« Smoke into a Puddle » is a story I wrote and illustrated while training with StoryboardArt. The original theme: a surprise birthday party. I drew it while trying to stick as closely as possible to the film noir style. This story contains scenes that some viewers may find disturbing.

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The night was black, like the ash from a cheap cigar, crumbling and lifeless. The kind of black that swallows the stars and leaves the city gasping for light, except for the occasional pulse of red from the spinning light on our squad car, cutting through the darkness like a wound. In this town, nights like that only mean one thing: murder.

Me and my partner tore through the streets, the engine growling like a chained dog straining at its leash. Funny thing, though we always rush: like showing up faster will change anything for the dead. It never does.

When we got there, the crowd had already gathered, buzzing like flies on rotting fruit. They’re always the first ones on the scene, drawn to the carnage like moths to a flame.

As I stepped out of the car, a chill ran up my spine.

My eyes drifted up to the first-floor window.

Behind the windows there was a silhouette, watching. Waiting. For us? For me? Something about it felt personal.

As soon as we entered the entrance hall, we were struck by a silence, heavy, oppressive, almost tangible. We climbed the stairs, the wood creaking underfoot like it knew what we were about to see. Suddently, the silhouette turned into a face: Miss Maude.

She was the only one left standing. Even through the tears streaking her cheeks, her face was breathtaking: like a painting someone tried to ruin but couldn’t destroy.

Her beauty didn’t prepare us for the scene inside.

They weren’t kidding when they said it was grisly. It was a slaughterhouse. Silence in the air, blood on the walls. But in this line of work, you learn how to push past the horror. You have to. You let the badge take over, let professionalism dull the edges.

We went to work, piecing together the story the room was trying to tell us: One assassin. Three victims. Five bodies, but one. Miss Mauve, was still breathing.

I looked into the dead eyes of the killer, searching for answers in the emptiness he left behind. Who’d he snuffed out first, and how had he managed to end up on the wrong side of his own gun?

Resting on the floor lay a silver tray, bearing the scar of a bullet. This tray must have saved Miss Maud, deflecting the bullet’s impact. But the real question was how she’d turned the tables and taken out the shooter.

The evidence didn’t line up: it whispered half-truths and dead ends. Miss Maud, she was the key. She had to be. Now, it was up to us to get her to tell us what really happened in that room.

Before we got to the truth, I needed to watch her; see if the story she wasn’t telling matched the one she would.

From behind the Venetian blinds, I studied Miss Maud. She was shaking, her face pale and haunted, the kind of look that sticks with you after seeing something you can’t unsee. She couldn’t be guilty. Not unless she was the best actress I’d ever laid eyes on.

I almost felt sorry for her, but until we had her testimony, we had to stay objective. Time to switch back to detective mode.

I followed my partner into the interrogation room, the air thick with tension. As we entered, Miss Maud looked up, her eyes red but steady, her hand reaching for a cigarette like it was the last thread holding her together.

I lit it for her as she couldn’t stops trembling , and the smoke rose in slow, ghostly spirals, fragile, fleeting, like the calm she was trying to hold onto.Then she started talking. Her voice was cool, almost distant, like she was narrating someone else’s tragedy. But the tears didn’t stop,streaming silently, carving paths down her cheeks, as if her body was mourning what her words refused to feel.

Earlier that evening, Miss Maud had planned a little surprise: a birthday gathering for Harry. Just a handful of friends, some drinks, a few smokes, and a cake she’d baked herself. Not much, but enough to put a smile on Harry’s face when he walked through the door. Only Harry wasn’t there yet, and the small group passed the time swapping stories and filling glasses, waiting for the man of the hour to show up.

When Harry finally arrived, he stepped out of a taxi with that easygoing air of his, the kind that made you think nothing in the world could go wrong.

Miss Maud lit up like a spark: she jumped to her feet and rushed to the dining room to get the cake. It wasn’t much of a birthday cake, sure, but she’d made it with her own two hands. She wanted to get it just right.

All the while, the others were busy preparing to surprise Harry, not too discreetly, and the booze wasn’t helping. Excited laughter slipped out, and when Joe stumbled onto the piano, his hands crashed against the keys in a hell of a racket. The surprise was more than a little compromised.

Maud had a smile on her lips, amused by the commotion the others were making. But as she turned back, her smile twisted into something darker.

Behind Harry stood a shadow, tall and threatening, and she swore she could see the outline of a revolver. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound never came.

The first shot cut through the night like a knife, and Harry dropped where he stood.

Maud froze, the cake slipping from her hands and splattering across the floor.

A second later, three more shots rang out: Sally, John, and Joe didn’t even have time to flinch. They were dead before their glasses hit the ground.

The room had turned into a butcher’s block, and she stood in the middle of it, too stunned to move.

Then came the last shot. It was meant for her, no question about it.

But luck has a funny way of picking its favorites. Miss Maud raised the silver tray,the same one the cake had rested on moments before, just in time to shield herself. The bullet hit it dead-on with a metallic scream, ricocheting back at the killer. He went down like a sack of bricks, a hole in his skull where his bad aim had met his bad luck. And just like that, it was over.

The house was silent again, save for the drip of blood finding its way into the edges of the carpet. Maud was the last one standing, the sole survivor of a massacre she hadn’t seen coming.

She held it together for as long as she could, but as she told the story, her voice cracked, and the tears came fast, like a dam giving way. By the time she was done, there was nothing left of her composure but a pile of ash.

My partner nodded. Her story matched the evidence. We called it right then and there: innocent.

I helped her to her feet, her hand trembling as she took mine.

We walked her to the door, back toward freedom, hoping the world outside would be kinder to her than the nightmare she’d just lived through.

She waved as she stepped into the night, forcing a smile onto her face.

It didn’t reach her eyes, but I couldn’t blame her for that. Not after what she’d been through.

As we walked back into the station my partner shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, but there was something about the way he carried himself that didn’t sit right. He wasn’t grinning, but the weight of the night seemed to hang off him like a bad suit. « I’m buying drinks tonight, » he said, his tone flat, like he was trying to shake off the taste of what we’d just walked through. « We’ll hit a bar, forget about this mess for a while. »

I barely nodded. My mind was still back at that apartment, turning over the pieces that didn’t add up. Something wasn’t right, and it was eating at me. Then I saw it. A poster.

Plastered on a wall in the alley, half-torn but unmistakable. A mugshot of a brunette with a sly, knowing smile. The words « Wanted: Armed and Dangerous » stared back at me. And there she was. Miss Maud. Her face. Her smile. Her name.

It hit me like a sucker punch. My gut twisted as the realization sank in: we’d been played. The tears, the trembles, the story: it was all an act. We’d let her walk, handed her her freedom on a silver platter.

I turned around, shouting something half-formed at my partner. He didn’t follow. Didn’t need to. This was between me and her now.
I burst through the station doors like a man on fire.

There she was, slipping into the back seat like a ghost into the night. The door slammed shut with a finality that sent a jolt through me.

My heart was thudding in my chest, my hands were reaching out, but the taxi had already started to roll. Tires screeched, the engine roared, and she was pulling away, faster than I could close the gap.
I waved my arms, desperate to get the driver’s attention, but it was her who noticed me.

And then, just to twist the knife, she reached up and pulled off her wig, letting her real hair tumble out.

She leaned out the window, her face lit up with that same mocking smile from the poster. She waved the blonde curls at me, a cruel farewell, before disappearing into the night.

I stood there, the rain pouring down like the city was trying to drown me, but it was nothing compared to the taste of my own shame.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been played, but it sure as hell felt like the last. She was gone, and I was just another sucker in a city full of them.

The streetlights flickered, and I knew the night wasn’t done with me yet. Neither was she. In this town, trust gets you killed, if you’re lucky.

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And now some bonus drawing

My heartfelt thanks to my family and friends, especially , Joscha, Ziyan, Pheeranna, Albanie and Yannick, as well as everyone who smiled at me while I walked the streets. You all gave me the confidence to finish this story.

Octavia.