That gets a laugh from somewhere behind us.
“You should watch your fucking mouth, before I shut it for?—”
That’s when I step in.
Just enough to break his line to her, my shoulder sliding between them, wings brushing the air behind me.
“Whoa, whoa—easy,” I cut in, voice lazy through the mask, like I’m breaking up a minor inconvenience instead of a full public meltdown. “Isn’t tonight supposed to be about love?”
I roll my shoulders exaggeratedly, wings shifting and rustling as I shrug, feathers brushing people behind me. A couple heads turn in our direction. Someone laughs, and a few others pull out their phones and hit record.
“Hot people finding each other,” I continue out loud, idly turning the bow in my hands like I’m checking its balance. “Bad decisions. Regrettable make-outs in dark corners. The whole Valentine’s disaster package.” The movement gets attention. The prop catches the light. A girl near the bar gasps quietly. Someone whistles. “You know,” I add, “festive.”
I step closer to Mark, not rushing, or aggressive, but close enough that he has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. I lift the bow and hook it lightly under his chin, tipping his face up so he’s looking straight at the mask.
Gentle. Mocking and controlled.
“But instead,” I go on pleasantly, “you’re over here throwing a tantrum because you fumbled a fucking smoke show and—oh no—someone else noticed.”
A sharp laugh breaks out behind us. Someone else says, “Damn, dude,” like Mark just got publicly executed.
I tap the bow once under his jaw, just enough to make the point. “That’s gotta hurt, huh? Watching the hottest girl in the room move on while you’re stuck screaming about it like that’s gonna magically make her want you again.”
Mark swats the bow away, furious, face flushed dark under the lights. “Get that shit out of my face.”
I grin under the mask and lean in even closer.
“Shit, I get it,” I murmur through the mask. “She’d be a hard one to lose.”
His breath stutters. I can see it in the way his chest tightens.
I lean down, bringing my mask to his ear, “I mean…those sounds,” I add softly, like I’m thinking out loud. “Those soft, fucking sounds she makes when she’s close.”
His jaw clenches hard enough I hear his teeth grind.
“And that taste,” I finish calmly. “Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”
That’s it.
That’s the moment he snaps.
He shoves me first, sloppy and furious, then swings wild—drunk, and so desperate it's fucking laughable. All fucking ego and no control. His fist clips my jaw, sharp enough to turn my head and draw a collective gasp from the crowd.
I straighten slowly, then reach up and peel the mask off, letting it hang loose in my hand as I roll my jaw once.
That was hisone, but now?
Now he is fucking done.
His hand drops slowly toward his waistband and pulls out a knife.
It’s small. Cheap. The kind men like him carry because they think the sight of it counts as fucking power. The metal flashes under the lights for half a second before the bass eats the moment whole. His friends stiffen behind him, puffing up with borrowed confidence, like he just evened the odds instead of signing his own death certificate, and possibly theirs too.
“You see, freak,” Mark says, grin twitchy now, adrenaline leaking through his voice. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with.”
Oh? This fucking guy is funny. I almost laugh.
Because last I checked, he was a drunk ex with a pocketknife and an audience, and I’m one half of a pair of serial killers who’ve left bodies behind for a lot fucking less than this. The math is not on his side, and the fact that he thinks it is might be the dumbest, yet most comical bullshit he’s done all night.
