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 toher, 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.
Adeadend.
“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.
