Chapter 11
Him
I watch her from across the street, half-hidden behind a stack of crates near the vegetable stall. She moves through the market with that same quiet way she does everything, slow, deliberate, like she’s measuring each step against some internal rule only she knows.
Her long, wavy copper-red hair catches the light every time she turns her head, falling around her face and shoulders in soft, natural layers. The color is striking against her fair skin. Her delicate features arranged precisely.
Light eyebrows, softly defined cheekbones, a straight nose, full natural lips. Her eyes are light-colored, calm but with that underlying intensity that never quite leaves, like she’s always scanning for something she can’t name.
She’s slender, smooth shoulders and arms visible beneath the thin sleeves of her light sweater. No bulk, no excess, just clean lines that make her look fragile at first glance. Fragile things are interesting. They break in predictable ways if you apply the right pressure.
She pauses at a stall selling apples, fingers brushing over the fruit as if testing for flaws.
I notice the faint furrow in her brow, the way her lips press together while she decides.
She selects three, weighs them in her hand, then hands them to the vendor with a small nod.
No bright smile, but no rudeness either.
Just efficiency. Control. I like that about her already.
I keep my distance, blending into the flow of shoppers. She doesn’t notice me. They never do at first. My pulse quickens, not from fear of being seen, but from the simple fact of her existence in front of me.
The rush is immediate, adrenaline flooding my veins, sharp and electric. I haven’t felt this without a blade in my hand. No knife, no restraints, no pleas. Just her. Walking. Breathing. Existing.
What is it about her?
She’s not loud. She doesn’t demand attention. She doesn’t flirt with vendors or laugh too easily. She is contained. Self-contained. That makes her dangerous in a way the others never were.
Ethan was weak, crumbling under his own weight. The first two were the same, soft minds, soft bodies, soft wills. They folded quickly. She doesn’t look like she will fold quickly.
That thought sends another spike through me, hotter than the last. My fingers flex at my sides. I want to know how long she’ll hold out. How much pressure she can take before she cracks. I’ve never wanted to test someone this much without already having them tied down.
She stops again, this time at a stall selling herbs. A blonde girl around her age approaches, same height, same easy confidence but louder. Friend. Definitely friend. The blonde says something, gestures with her hands. Iris listens, nods once, then replies.
I can’t hear the words, but I watch the way her mouth moves, the way her eyes flick toward the blonde and then away, scanning the crowd like she’s waiting for something to appear.
She’s looking for me.
Not consciously. Not yet. But some part of her knows. Some animal instinct buried under layers of denial and politeness tells her eyes are on me. I feel the connection tighten, a wire pulled taut between us. My heart rate climbs higher. This is new. This is better.
They start walking together, away from the main stalls, toward the quieter end of the market. I follow at a measured distance, keeping other people between us.
The blonde talks the whole time, animated, hands flying. She answers in short sentences, her head tilting slightly when she speaks. She doesn’t interrupt. She listens. That control again. I want to break it. I want to see what happens when she can’t listen anymore, when she can only scream.
They head toward a car parked nearby, and I slip into mine, following at a safe distance as they drive off. The route twists into a poor area that looks like it's been abandoned for a long time.
Boarded windows, overgrown lots, the kind of decay that breeds the weak. The blonde's car pulls up to a rundown complex, she’s stepping out after a quick exchange. "Thanks for today." She says, hugging her friend through the open window.
The blonde squeezes back. She drives off, leaving her all alone there, her slender figure standing small and isolated, that copper-red hair a stark contrast to the gray surroundings.
The adrenaline crests again, a high that's almost euphoric because this is opportunity. Her alone, vulnerable, the hunt sharpening into focus.
My pulse thunders in my ears. This is the moment.
The rush is almost overwhelming. I could step forward now.
I could end the distance. But I don’t. Not yet.
The anticipation is too good. The waiting is part of it.
I let her go, let her disappear around the corner, and the high lingers, burning under my skin.
I’ve never felt this without killing. Never.
Back at my flat, I close the door and lean against it for a second, letting the quiet settle. The space is clean. Minimal furniture, neutral walls, no clutter. Everything has a place. Order matters.
Mercy is waiting.
I cross to the terrarium in the corner, slide the glass door open. The sleek black-and-green form uncoils slowly, tongue flicking as she senses me.
Boomslang. One of the most venomous snakes in the world. Her bite delivers hemotoxic venom. It starts with bleeding under the skin, then into the muscles, then the organs. It destroys clotting factors. Blood pours from every wound, internal and external.
Victims bleed out from the inside while still conscious. It takes hours. Sometimes days. Slow. Deliberate. Beautiful in its precision.
I reach in. She slides onto my arm without hesitation, cool scales against my skin. I lift her carefully, letting her coil around my forearm like a living bracelet.
“Hello.” I murmur. “Miss me?” Her tongue darts out, tasting the air. I stroke the back of her head with one finger.
“I saw someone today.” I tell her, voice low. “She’s different. Not weak like the others. Makes me want to see how much pressure it takes to crack the seams. I’ve never wanted that without the knife already in my hand. It’s… new.”
Mercy shifts, tongue flicking again.
“She looked for me.” I continue. “Not on purpose. But she felt it. The eyes. She scanned the crowd like prey does when it knows the predator is close. That feeling… I haven’t felt that before. Not without blood already on the floor.”
I carry her to the kitchen, set her on the counter while I wash my hands. She stays still, watching.
“I followed her.” I say. “To the edge of the poor district. She didn’t flinch at the decay. Walked through it like it was nothing. That control… I want to take it apart. Piece by piece. See what’s underneath.”
Mercy coils loosely around the tap handle. I dry my hands, then pick her up again.
“I think she’s next.” I tell her. “I think she has to be. The way she moves, the way she looks… it’s like she was made for this. For me.”
I place Mercy back in the terrarium, watch her settle among the branches. “Patience.” I whisper. “We’ll wait. The wait is part of it.”
I move through the evening routine automatically. Chop vegetables. Boil rice. Sear chicken. Simple. Efficient. My mind stays on her. Copper hair catching light, light eyes scanning, slender arms carrying a small bag of produce. Every detail feeds the hunger.
I plate the food, sit on the couch, turn on the television. The news is already running.
‘…authorities are still searching for leads in the brutal murder of Ethan Scott, the 32-year-old grocery shop cashier found dead in his flat last night. Police describe the scene as one of extreme violence. Multiple cuts, signs of prolonged restraint, evidence of torture before death…’
The camera cuts to blurred crime scene photos. Restraints. Blood. The cuts on his arms and torso.
I feel irritation flare, sharp and immediate.
They focus on the violence. The gore. The suffering. They never mention the precision. The artistry. The control.
My signature, the light, blunt cut on his left bicep, just enough to mark without bleeding, isn’t even given much attention. They zoom in on the mess, the obvious wounds, but miss the one that matters. The one that says mine.
Frustration mixes with pride. They don’t understand. They never do. That’s why I keep going. Because they’re blind. Because they see only the blood, not the design.
The reporter continues. Neighbours say Scott was quiet, kept to himself. No known enemies. Police are treating this as a targeted attack, but the motive remains unclear.’
I lean back, fork paused halfway to my mouth.
Targeted. Yes. Very targeted.
I think about her again. She will understand the design. When it’s her turn. She will feel it.
I set the plate aside, appetite gone. The adrenaline is back, slower this time, but deeper. A slow burn under my skin.
I imagine her tied to the chair. Her hair falling across her face. Light eyes wide with realization. That calm control cracking, piece by piece. The moment she understands she’s next. The moment she understands why.
The rush is intoxicating. Stronger than with Ethan. Stronger than with any of them.
I close my eyes and let the images play. My Little Prey
The hunt has begun. And this time, it’s going to be perfect.