I place the phone on the desk, curl my fingers around the knife, feeling its weight settle in my hand, and push up from the leather chair.
I slip out of the office, sliding into the corridor with deliberate, measured steps. The house breathes around me, its silence taut with expectation. Every creak, every whisper of movement sharpens my senses. Before he arrived, I had loosened a single floorboard in that room—a small advantage.
One creak. That’s all I need.
I make my way down the stairs, deliberate and unhurried, each step a measured mark against the silence. Somewhere nearby, the warped wood groans under his weight, and a ripple of satisfaction curls through me.
Carefully, I inch across the threshold, my eyes drinking him in. Up close, he’s smaller than I pictured—deflated, fragile,pitiful. My grip tightens around the knife hilt, rooting me in the present.
But I don’t strike. Not yet. Not until he sees the real surprise.
I rest my shoulder against the doorframe, shifting my weight until it feels anchored. The room falls into heavy stillness. He holds perfectly still, all attention trained on the tiny tent.
A tense calm flares in me, warm and alive, smoldering in my chest like embers ready to ignite. My palms moisten, the instant tightening around me, soft as silk yet fraught with peril.
Once his attention fully locks onto the scene I built for him, something in his posture shifts. He notices that the tent looks wrong, different, and his phone slips from his hand. The thud hits the floor with enough force to pulse up through the boards, a vibration that travels straight into my boots.
I use the distraction, drifting one step closer.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift my chin and angle my gaze toward the corner camera. I know Dante is watching. I let my eyes settle on the lens, holding steady, letting the gravity of the moment bleed through the glass and into him.
Turning back, I meet the moment his unsteady hand pulls the tent’s fabric apart. His breath catches, a jagged, raw gasp that slams against the walls. He stumbles, glassy-eyed, locked on the scene I’ve meticulously constructed. Dim shadows twist around him, pressing the room closer.
A broken, croaked cry slips from him, tangling with the electric tension in the room. It cuts through my restraint, unraveling the last of my composure. I’m behind him before he can see, driving the knife into his shoulder. A sharp whimper tears from him as his legs buckle.
He turns sharply, his gaze locking with mine—and in that split second, the truth strikes him. The spark of recognition, the bloom of horror. I’ve watched it ignite in so many eyes, and it never loses its thrill.
That moment when they know escape is impossible. When their voice dies in their throat.
When all that’s left is to stare, shaking, and endure what I’m about to inflict.
His eyes trace slowly up my body, from the hem of my sundress to the mask hiding my face, and I watch the truth click into place. Revelation after revelation breaks across his expression, twisting it into something warped with denial.
I supposethisis what people mean when they say a lifetime flashes before your eyes in a heartbeat of panic and despair.
Regret doesn’t touch him. Confusion never comes. Instead, terror takes him whole. It floods his features the moment he realizes his carefully curated facade isn’t just cracked—it’s been obliterated. And I see every monstrous truth beneath it.
“No, no,wait?—”
But I don’t. The second stab goes into his other shoulder, and he collapses into the tent, crushing part of the setup beneath him. The tiny destruction kindles a fresh blaze of fury inside me.
His voice becomes nothing but gurgles and wet chokes as I plunge the knife into him again and again. The blade tears through muscle, gristle, and bone, and even when he stops moving, I don’t stop.
A high-pitched ringing claws at my ears, sharp and relentless. The metallic tang of blood saturates the air, thick enough that I can taste it on my tongue. His body lies in ruin, shirt soaked through with spreading crimson, a living canvas of destruction. My vision blurs—whether from flecks of blood or the unbidden tears welling in my eyes, I can’t tell.
Sometimes, when the anticipation stretches too long, excitement overwhelms me, and the act itself floods me with such raw, unbridled emotion that tears spill anyway. Time loses meaning, the world shrinks to just me and the body I paint with my marks, each motion an intimate imprint of my passion. Thewhite-hot rage boiling inside me burns so vividly that a sharp, nervous laugh escapes my lips, echoing through the suffocating silence that follows.
Shaking, I yank the plastic mask from my face, savoring the sharp kiss of fresh air on my damp skin. I swipe the sweat from my brow, straighten my spine, and roll my neck with slow cracks. Inch by inch, the rage uncoils, slipping out of me as I lift his face in my hands, my eyes boring into his.
A slow, predatory smile curls across my lips as I catch the faint gleam of hope still flickering in his eyes—a glimmer that hadn’t quite died. My breathing steadies, each inhale deeper than the last, the tremor in my body receding as I release his face and tilt my head, surveying the scene.
The tent lies in ruin, fabric torn and distorted. Crooked daisy stickers cling desperately to the flaps, and a single screenshot flutters down, landing on his head, smeared with blood like a final accent.
The sound rips out of my chest, louder now—a raw, ringing laugh that ricochets through the room with violent clarity. It feels absurdly out of place, a dissonant note in the horror I’ve crafted, and yet it leaves me dizzy, lightheaded, intoxicated by the culmination of everything I’ve orchestrated.
Crouching beside him, I press the mask against his face, the idea cutting cleanly through the fog clouding my mind. Sometimes improvisation works best, and right now, it feels flawless. I adjust it, smoothing the plastic over his slack, lifeless features until it sits perfectly.
Rising, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My dress, once pale and pristine, clings to me in dark, sticky patches. My hair is a disheveled chaos, strands sticking to damp skin, a silent testament to the storm I just unleashed. The sight strikes me with sudden clarity, and the weight of exhaustion presses heavily on my shoulders, settling in like a familiar shroud.
