearms, and murder. His current whereabouts are unknown and have been since the year 2000.
What caused a millionaire to throw his life away and spiral into a wanted man on the run? Investigative journalist and host of the Don't Tread on Me podcast Iris Quinn follows the footsteps of his life from childhood to piece together what drove him mad.
In the month before his disappearance, Warren reportedly became antsy and frantic. He embraced spirituality to an extreme sense and grew increasingly paranoid about government surveillance.
Warren used his money to construct bizarre structures and landmarks, most famously the Paxton Manor, a 500-roomed labyrinthine residence filled with architectural curiosity—purportedly haunted.
AN INSIGHT INTO THE GANG WARS OF BRAZIL
While known for stunning scenery, diverse cities, and booming lands of nature, Brazil harbors a dangerous criminal underbelly—like most countries. Gang violence has been increasingly prevalent, and they have seen little to no signs of stopping.
The most famous and fiercely rivaling gangs, Comando Venenoso and Comando Bruto are responsible for bolstering much of the country's crime rate. And yet, people—even children—join these gangs as seen by increasing numbers in the thousands, and the crowded prisons that have circulated on the internet.
What draws people into these syndicates? Why have these gangs made themselves such a big part of many people's lives?
We ask psychologists from Abu Hayat to Oscar Lafayette just what conditions cause the breeding of violence and gangs for a deeper insight into Brazil's crime scene...
ICA Facility, Undisclosed Location
The downtime between each contract always came as a blessing. Even now, she considered it a marvel to have wound up in the ICA. Through the impermeable veil of death that shrouded the agency, Diana Burnwood never felt more alive.
It was during the time to herself did that conclusion make itself known.
"Diana?" A familiar voice interrupted her usual alone time of tea and reading.
"It's been a while, Clera."
She sat across from her. "I had to take a mental health evaluation, so they sent me away. I doubt I missed much?"
"Really, no. In hindsight, our work is fairly monotonous."
Clera laughed. "Easy for you to say. My streak is still going strong."
Diana paused her reading. "Agent Sawyer's gone?"
"11 months." She reclined in her seat, gaze drifting elsewhere. "I almost made one year with an active agent. It's my new personal best."
"It never does get easy."
"I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
"It doesn't make you a failure. In this line of work, they all know what they're getting into. Everyone dies."
Clera finally met eyes with her, smiling. Not 47. "That's true... but they were relying on me. I can't help but think if I said this or that, then they..."
"When I went through a rut similar to yours, I reminded myself that, just as we can't kill everyone, we can't save anyone, either. None of us are perfect."
But 47 is.
"The most we can do as handlers is lead them in the right direction. What happens on the field is entirely down to the agent."
The agent... Clera sighed. "You got lucky with him."
She nodded. "Perhaps. But I had to catch up to him, first." Diana closed her book; break was almost over, and the follow-up paperwork loomed with its ugly rear. "There's more to our job than sitting behind a desk."
Clera rose first. "Thank you. Sorry."
The hour passed.
Back to work.