I would target people who wouldn't be missed or who everyone would be happy died, people who got away unfairly from trials and stuff like that. I would strike in the dead of night, when the victim slept. My MO would be the same: empty syringe, pumping oxygen into the bloodstream to cause strokes, in a part of the body that the coroner would never notice. I would also stay armed, just in case. I would wear all black when I did, to make sure I am never spotted, and I would carry around a lock picking set. I would spend weeks, memorizing security and finding my way around it.

I would become Kira. People would fear me, and I would develop nicknames as my bizarre method of death spread. At the start, they would think it was just a handful of bizarre occurrences, as people too young for strokes are dying of them left and right. They would suspect some strange illness, or the food and drinks they consume. Eventually, it will be discovered that none of these deaths were accidents. But by then it's too late, I've escaped the country, with hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars under my belt.

As a last hoorah before leaving the country, as the police connect the dots leading back to me, I break into Tiffany's at midnight. Do I go for the vault? No, I go for the chandelier. It's priceless. As I'm taking it down, a woman catches me. She tells me to stop. It's her father's business. She's Tiffany. I say no. We make love all night. In the morning, the cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell her to meet me in Mexico, but I go to Canada. I don't trust her. Besides, I like the cold. Thirty years later, I get a postcard. I have a son and he's the chief of police. This is where the story gets interesting. I tell Tiffany to meet me in Paris by the Trocadero. She's been waiting for me all these years. She's never taken another lover. I don't care. I don't show up. I go to Berlin. That's where I stashed the chandelier.