Psychro Killer: Prologue

Late on a sunny Sunday morning, a slant of golden light broke through the curtains of their Bermondsey apartment, illuminating the chaos of Niko’s world—a pristine mess of sheet music, books on baroque ornamentation, and a few too many coffee cups. Niko, perched at the small table by the window, was fighting a battle of wills with the Sunday paper supplement. The damn thing kept folding itself at all the wrong angles. He shot it a glare as if it were a recalcitrant second violin.

Gluck. Rehearsals. And looming budget cuts that might turn his beloved production into a bargain-bin spectacle—these were the thoughts that swirled in his head. Zoe, still cocooned in their unmade bed, lay half-covered by a duvet, a tangle of dark hair spilling over the pillow. She’d been silent for a while, which was always a prelude to something he was supposed to brace for.

"It’s just... boring," she said suddenly, with that deliciously provocative tone that made him stiffen.

Niko lowered the paper slowly, like a general readying for war. "What, exactly, is boring?"

"Orpheus and Eurydice," Zoe replied, propping herself up with that irritatingly lazy elegance she managed to pull off. "It’s the same tired tale—a woman dies, a man makes it all about himself, and voilà, cue the orchestra. Another passive heroine sacrificed for the sake of male angst. It’s just the ultimate patriarchal wankfest."

Niko let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Oh, here we go," he muttered, tossing the paper onto the floor. "That’s reductive, even for you."

"Is it?" Zoe’s eyes glinted with amusement as she sat up, a dark wisp of hair falling into her face. "Tell me how it’s not. Eurydice—beautiful, dead, and conveniently silent—exists solely to highlight Orpheus' genius. It's classic man-pain porn."

"Man-pain?" He smirked, unable to help himself. "What do you want? A version where Eurydice starts a feminist collective in Hades?"

Zoe laughed, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily. "I’m just saying, she doesn’t do anything. Orpheus is out there dazzling everyone with his magical lyre, and she’s what, lying in a coffin? Great gig for her. Not much of a choice, was it?"

Niko leaned forward, elbows on the table, giving her his full attention now. "You’re missing the point, Zoe. It’s not about 'doing.' It’s about loss. About the sheer, maddening desperation of grief. Orpheus isn’t showing off—he’s unravelling. It’s love stripped down to its rawest, most flawed form. Eurydice is... she’s an idea, a metaphor."

Zoe rolled her eyes so hard he thought they might actually detach. "Oh, spare me the ‘she’s a metaphor’ nonsense. It’s always the women who get turned into symbols in these stories while men get all the juicy action. Why couldn’t Eurydice have done something dramatic? Or maybe..." She paused, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. "Maybe she wanted to die."

Niko blinked. "What?"

"Maybe the snake bite wasn’t just bad luck. Maybe Eurydice chose it—her one act of rebellion. Maybe she wanted to get away from this ‘tragic genius’ routine Orpheus was running. What if she preferred the peace and quiet of the Underworld to another aria about his feelings?"

He couldn’t help it—Niko laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. "So you’re saying she’d rather hang out with Cerberus than put up with Orpheus' angst?"

"Exactly." Zoe’s grin widened. "Think about it. Orpheus is the guy, right? Everyone’s fawning over him, and she’s just... there. The perfect dead woman, supporting his creative breakdown. Maybe the ultimate power move was staying dead. Maybe Eurydice finally said, ‘You know what? I’m done with your operatic bullshit.’"

Niko rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling. "You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?"

Zoe flopped back onto the bed, stretching out languidly. "Look, my parents never shut up about you. ‘Our Zoe’s with an operatic conductor, did you hear?’" She mimicked their voices with a dramatic flourish. "It’s exhausting. You’re not a person to them, you’re a badge of honour they can flash to their friends. Meanwhile, my brother’s out there curing cancer or something, but do they care? Nope. I’m with the conductor. That’s all they need."

Niko winced. She wasn’t wrong about her parents. They practically wore him like a designer label. But she wasn’t exactly subtle about the fact that she hated it.

"It’s not the same," he said, but his tone had softened.

Zoe rolled onto her stomach, gazing at him with a lazy, teasing smirk. "Isn’t it? Orpheus is obsessed with Eurydice not because of who she is, but because of what she means to him. She’s his muse, his inspiration—his possession. He doesn’t love her, Niko. He needs her to fuel his myth."

Niko stared out the window at the ginger tabby sprawled on the bins below, blissfully unaware of the mortal coil of operatic tragedy. "Maybe," he murmured, "but maybe the real tragedy isn’t Eurydice’s passivity. Maybe it’s that Orpheus couldn’t trust love enough to let her go. It’s his failure, not hers."

Zoe gave a mockingly thoughtful hum. “So… it's about his weakness. His inability to not screw things up. Still sounds like it’s all about him.”

Niko leaned back, grinning at her sharpness but feeling the subtle sting beneath her words. “Well, you’d make a brilliant Eurydice, then. I can already see you hurling that snake at me.”

Zoe threw her head back in laughter, the kind that made him feel for a moment like he’d won. But then she sobered, her expression softening. “I wouldn’t even look back. I’d leave you to wallow in Hades, composing some overwrought symphony about your tragic loss.”

“Oh, I’d make it a bloody masterpiece,” he muttered with faux bitterness, but the words lingered longer than he wanted.

Zoe always had this way of skewering the things he loved, the things that mattered to him, with a mix of humour and cynicism that he adored and feared in equal measure. It was like she could see through every facade, every carefully constructed argument, and turn it upside down. But it also made him wonder… if she thought so little of Orpheus, what did that say about the way she saw him?

Zoe threw a pillow at him with a playful smirk. “Oh, come on then, Orpheus,” she teased, flipping onto her back with a fluid motion. Her dressing gown slipped open, revealing the curve of her body, bare and inviting. “Time to breathe some life back into this juicy ass,” she purred, her voice low and wicked, the challenge hanging in the air between them.

Her laugh had faded, replaced by something else—something raw, real. Whatever battle they were having, it was over, and this was the truce.