9. Drystan #2
He picks up her black notebook, flips through the pages, and starts taking photos with his phone.
This is not a robbery.
He opens her drawers, photographing everything inside, the notes, tools, sketches. Why only her things? Why only her station?
Fuck this.
I rise to my full height, shoulders rolling back, neck cracking once to each side.
“Hey, fucker.”
The guy spins. It takes him a second to register he is not alone, then he lunges.
He is fast, but I am faster. He swings a knife toward my stomach. I twist, but the blade still catches me, slicing a sharp, hot line across my side. Blood blooms warm and immediate against my hoodie, soaking through the fabric in a dark, spreading stain that sticks wetly to my skin.
I smirk beneath the mask. “My turn.”
I grab his wrist before he can pull the knife back, fingers crushing bone with a wet crunch that vibrates up my arm.
He screams, high and sharp. I yank him forward and drive my fist into his face.
Cartilage collapses with a wet crack, blood spraying hot across my mask and the front of his black clothes in a fine mist. He staggers, but I do not let go.
I slam his face down into the sharp edge of the counter.
The impact splits his forehead open, skin parting like wet paper.
Blood pours down his face in thick, glossy sheets, dripping steadily onto the tiled floor in soft, rhythmic patters.
He tries to swing again. I rip the knife from his grip, twisting his arm until the shoulder pops out of his socket with a loud, meaty grind.
His scream turns guttural and raw, bubbling through blood.
I drive the blade deep into his thigh, twisting it slowly so the steel scrapes against bone.
Blood gushes hot and immediate over my hand, running in heavy streams down his leg and pooling on the tiles beneath us.
“You touched her things,” I growl low in his ear, my voice shaking with the unhinged fury flooding every vein. “You looked at what belongs to me.”
I pull the knife free with a wet suck and stab again, this time into his other thigh.
The blade sinks deep. He collapses to his knees, blood pouring from both wounds in pulsing gushes that mix with the earlier spray, spreading across the floor in a dark, glistening lake.
I grab him by the hair and slam his face down into the growing puddle.
The wet smack of flesh hitting tile fills the bakery.
When I yank his head back up, his nose is flattened into a ruined mess, lips split wide, teeth broken and jagged, blood bubbling from his mouth with every ragged breath.
I lean close, breathing hard through the mask, the thick metallic scent of his blood filling my lungs. “She is mine. Everything she touches. Everything she is. Mine.”
He gurgles something through the blood flooding his mouth.
I do not care to listen. I drive the knife into his side, just under the ribs, and drag it upward in one slow, deliberate motion.
Flesh parts with a sickening give. More blood spills out, hot and endless, soaking my sleeve and the floor beneath us in a widening pool that reflects the faint emergency lights.
The beast inside me howls for more, clawing at my ribs, begging to keep cutting until nothing recognizable remains. But I force it back just enough to think. Not here. Not where she works every day. I cannot leave this mess for her to find in the morning.
I rip the knife free and slam the hilt against his temple. His body goes limp, collapsing sideways into the spreading pool of his own blood with a heavy, wet slap.
I stand over him, chest heaving, my own wound burning hot at my side where blood continues to trickle down my skin. Drops fall from my fingers onto the tiles with soft, steady sounds.
No one touches what is mine.
I grab him by the throat and slam him backward into the wall. The impact rattles the shelves behind him. Before he can recover I drive my knee up hard between his legs. He screams behind the balaclava, a high, broken sound that echoes through the empty bakery and dies into wet choking.
“Why are you taking pictures of Briar’s stuff?” I ask, my voice calm even as fresh blood trickles warm down my side and soaks into my waistband.
He whimpers, refusing to answer. Fucking asshole.
I reach down, pick up the knife he dropped, and drive it into his side again, avoiding anything vital. The blade sinks in with a sickening give of flesh. He screams louder, the sound raw and wet, blood welling up around the handle and spilling over my fingers.
Thank fuck no one lives above and everything is closed on Saturday night.
I lean in closer, my masked face inches from his, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that barely carries over the sound of his labored, gurgling breathing.
“You picked the wrong girl to follow,” I grin beneath the mask. “She already has someone watching her. Me.”
The fog presses thick and silent against the windows outside, swallowing the weak glow of the streetlights. Inside the bakery the air grows heavier, thick with the copper tang of fresh blood and the faint, cloying sweetness of leftover sugar and vanilla that still lingers on the counters.
I twist the knife once, just enough to make my point. The blade catches on something inside him and he lets out a gurgling scream that quickly dies into a broken whimper.
“Why are you here?” I grit out against his ear, my breath hot through the mask.
I release the knife, leaving it buried deep in his side, and yank the balaclava up over his face. This motherfucker looks high. Pupils blown wide, skin pale and clammy, sweat mixing with the blood already streaking down his neck and soaking into his collar.
“They paid me—” he blurts out, words slurring through the pain.
“Who?” My rage hangs by a thread now, straining against my control.
“I don’t know. A man caught me on the street, gave me two hundred dollars, an address, and a key.
His face was covered with a scarf. Told me to take pics of the desk next to the window.
Search for any diary or journal.” He cries out, the words tumbling over each other in desperation. “That’s it, I promise.”
“How were you going to deliver these?” I ask, nodding toward the phone lying on the floor near his feet.
“There’s an email saved… I would send everything.” He sobs, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his chin. “Please, I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
Yeah. Too bad. I do not fucking care.
I pick up the knife again and slam it upward under his chin, twisting hard until his eyes roll back and his body sags against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut.
Blood bubbles up around the blade and spills from his mouth in thick, dark rivulets, running down his chest and joining the widening pool on the tiles.
I step back.
His body slides slowly down the wall, leaving a smeared trail of red on the paint, and collapses into the growing lake of blood spreading across the floor.
“Fuck,” I grunt, wiping the blade clean on his jacket. “Now I have to clean all this shit.”
So someone paid this pathetic amateur to photograph Briar’s things. To look for a diary. Why? Does she have another shadow following her? Because I do not share.
I need to tear this place apart again, and her apartment too. I need to make sure no one else has planted anything to spy on her.
Fuck, Briar. What the hell did you get yourself into?