Writing Tips: Villains, Heroes, and the Space Between

When writing dark fiction, the villain matters as much as the hero. Without a formidable antagonist, a hero has nothing meaningful to overcome. The strength of a protagonist is measured by the challenge they face.

Instead of two opposing forces, imagine one person wrestling with both sides of the moral equation. Could a character pursue justice while confronting the villain inside themselves? What happens when the conflict cannot be cleanly separated into hero and enemy?

Readers are accustomed to seeing these roles split between characters. When both exist within one mind, the story becomes far more complicated. If the hero and villain are the same person, how does justice work? And what happens to the traditional “happily ever after”?

The Problem of Loving the Monster

One of the most famous examples of moral contradiction appears in Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs.

Lecter is both healer and monster. As a psychiatrist, he helps people understand their minds. As a psychopath, he eats their livers.

The brilliance of the writing lies in how the story introduces him. By the time readers fully understand the depth of his crimes, they already find him fascinating—even likable.

The author sidesteps the moral dilemma in a clever way. Lecter has already been captured and imprisoned. He sits behind two inches of plexiglass because the justice system has already judged him. Readers don’t need to wrestle with his crimes; that process has already taken place.

The story can now focus on his intellect, his charm, and his unsettling influence on others.

The Forgotten Character: The Victim

There is another figure writers must develop carefully: the victim.

Using anonymous victims can simplify storytelling. If the victim has no name, no backstory, and no grieving family, the writer can spend more time developing the hero and villain.

But this shortcut comes with a cost.

Readers need someone to empathise with. A victim must feel real. They should have a life, a story, and a presence that matters. Without that connection, the crime loses emotional weight.

Instead of avoiding this challenge, writers can embrace it. By building a compelling victim, each crime can carry deeper meaning—perhaps even revealing clues or motives that become important later in the narrative.

The Intimacy of Murder

Murder is personal.

Ending a life is the most intimate act a character can perform. Yet the method of killing changes the level of intimacy involved.

A gunshot, for instance, can be delivered from a distance. One sharp crack and the deed is done.

A knife requires proximity. The killer must stand close enough to feel the victim’s presence. As physical distance decreases, emotional intensity increases. The act becomes far more personal.

But there are even more intimate spaces where violence can unfold.

Imagine a moment built on erotic anticipation—kisses, breath, skin, hands searching in darkness. Eyes meeting. Bodies moving closer. Heat rising.

That space, usually reserved for desire, can also become the stage for murder.

A killing written within such intimacy creates a uniquely unsettling tension. Sensuality blends with danger. Desire becomes the vehicle for violence.

It introduces a deeper, more disturbing layer to dark fiction.

The Shock of Intimacy

As a writer, I’m drawn to this intersection.

I want readers to lean into a developing relationship. I want them to feel curiosity, anticipation, even excitement as two characters move closer together.

Then I want to shock them.

Because in that charged moment—when readers expect passion or release—the story can take a darker turn.

That betrayal of expectation creates the kind of tension that dark fiction thrives on.

Avoiding the Comfort of Cliché

Clichés lead readers exactly where they expect to go.

The villain goes to jail.
The monster dies.
The evil is banished.
Justice prevails.

Everything resolves neatly.

But predictable justice can make a story feel hollow. The only real challenge for a writer is disguising the cliché while still delivering it.

In my stories, the outcome isn’t so tidy.

Is Justice Really Absolute?

We like to believe justice is clear and objective. Identify wrongdoing, apply punishment, and restore balance.

But justice is rarely that simple.

Every reader brings their own perspective to the idea of fairness. Age, upbringing, beliefs, culture, experience—even personality—shape how someone interprets justice.

Psychological stability also plays a role. People make decisions when they are tired, angry, afraid, or confused. In those moments, moral clarity becomes blurred.

Justice, like people, can be fluid.

That fluidity is something I enjoy exploring in my writing. Rather than presenting a fixed moral answer, I invite readers to step into the uncertainty and decide for themselves what feels justified.

It isn’t conventional storytelling, but it suits the kind of psychological thrillers I write.

The Inner Drive

Every person carries an inner force that shapes their behaviour.

Self-awareness, identity, and acceptance influence the decisions we make. Even people who appear balanced and rational can make catastrophic mistakes when confronted with love, lust, money, jealousy, or fear.

These pressures can drive individuals to act in ways they never imagined. And once the consequences become clear, many will attempt to hide what they have done.

This shift—from ordinary behaviour to moral collapse—is a theme running through my novels.

Why I Write Dark Fiction

My stories explore these uncomfortable spaces.

They deal with adult themes and complicated moral questions. They challenge readers to confront situations where right and wrong are not easily separated.

In these stories, the villain may commit a deeply intimate crime. Yet the narrative asks readers to consider a different kind of justice—one that might only make sense in the moment the crime occurs.

It’s unsettling.

It’s meant to be.

Read SEETHINGS now. It’s the first novel in a series, and it’s free. (*limited time)

–Michael Forman (Author)