“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 ofits 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.
TWENTY-TWO
EMILIO
No matterhow many crime scenes I work, it never gets easier.
The weight settles the same way every time—the copper stink of blood in the air, silence clinging to the brick and asphalt after violence has screamed itself hoarse, and the inescapable truth that someone’s selfish choice just ripped away light, laughter, and future from another human being. I can already see what it means for the people waiting at home. Parents who will never hear their child’s voice again. Brothers, sisters, and friends left staring at a space in their lives that should be filled with birthdays, arguments, late-night phone calls, and stupid inside jokes—but instead holds nothing but absence.
The void violence leaves behind feels endless, but still, I carry it. Because if not me, then who?
