Chapter Text
Vincent had to be extremely careful with his surroundings all his life. He sniffed every scent, listened to every little rustle, to every word spoken, and followed every glance thrown his way. His life was like a moving target, the center of which was him. The deeper Whittman fell into the whirlpool of his crimes, the sharper his predatory instincts became. Although his eyesight had become much worse, his common sense was forever clouded, his intuition had become more and more terrifyingly sharp. Intuition was always his sharpest weapon.
Any adequate person would call this paranoia. Those who were more arrogant would use the pompous, snobbish term "paranoid disorder."
How wonderful that Vincent was not one of them. Precisely adequate, not not arrogant.
And lately, his intuition had been talking to him much more often. No, it was chattering! Just like now, while Vincent was walking quickly through the corridors of the television studio and maintaining a perfect, stern posture, trailing behind him a dangerous and domineering aura. It enveloped every employee who passed by and greeted the TV network owner with trepidation. Vincent noticed with sincere pleasure how his subordinates shuddered in fear when he addressed them with his cold and clear, axe-like voice.
But one of them allowed herself too much.
Charlotte Magne... A leading crime reporter, his subordinate... But the biggest thorn in his side. Unrestrained, stubborn and unbearable. With her, he had to not only keep his eyes forever wide open, but also have one more, if not more, on the back of his head.
Vincent, of course, did not show it, but he saw in her a rather big threat to his business and his own life. Despite his feigned self-confidence and superiority towards Charlie, he was not a fool at all. The man knew her too well. Such a stubborn bitch would try to get her way even under the threat of death. No amount of petty agreement could restrain this self-confident, arrogant fool. She was his mirror image in that respect, so who but Whittman should know this?
No matter how sweet Charlie's obedience was, Vincent did not believe her at all. Every time she abruptly and submissively agreed with him, he was a million percent sure that an insidious plan of revenge was brewing in her head right now. The man was convinced of this more than ever during their spontaneous sex in his office. Her doll-like, innocent appearance hid the insides of a real demoness. Vincent felt that she was definitely up to something. And was waiting for the right moment to act, when he would lose his guard. But she had decided to outwit him. Guarding was the last thing he would lose. Especially next to someone like her.
Whittman had devised a little plan to confirm his suspicions and find out how impudent his subordinate was. He was now on his way to the newsroom. And just in time, Charlotte Magne came out of their door. It seemed that everything would go much easier than he had thought.
“Doll!” Vincent said with his deceptively charming smile and took a wide step towards Charlie.
The woman flinched at the unexpected address, but she recognized the voice instantly, so she quickly pulled on a mask of composure. Her silhouette straightened proudly, and a tired, tense expression touched her face. With a hint of irritation.
“How can I help you, Mr. Whittman?” The emphasis that Charlie made on the last two words felt like a drawn bow and arrow. She would have gladly shot that arrow at her boss.
“What kind of hostile and unfriendly tone is that, hottie?” Vincent was still smiling tightly, vainly trying to give his voice a sense of reason, but her tone and address made his eye twitch noticeably.
Charlie hissed in displeasure through her teeth, roughly grabbed Whittman by the sleeve of his jacket and led him to a more secluded corner of the corridor to hide from the prying eyes of his colleagues. The woman pulled him down hard to whisper irritably in his ear:
"Call me that way again in front of our colleagues, I swear, Vincent, you will get your empty mace. "
Ignoring how serious the reporter's tone was, the man responded to this only with mocking laughter. How fun it was to bring her to this state. Especially knowing that Charlie would not be able to do anything to him, no matter how loudly she threatened him.
"What's wrong?" he kept laughing.
"What's wrong?" His subordinate hissed incessantly in response. "You know exactly what I mean, you idiot! Didn't you see how our colleagues started staring at us?! I definitely don't want everyone in my department thinking I'm fucking with you! Keep your familiarity to yourself, at least when we're not alone!!"
"Beauty." Vincent turned sharply, as if warning, and easily got out of the woman's grip. "Lower your sweet voice a couple of tones and don't forget... "
This time he grabbed her, squeezing her cheeks and bringing her closer to his lips. He smiled predatorily and whispered, not taking his eyes off her:
"I can lock you up with me alone in my office again, and, believe me, doll, everyone won't think, but will know that you're fucking with me. I'll make sure that this time everyone in the TV studio hears your sweet moans. And they'll know what a slut you really are."
Reddened with shame and rage, Charlotte abruptly threw his hand away from her face and took a firm step back. Vincent was shamelessly amused by this spectacle. Memories tightened a shameful and disgusting in its pleasantness knot in the lower abdomen. The woman folded her arms across her chest, trying to give herself a stern and unwavering look.
"If you just wanted to sexually harass me again, then keep going where you were going before I broke your nose... "
"Actually, I have a task for you, Char." Vincent held out a gold-colored key with a small key chain to Charlie. "Lock the door to my office with this key. I forgot to lock it and remembered it only when I was too far from it. "
"But you can come back, right?"
"I can't, I don't have enough time." Vincent cut off sharply and irritably. "I'm in a hurry, I have to supervise the filming on the set. I'm a busy person with a lot of responsibilities, you know."
"Climbing up to me, so you have time?!?"
“You came to me first, princess.” The man shrugged calmly. “I just wanted to address you and quickly give you this task, but you dragged me here for your empty threats.”
Charlie swallowed back all the indignation that had gathered on the tip of her tongue. If she wanted to end this conversation as quickly as possible, she should have controlled herself, kept quiet, and bored him with her indifference. Even if it was feigned.
“Anyway, I really don’t have time, the film crew is waiting for me.” The man carelessly threw the keys straight into Charlie’s hands, who barely had time to catch them. “Come on, see you soon, I’ll come to you for my keys.”
Stunned, Charlie only silently glanced at her boss, who hurriedly headed to another floor, carrying himself as businesslike and arrogant as ever. The woman’s thin fingers convulsively gripped the cold steel of the keys.
What the hell was that?
When had Vincent ever trusted anyone with the keys to his office? He hardly had an assistant or secretary, even now that his responsibilities had increased significantly. Whittman was too paranoid to trust anyone with his personal (and dirty) affairs. Or maybe he was just a simple miser who didn't want to pay anyone else for it (and therefore constantly took advantage of Charlie and her integrity). Charlie had no idea how to react to such an "act of trust." Should she be flattered that Vincent Whittman, so obsessed with his paranoia about everyone around him, trusted her, or should she be offended that he perceived her as some kind of secretary?
Finally, sighing under the weight of a merciless sense of responsibility, Charlotte strode down the corridor to Vincent's office. The distance was indeed quite great, but Charlie still didn't believe that her boss had absolutely no time to overcome it. On the way, the woman was occasionally greeted with reserved greetings, none of which she, with a charming smile, did not miss, and interested glances. Magne tried to ignore the latter, although it was not easy, because an anxious voice in her soul insisted that gossip about her and Vincent was spreading inexorably. Not that she should be worried, as the leading crime reporter of her department. Gossipers never know peace, this should not interfere with her work.
Charlie finally stopped in front of a door with a gold plate signed "TV Network Owner". It was a small matter - just insert the key into the lock and turn it a couple of times. But the woman was still nervously clutching the key in her pocket, trying in vain to overcome the sharp, burning dryness in her mouth.
Guilt had gripped Charlie ever since she had made that damn deal with Vincent, clawing deeper into her soul every day. The sting of remorse had pricked her mind with every report she had written. She knew more about some of the crimes than she was letting on. Her hands were covered in blood, with every detail she had left unsaid by the press and the police.
Charlotte lied to the public shamelessly.
Charlotte hid evidence and details.
Charlotte covered up crimes. Covered up Vincent Whittman’s crimes.
Her hands were no better than his. They were both in the same blood, in the blood of the same people. Vincent killed with his own hands, Charlie with her cooperation. Cooperation dictated by her selfishness, fear and weakness. And for what? Was the recognition from the community and the authorities, built on blood and criminal silence, worth it? Could Charlotte Magne so easily betray her own moral principles for the sake of approval and career? What the hell distinguished her from Vincent Whittman then?
No. She was not trying for the sake of the community. Not for their approval and recognition.
She was bypassing the recognition of the damned scumbag Vincent Whittman.
Charlie began this senseless pursuit of his approval. If she had not been worried specifically about his opinion, she would have worked for another newspaper, for another channel, where she might have been appreciated much more. Where she probably shouldn't have been humiliated and let someone step on her throat, just for the sake of a condescending look. And if she had gotten what she wanted, she would have easily traded all her high morality and civic integrity.
The weight of conscience and guilt again fell on her like a migraine. No, it couldn't go on like this any longer. She had to find out what this psychopath was planning and do everything possible to stop him. In the best case scenario, he had to pay for everything he had done. Even if it cost her her life, Vincent had to finally take responsibility for everything he had done. Only a cold mind had to guide her, not human, pathetic feelings.
A firm step - she was already inside the office. And there was no going back.
Charlie knew roughly how long Vincent would be busy filming, so she should have monitored it by her wristwatch. Outwardly, she was familiar with the office well. Even too well. The interior is dark, unfriendly, the only thing that has changed in it is the paintings on the walls. All of them are now connected with the sea (especially with sharks). A shelf with Vincent's awards, which made Charlie constantly wrinkle her nose demonstratively, overcoming conflicting admiration and disgust. She used to be uncomfortable with the level of narcissism in this installation, but now - with the disgusting realization that every award here was earned with someone else's blood. A large cork board that was never empty. A large desk, looking at which brought back shameful and inappropriate memories to Charlie.
In general, the workplace of the owner of the television network also included a couple of cabinets with drawers that were built into the desk. But each of the drawers was locked. It seems that Vincent had something to hide there. Charlie accidentally touched one of them with her foot as she walked over to the table. There was a soft creak...
What the hell?..
One of the drawers slid open easily. The stunned woman rushed to the others. None of them were locked! Was Vincent replaced today? The office wasn't locked, nor were any of these drawers. Does such a paranoid person really check anything before leaving? It's not like him at all. In one drawer were labeled folders, arranged strictly in alphabetical order. In the second were newspapers. In the third were magazines. In the fourth were notebooks. In the fifth were photos. And in the sixth...
Charlie's head was spinning from the number of papers, folders, and files in the two cabinets. What was valuable? What was more important? What could give her the answers she needed? Where to start? The reporter had to quickly orient herself and grab all the essentials, since her time was limited. She couldn't linger a minute longer, because she had to run to her department, where Vincent would be looking for her with the keys.
Charlie looked at the contents of all the boxes for a couple of minutes in confusion, but finally ran her hand over the signed folders. Names. These were foreign names and surnames that didn't tell her anything. They seemed to be dossiers. Employees? The next thing she did was rummage through the newspapers. "The God of Entertainment - Vincent Whittman!" - the very first headline shouted under her fingers.
But they didn't calm down, they kept talking:
"Vincent Whittman - the revolution of television!"
"An interview with the one and only Vincent Whittman!"
"America's favorite TV star, Vincent Whittman, is named New York Times Person of the Year!"
"'Channel 6 World News charming fresh news anchor, Vincent Whittman, is winning hearts!"
"Evening talk show The Whittman's Hour is blowing up the ratings!"
Of course.
Charlotte rolls her eyes, feeling sick from all the praise for this piece of shit. Although, with a heavy heart, she admits that it's impressive.
"A brutal death on air - host Oliver O'Hara tragically died from a shark attack during his own program."
Oops.
She'd seen that name on one of the neatly arranged folders in the bottom drawer!
Taking out the folder, Charlie noticed the inscription. The light from the desk lamp illuminated the ominous word "Eliminated."
The puzzle in his head was coming together terrifyingly quickly, Charlie's hands jerkily reached for the third drawer. The New York Times magazines, in which Vincent had been named Person of the Year three times. He regularly boasted about this fact of his biography. God, was there really no one more worthy in those years? Either these titles had been bought, or American society simply had no taste.
She opened the fourth drawer. Dated notebooks, arranged chronologically. This was more interesting. It was easy to find the one she needed by date. Vincent's handwriting could easily read the darkest envy and rage. Charlie read the necessary eerie note:
"This talentless program, along with this talentless O'Hara, must die out. People like him are ruining my ratings."
Obviously, Vincent had already become a producer on the TV channel.
"The audience is hungry for a real show. And today they will get it."
Of course! The aquarium did not just crack, not by itself. It was not an accident, but a rigid and unprincipled planned murder!
Vincent had a complete dossier on this presenter, knew in advance all his weaknesses, schedule and social status. He was just waiting for the right time, the moment when it would be easy to eliminate him and take advantage of it. That incident made a stir around the program and Vincent's channel.
He was just a chess piece on the board of his bloody game. Like all the others, whose names were written in folders and marked as "eliminated". Charlie frantically rummaged through newspapers and notebooks, everything really coincided with each other in an eerie way. Each of his victims was in his hands, for each he had his own plan and each time he carried it out without hindrance.
And the worst thing was that this was his entire career path.
And how was Charlotte Magne better than him?
That was how her path looked. Who else could she be if she worked for a man who kept other people's lost fortunes in his locker? Charlie was helping him with her silence. For what she hated herself most now. Not even Vincent. Exactly herself. Because it was Charlotte who had betrayed her own ideals and principles, blindly following the command of her selfishness. But the woman also believed in a second chance. In redemption. She still had a chance to atone for her own sins and destroy the long-standing web of cruelty and death. She still had a chance to prevent the greatest madness.
But the reporter's gaze was now much more interesting.
"BIGGER, BRIGHTER FUTURE!"
"A NEW ERA OF ENTERTAINMENT!"
"WE WILL REDEFINE WHAT IT MEANS TO RULE THE AIRWAVES!"
The sweeping, careless notes were concise, at first confusing Charlotte. Unlike the other notes, these were clearly made spontaneously, under the influence of strong emotions (inspiration, rage, or simply under the influence of drug intoxication). But the most important were not the written words and their content (which was sparse and not entirely coherent), but the photos and diagrams that were attached to the pages. Examining them, Charlie realized that there was only one object in these images - a neglected abandoned aquarium. On the diagrams drawn by Vincent, it was different - electrical wires hung all over the room, there were televisions in every corner. Water and electricity? An unspeakably dangerous combination.
Right next to it was drawn a strange symbol with the letter V and a shark fin. Literally the same one that had been on Vincent's jacket since he became a producer, and now the acting TV network owner.
That short sentence that made Charlie shudder:
"Baptism into a new era of entertainment"
Water and electricity.
The creature was seized by a cold, sticky horror, his head was dizzy from the amount of information received and the newly formed logical connections. Thoughts clung to each other, got confused, scattered, anything to avoid being subordinated to a clear and distinct mind. But one of them rang insistently in his ears, being the logical conclusion of the investigation:
Vincent was preparing a fucking cult!!!
This crazy maniac was not enough, he was ready to go so far! An absolute freak!
Charlie's confusion and shock lasted only a moment, now, on adrenaline, she hastily noted down in an empty notebook everything that she would have to address to the police and the press. Stealing some of this material was dangerous, but it was almost impossible to resist. Therefore, some notes and photos disappeared into the pages that had just been written down. After all, if Vincent was detained, the police would still have to take everything that was in this office for investigation, and not only that.
Everything flew to the floor from under her trembling hands. Time was running out. And the reporter had to put everything back in its place, and also slip out of the office before Vincent appeared! She had to run to the reporting department, where her boss would be looking for her... Breaking away from her notes, Charlie bent down with a sharp movement to tidy up the floor. Magne didn't even notice how much she had managed to throw away. But it didn't matter, she would have time to do everything in the best way possible...
One of the pieces of paper flew too far. Deeply immersed in her own thoughts, Charlie crawled over on her knees and reached for it with her hand, the tips of which were already touching the document...
As if from a force field, Charlotte recoiled in horror and covered her own mouth with her hand in a silent scream when she saw a man's shoe firmly clamp down on the piece of paper right in front of her. She was roughly grabbed by the collar of her shirt and the cold muzzle of a gun was put to her forehead.
"Hello, princess," dangerous green and blue glowed in the dim light of the office, a deep, venomous voice filling her soul.
This was definitely her end.
An inevitable end.