Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
They never look up.
That’s what always astounds me. People drift through the world like prey animals who’ve forgotten they’re prey. Heads down, eyes glued to glowing screens, laughter spilling out into the night without the faintest thought of what could be lurking just beyond the streetlights.
The couple in front of me is no exception.
The boy—tall, broad-shouldered in a dark gray t-shirt and jeans—walks with that arrogant ease of someone who thinks his strength alone makes him untouchable.
His arm brushes the girl beside him, her crimson braid swaying with each step they take, his laugh cutting too loud through the air, careless, like nothing could ever go wrong.
The girl clings to him, her petite frame dressed in a yellow sundress, pressing against his side like he’s her shield. She trusts him. She trusts the light. She trusts the illusion of safety.
But shields splinter. And safety is a lie.
I trail three paces behind, slipping between shadow and light as the streetlamps buzz overhead. The hum of traffic drones from Fourth Ave, neon spills from bars, students stumble out of doorways in clusters. But all of that is background noise.
None of it matters.
Only them.
I’ve been following them for blocks now, watching and waiting, and it baffles me how completely unaware they are of their surroundings.
Not a single glance has been thrown over their shoulders.
Not a flicker of suspicion. They’ve moved through this city like they own it, like nothing bad could possibly touch them here—prey with no awareness of the predator trailing them.
If it weren’t for their tie to her, I’d drop this hunt altogether. They’re boring—laughing, oblivious, predictable. I don’t do boring.
Khloe wasn’t boring.
I can still see it—the way her body froze when the text pinged her phone, her hesitation before answering, the exact moment her pulse spiked.
The way she tried to convince herself that the open window was her mistake.
She ignored her instincts, like they all do.
That’s why it was so easy to slide out of the hall closet, the blade already in my hand. She was distracted, cornered. Perfect.
The memory smolders, feeding me, coiling hot in my veins as my gloved fingers curl tighter around the knife hidden in my hoodie pocket. Anticipation hums like electricity under my skin. This is the best part—when stalking shifts into the hunt. When the fear sets in. Fear makes the blood sweeter.
I tug my mask down over my face—white, smooth, the absence of everything—and the world narrows to the cold void of that blank face. Identity vanishes under the mask like chalk under a rainstorm. The street becomes an audience, and tonight I am the show.
I step into the intersection’s shadow and pull my knife free from the confines of my pocket and press the tip against the rough brick wall.
The steel shrieks as I drag it down the stone. A piercing scrape that claws through the quiet street, splitting the night open.
They freeze.
The girl stiffens, her laugh cut off mid-breath. Her head whips around, wide eyes locking on me. The boy’s jaw snaps tight, his cocky grin evaporating as soon as he sees the mask.
I tilt the knife, a lazy wave, mocking. Then I drag it again, harder. Sparks spit into the dark like fireflies.
“Run, run, run as fast as you can…” I croon, my voice lilting, a twisted nursery rhyme, as I take two long, deliberate steps toward them.
“Bailey, go!” the boy shouts, panic shredding his voice. He shoves her forward, nearly sending her to the ground. She stumbles, then bolts, her white Vans slapping against the pavement. He’s right behind her, dragging her into motion.
Perfect.
I lengthen my stride, my boots pounding the pavement, each step steady and deliberate. They bolt down the side-blocks, turning corners with the confusion of people who don’t know the ground beneath them, desperate to outrun me.
But they don’t know these streets like I do. I’ve memorized every artery.
Bailey slips at the end of the block, her shoulder slams into brick and the world tilts. The boy crashes into her back, sending them both to the ground, clutching at each other. And for the first time they look up with the terrified pleading eyes of prey.
The scream that is equal parts frustration and fear rips out of her throat the moment she realizes…
The alley is a box with three walls and no exit except the one they entered in.
A dead end.
“Fuck!” she cries, voice splintering apart as she spins around just in time to see me step into the alley’s mouth.
The dull glow of the streetlight outside halos my mask in pale yellow. My blade glints in the light, serrated edge catching each flicker.
The boy plants himself in front of her, shoving her back. “He can’t get us both, baby. When I say run, you run.” His voice shakes, but he still tries. Still thinks he has a chance. I tilt my head, smirking behind the mask. They always think they can fight.
“I’ll hold him off, okay. Go, get help.”
“Liam, no, I’m not leaving you,” Bailey cries, her hands gripping tightly around his bicep.
“I’m not asking, Bailey. RUN!” he snaps, shaking her off.
She falters, fear freezing her in her place before she finally catches on to what she should be attempting to do. It’s cute, thinking they’ll get away from me.
Before she can even move, I free my other hand and reach for the .45 tucked against my waistband. The suppressor drags against my thigh as I pull it free, cocked and ready.
The shot is almost polite—a near-silent crack from the suppressor, but not gone. The sound tears a raw edge into the night. Bailey’s scream is immediate and animal, the pitch of it splitting the air.
The bullet tears through her calf, ripping flesh and splintering brick behind her. She collapses, clutching her leg, blood painting her fingers as it pours hot between them.
“NO!” Liam roars, fury ripping out of him as he lunges.
His fist cracks against my shoulder, jolting the gun from my grip.
Pain lances down my arm, but I welcome it.
Gripping my knife, I step into him and drive it upward, burying it beneath his ribs.
The resistance of bone grinds along the edge as I twist and rip it free.
The sound he makes is guttural, wet, like air forced through water. He staggers back, crimson blooming fast across his shirt as his hands claw at the wound.
“Liam!” Bailey’s voice cracks as she tries to drag herself up, blood streaking her leg.
He drops to his knees, eyes huge and emptied of the plans he’d made to be a hero. I don’t give him the mercy of recovery.
I stalk forward, blood dripping from the blade’s edge, and grip his shoulder tightly, steadying him before plunging the knife into his chest. Once. Twice. Each thrust brutal. His body jerks as I rip it out, then ram it through his throat.
His eyes go wide, blood bubbling from his mouth, gurgling as it spills past his lips. His hands clutch weakly at his neck, but he’s already collapsing, crimson pooling beneath him as his body hits the ground.
“Your turn,” I growl, my attention shifting to Bailey as I step around Liam.
Bailey’s wail slices the night open. She scrambles backward on her hands, dragging herself across the asphalt, pressing her back to the far wall like stone could save her. Tears streak her face, mixing with sweat and blood, her hands flailing blindly across the ground for something—anything.
“Why are you doing this?!” she screams, desperation splitting her throat.
I crouch low, my mask inches from her face, and trail the dull edge of my knife along her cheek. She whimpers at the touch.
“Because I can,” I whisper, and the words are the coldest thing I offer all night.
When I move, it is violent and purposeful. The blade sinks into belly flesh, the sound of it entering and exiting a rhythm of its own. Her body jolts. Eyes wide. Mouth gasping. She rasps it out through bloodied lips, broken but defiant, “F—fuck you.”
Then something burns sharp into my clavicle, white-hot and furious, crudely thrust, like the alley itself has teeth. Pain flares and for the first time tonight I feel a momentary, furious surprise. I snarl, ripping the object free.
A syringe. A filthy, discarded syringe.
“You bitch!” I roar, fury burning hot.
I drop it, and with one hand, clamp her throat, dragging her up the wall. Her feet dangle, her nails claw at my glove as her screams shred into nothing. I tighten, crushing her trachea, savoring the way her strength falters.
My other hand finds the knife still in her gut. I don’t pull it free. I drag it upward, sawing through skin and organs, splitting her open until the fight drains from her body. Her arms fall slack.
Only then do I let go.
She crumples to the ground in a heap.
For a moment, I stand perfectly still, listening—letting the silence settle thick in the alley. It clings to me, broken only by the faint drip of blood hitting pavement. My eyes skim over what I’ve made, the stillness of their bodies painted in red.
My masterpieces.
I crouch slowly, deliberate, and scoop up the syringe, holding it carefully between my gloved fingers. Nothing gets left behind. Nothing that could point back to me. It disappears into my pocket, along with the knife, its edge still slick.
A few steps carry me back to where Liam sprawls, his chest painted in crimson, his mouth slack with the last attempt at breath.
I crouch again, retrieve the pistol from the ground, and slide it smoothly back into my waistband.
For a moment, I just look at him. The boy who thought he could fight.
Who thought love and bravery might make a difference.
From my back pocket, I pull a crumpled slip of paper.
I unfold it, glance at the words once more, then crush it into a ball with one hand.
Carefully, I pry open his stiffening fingers, press the note into his palm, and curl his hand closed around it.
A gift for the ones who’ll find him. A breadcrumb left on purpose.
Then I rise, step back, and leave the alley behind me—my shadows stretching long across the walls as I melt into the night.