THIS BOOK IS CONFUSING BECAUSE YOU ARE BASICALLY SORTING OUT A PUZZLE with the main character. Whatever she finds out, you find out at the same time. You have to pick up on important clues! GOOD LUCK!

I saw him.

I saw Diávolos.

And he saw me.

His eyes met mine, and I knew that day that I would never forget them. He noticed me peering out my bedroom window, but I couldn't see his face. But it was the colour of his eyes that captivated me.

I was only sixteen years old then.

But I never saw him again after that. He never came by, and I sat by my window all day and night for the next two years. It's almost as though he passed away. That's the only answer because no one has heard of Diávolos since his eyes met with mine. Did I scare him?

Pfft. No one scares him. He's the devil himself.

Not like anyone knew anything about him. No face. No identity. Just a killer.

He was fond of blood though, he enjoyed watching others suffer. I knew it about him because when his gaze locked on mine that one night, I watched him stab a man in the heart with a knife. And I'm not sure why the younger version of myself didn't suffer nightmares. Not a single one.

He thought I would hide maybe. I didn't hide. But I remember that tattoo on his hand. Oh, I remember it as clear as day. I could tell it had some significant meaning to it, because on every man he kills, he prints the same tattoo on their body. A sign of death?

⚔

Two swords clashing against one another. As if-and if i am correct, he had a fight with both sides. Evil and good. I do not know why that struck to me and not the rest of him, it was all hidden in dark clothing.

I had an obsession with him. Like i have an obsession with Marvel, he was my obsession. Normally in book, the main character never has an obsession with the love interest. This time, I have the obsession.

I should be scared of him, I should be frightened for my life. That's what a normal persons reaction would be.

As I grew older, my mother told me stories about Diávolos, how he preyed on innocent girls like myself. I know she was saying that rubbish to scare me into staying at home more often and not going out, it did not work. I am not that stupid.

But now, at the age of eighteen, I sat by the window with a canvas and paint brushes. I always sketch half naked, with only my favourite underpants and headphones in my ears. You can call it weird, but I however enjoy it. It helped me focus, and it a given fact that drawing half naked enhances your technique on the canvas is a given.

I drew the alley way in front of my window, and I drew Diávolos. I drew him the same way I saw him, a shadow in the night sky. With a blaring knife and that silly tattoo of his, I tried searching it up. But every time I did my website would crash down. I sketch the lamppost, all in dark colours. The only light colour i used was for his eyes.

Green.

This green, the green you thought you would never see. His eyes were the vivid, strong, and lovely green that speaks to the soul of nature, of fresh wands of grass and young buds.

I tuck the paintbrush into my ears and let the paint run into my hair. As I opened a new can, some splashed across my chest. I did not have any clothing to get dirty, so maybe being partly naked is also a good thing along with my favourite Marvel underwear.

I sigh softly, pushing my dark hair behind my ears as I turn back to alley.

And as if my heart skips a beat, there it was. The green eyes looking into my window, staring daggers at me. He is back. I never thought I would see the day. I am half naked, and he is watching me. His hands are tucked into his hoodie pockets. His face is covered but I recognise those eyes. I quickly grab myself a shirt, and slip it over my naked body.

He watched me, the same way he did when he had someone on his knees, begging for mercy in front of him. I felt more exposed than I was. Two years. Two years I have been waiting for him to come back and now he has appeared on the day i decided to draw him. I took the opportunity, grabbed my pencil and a new canvas, and began sketching him. And he just stayed. I look at my canvas and then back at him.

He took out one of his hands, I lean my head in confusion. The swords. What did it mean! I wanted to know. I face the canvas, taking out the black coloured pain, I draw the sign. I draw the two swords onto a new canvas. And as I turn back I see him no longer there, I stand up. Pushing my window up, looking down the roads. Only snow on the floors...not even a footprint. Not a single one.

Diávolos. I will find you. When will be the next time I see him? Two years? When I am twenty.

Creaking footsteps wake me up, I turn around, and there it is. He towered over me, a tall figure standing in front of me. His face was completely hidden under a mask. His body was encased in black clothes. Fear creeps up my skin, he-he's in my room? He is standing in front of me.

My heartbeat quickens as I slowly meet his gaze. Green. His fingers skim my jaw, and I realise I am naked in front of him. My breathing quickens as his fingertips run down to my tummy, he slowly lifts my shirt. He begins pointing to a certain location. I was to shook to even move, yes I wanted him to come back but him being so close to me, is this real? Is this my imagination?

The space between my breasts.

"Diávolos..." I whisper, he slides the paint brush from my ears. The man who passes has a clear head that is higher than most people I consider tall. He is not lanky, but there's bulk on him as well; muscles beneath the tight sweatshirt. The outline of his biceps is revealed.

And I feel the brush of it glide onto my tummy, but my gaze remains fixed on his. He utilised me as a canvas, and he stabs the actual canvas near me within seconds. Ripping it in half without him moving, I flinch, his gaze never leaving mine. He drops my paint brush and slides out of my window. I did not dare to see which way he was going. He just ripped my canvas, the sign of the two swords.

How the hell did he get into my room, I look up and see my open door. I rush towards it and lock it closed, besides my door laid my long mirror. I face it.

I lift the shirt, he drew the two swords ⚔. In-between my breasts all the way down to my stomach.

"Ali! Food is ready. Come down and set the table for your father." My head faces the ripped canvas, torn in half. I slip on a pair of joggers before making my way downstairs.

Growing up in a Catholic household, I never had the opportunity to try new things like my other friends did. I was forced to study while they went out to drink. I had to wear the longest skirts possible because they wore short skirts that practically reached the back of their thighs. You know, the ones that came up to my ankles. I despised them. They were completely detested.

My parents were quite strict, and when I say strict, I mean it. I really mean it. They will not accept anything that a 'rascal' might do. Such as getting piercings or drinking, going out and having an enjoyable time, and what they detested the most.

Oh, they hated that darn thing, they hated anything that permanently damages your skin or the way you reputation may uphold other catholic parents.

I never had a life.

I never had any experiences, such as with boys. My best friend Cathy was the one who did everything; she would come over and tell me everything.

And I'd just sit there sketching her while she talked about it; she told me that getting 'eaten out,' if my terminology is true, is preferable to having intercourse. She's done it numerous times. I could just search it up, my internet blocks sites that have any links to sexual intercourse. This includes Netflix.

Cathy is my next-door neighbour, and we've been close friends since I was sixteen years old. My parents dislike her and refer to her as a "villainous character" because of the way she looks and acts. But they can't do anything because her father was my father's boss. They remained silent and put up with it.

I open the cupboards and take out three plates, feeling a breeze come down my arms. "Did you open the sliding doors! What have I told you!" My mother pushes past me, grabbing the handle as she closes the door.

I look down at the floor and see footsteps from snow, my eyebrows rose as i follow the trail with the plates. Stopping at the end of the stairwell. That's how. That's how he got in. "And all this snow! Alexandra Jones! Get a mop and clean after yourself, this instant!" I wanted to yell that it was not me, it was Diávolos. But she'd just laugh in my face. She yanks the plates from my hands, I make my way into the cupboard and grab a mop as I clean his mess.

I wipe down the mess and put back the things before settling down onto the dining table. "You have paint over your face, Alexandra." My father points out the obvious, grabbing my cheeks trying to remove it.

"I know, I was doing my homework." I rub onto my nose, as I dive into the food my mother cooked for us.

"At least let us say our graces Alexandra," I drop my fork, closing my eyes.

"Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen." My father taps both shoulder with his crest before touching his forehead. I do the same as quickly as i could before diving into the food.

"Would it be okay if i go to the art museum tomorrow morning?" I ask, stabbing my fork into the chicken.

"No, the house needs a lot of cleaning." She responds without a thought; I rest my face onto the palm of my hands. I release a soft yawn. "However, your father and I have been speaking to Aunt Coraline, she is not feeling well." I glance up.

"We will be visiting her every weekend from now; you will stay at home and look after it. Get yourself a bit of practise for when you get married." My father chips in, grabbing the sweetcorn.

My family have an old mind, they think that the generation has not changed since the 1800s.

"Oh yes, do you remember that Clark boy from Church?" She points her fork at me.

"Yes, I do." I answer.

"His family will be coming over this Friday, I do expect you to be on your best behaviour."

Clark Johnson.

The man my mother has wanted me to marry for years, a man that has no interest in what I do. Only that I am to be kept pure and all for him, whilst he goes out and has sex with the whole city.

My parents don't understand, I don't want him!

Him and his stupid blonde hair that he puts so much gel on to keep back, and he is nearly my height. I stood at a good five foot seven inches. The man is five' eight. I look straight at him.

Diávolos, however, stood tall, probably ten inches taller than me or so. I'd say maximum six foot five. And he is not lanky either, he had wide shoulders. My greatest weakness.

Clark Johnson loves himself more than he loves himself if that makes sense. He has three mirrors in his pocket! I mean, I wish I could love myself that much.

One mirror in his luggage, and two in each of his pockets. I'm surprised to say that none of them have shattered. After dinner, I wash the dishes and return them to their proper places. I walk upstairs, closing my bedroom door to reveal my slashed canvas.

I hear my phone ringing; I look down to see Cathy.

I pick it up and walk to the second window of my room, she stood next to hers. I push my balcony doors open and lean onto the trail. "I want to get a tattoo done tomorrow and you're coming with me." She smiles, taking out a packet of cigarettes. She offers me one but i decline it.

"I don't think I can, I'm preparing for Friday night, dinner with Clark Johnson."

"The guy who's in love with himself more than himself?" I chuckle, nodding my head as the breeze slashes into the back of hair.

"Damn, good luck with that but you're still coming. I don't want to go alone." She lights up the end of the cigar and chucks the lighter back in her room.

"You've gone alone for the past two years Cathy; I think one day is not going to make much of a difference." She takes out the cigarette from her mouth and offers it to me, I shake my head and take it. Propping it onto my lips as i inhale it deeply, blowing the smoke out of my mouth.

"What happened to wanting to experience life, at this point, you might as well rot in your room. Look, summer is over, and school starts this week. Can we at least have a good three days. You are coming." I hand her the cigarette.

"Fine, what time are you going?"

"Evening, I have my appointment at three. And have a shower, you got paint all over you."