The perfect life

“What if perfection was the scariest mask of all?”

Nicholas clairmont was the kind of man people instantly adored. Tall, effortlessly handsome, with warm brown eyes that held a quiet, almost shy kindness, he moved through life like a ghost, unseen when he wanted to be, unforgettable when he chose to be noticed.

At 28, he was a respected financial advisor, known for his patience with elderly clients and his willingness to volunteer at animal shelters, orphanages, sober living homes. His neighbors called him the perfect gentleman. His coworkers admired his calm demeanor. Women found his soft-spoken nature endearing, his smiles disarmingly genuine. Attraction towards him spread everywhere he went.
No one suspected a thing.

It's cause Nicholas made sure the others perceive him the way he wants. he portrays himself as a kind, innocent, naive, shy, calm guy Infront of everyone. so everyone loves him.

Nicholas had rules.

Never leave a trace.
Never take credit.
Never get angry in public.

When his coworker, Daniel, was found dead in a hit-and-run, the office mourned. Nicholas brought flowers to the funeral, his face the picture of sorrow. No one knew that Daniel had been asking too many questions about the missing funds in a client’s account, funds Nicholas had quietly siphoned away.

When Emily, the barista who always remembered his coffee order, vanished one night, the police called it a tragic case of a young woman leaving town abruptly. Only Nicholas knew her body rested beneath the freshly poured concrete of a new downtown parking garage. She had recognized him from the night of Daniel’s accident.

A shame. She made great coffee. He had liked her.

Then came Rachel.

She was new to the apartment complex, bright, observant, a freelance journalist with a habit of digging into things. She smiled at Nicholas in the hallway, made small talk. Harmless.

Until she mentioned the pattern.

Funny how so many bad things happen around here, she said one evening, sipping wine in his immaculate living room. But never to you.

Nicholas laughed softly, eyes downcast. Guess I’m just lucky.

Rachel didn’t laugh back.

He knew he should kill her.

But for the first time, he hesitated. Rachel was different. She looked at him like she knew, and yet… she kept coming back. They became close. Then came the night she confronted him.

I found your little trophies, she whispered in the dark of his study, holding up a Polaroid of Emily, the dead barista. You’re not as careful as you think.

Lucas didn’t panic. He just smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.

Neither are you, he said softly.

The knife was already in his hands.

At Rachel’s funeral, Nicholas wore black, his face the perfect portrait of grief. Her colleagues hugged him, thanked him for being such a good friend.

That night, he added her photo to his collection, The wall.
After all, the perfect life required maintenance. The wall was the part of his perfect life.
And Nicholas was nothing if not meticulous.

The next morning, Nicholas whistled as he tied his tie, the news playing softly in the background, another missing person report. He adjusted his cufflinks, the same ones Rachel had complimented weeks ago, now polished to a gleam.

At work, a new intern brought him coffee, her hands trembling slightly. You remind me of someone, she admitted. Nicholas smiled, gentle as always replies, do I?

Later, he locked his office door and opened a hidden drawer, running his fingers over a fresh, blank Polaroid. Rachel’s Polaroid had been the twelfth on his wall, but the intern’s would be different, special, because she’d been the first to remind him of her. So many kind souls in the world, he mused. So many waiting to be remembered.