People say that I'm obsessed. And while they say many things about me, that is probably one of the truest.

My greatest obsession is, of course, my Master. And rightly so -- I am bound to him, most thoroughly. My child then, naturally, comes second -- product of my blood and my master's, how could he not?

But far and away my oldest obsession is suffering. Not my own, of course. Other people's suffering. At my hands. Though not actually, directly at my hands in a very long time -- up-close-and-physical torture went the way of the Dodo for me, the instant I learned to scry. Now I practice my arts from a distance, with that infinitely flexible tool: poison.

Poison has been called a "woman's weapon," but truly it is the province of the subtle, the patient and the utterly merciless. To not only watch a man die, but to meticulously plan the administering of the poison, the reaction time, taste, smell, the availability of help... it's a frightfully cold way to kill a man. No weapon for a crime of passion, poison, but rather one for a steady and remorseless hand.

I am what the police fear most -- a truly, literally random serial killer. I rarely use the same poison twice, I choose my victims off the street without a thought to who they are, and oh, but I am very, very good at masking what I do.

Of the 382 people I have killed in this manner, only 23 have "homicide" listed as their cause of death. The rest, a string of seemingly unrelated deaths from "undetermined" causes. Oh, they may suspect or even know that a poison was the cause of the victim's untimely passing, but how or why the poison entered their system is, more often than not, a baffling mystery.

In a few cases, innocent men and women have gone to jail for my crimes. I never plan such an outcome, but it certainly provides a great deal of unasked for amusement.

And you, my darling victim? You are the first to receive a letter such as this, and likely the last, as well. I am not one to taunt victims or police with hints at my identity. I am an artist, not a fool.

But you have fought so very, very valiantly that I simply had to congratulate you on your fortitude. I also anticipate a very interesting reaction from you when it sinks in that there truly is no rhyme nor reason to your suffering -- only my whim and your unfortunate timing to have caught my eye that day.

In case you were wondering, you have approximately twenty-six hours left to live from the writing of this letter, perhaps ten to twelve from the time you finish reading it.

It has been fun and you've been a terrific sport. So just for you -- your final stage of dying will be quick, sudden, a surcease of pain at last.