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At two o'clock she was stood on a bridge, a photographer, she was capturing the moment as she walked. She captured the image along the river, click, she had captured him. He had been standing there, down the river, knowing she would come, watching, waiting. He registered everything about her, the way she walked, the speed at which she moved, the colour of her hair, at his distance; he could not make out her features. Click, he captured he, he walked away.

An hour later in a dark room she discarded the pictures she had taken that day. She hadn't seen that man on the bridge, he had ruined the effect. She had captured a lazy Sunday afternoon, he made her image sinister.

At the same time he developed his pictures in a dark room on the other side of town. He studied them, studied her clothes, her face, her eyes. He took down a photograph from the line, dry, he pinned it to a brown file.

He left the dark room with the file and slumped down on the sofa. As he sat, eating a sandwich, he was engrossed by the file. He looked over every detail of the events which were to unravel. It had been carefully planned; he prided himself on his planning. After months of research, where she went, what she did, when she would be alone, all the arrangements had been made. Tonight was the night, his pulse began to race as he felt the adrenaline surge through his veins, he couldn't help his excitement.

At ten o'clock she put on her coat and took out her camera, just as she always did on Sunday night. She planned to photograph the river at night. She was fascinated by the silence and the crisp air over the city at night. She was hoping to capture that. Her adrenaline rush came from walking through and empty city in the dark, alone.

He had watched her from his place on several occasions; he knew she would come this time. He knew she would be alone, and he knew, as she did, that the city would be empty. He had arrived early, to finalise his preparations and ensure that everything would run smoothly. Crouched in the shadows, he saw her arrive.

Her back was turned towards him and he crept out from where he was hidden, silently, he put a gun up to her spine. She gasped; she could feel the cold barrel of the gun on her back, and his breath penetrating her neck.
'There's no need to scream' he whispered, 'I can silence you with this gun and the gun itself is silent'. He drew his finger to the trigger and squeezed. All the arrangements had been made, no sign was left.

The next morning he awoke with a smile etched into his face. He was pleased with the running of the night's events, everything had gone to plan, and not one glitch had been encountered. He knew he couldn't dwell on one success for long. Smiling with anticipation, he took down a new file from the shelf.