She was sure, he had no heart. She was terribly wrong about that...

In the shadowed corners of his study, the Collector kept his secrets, staching away his newest addition to his favourite collection.

His obsession lay hidden behind velvet curtains and antique bookshelves. The townspeople whispered of his peculiar habits—the way he watched them with hollow eyes, as if measuring their worth.

He was drawn to hearts—their delicate rhythms, their hidden desires. But not the metaphorical hearts of poets and lovers. No, he sought the physical beating cores—the life force that pulsed within.

His victims were unsuspecting, drawn in by his charm. They danced at moonlit balls, their laughter echoing through candlelit halls. And when they slept, he crept into their chambers, blade in hand, ready to get and preserve his price.