I don’t want to be found rotting and hideous.
I need to get a date.
Maybe I’ll call that guy from the police department who I slept with over two months ago. He was sweet, although I flirted with him only to see the file from that botched operation—seven men probably working for the organization, dead on site.
Pieces of skin were cut out of them. One of the bodies was missing a head. The photos were disgusting.
Well, the police officer whose name I sadly don’t remember didn’t call me. Not that I’d want him to, but I’m offended, I guess.
I go back to the bathroom to do my skincare, standing in front of the mirror as I search for the right serum, when I feel it again.
The presence, the rush of what might be my final moment, hits me.
I stop and freeze, sweat breaking on my neck because I just know. I’m sure. I’m not alone.
Fuck. This is it.
This time it’s real.
I grab the first thing I see lying on the counter—my hairbrush. It’s long and narrow and has a sharp tip. I can at least put up a fight and not die as a pathetic loser.
I look up at the mirror in front of me, and there he is.
A huge figure in the corner of the bathroom right behind me, maybe four feet away and at least a foot taller than me.
He just stands there, hood pulled up, shadowing his face.
In the dim bathroom light, I can see a strand of black hair, slightly wavy at the end, hanging by the side of his eye.
He knows I see him and he’s not doing anything. As if he was waiting.
I’m frozen.
I imagined this moment since I started writing about the criminal underworld of this city and I always imagined myself braver.
But here we are.
I am frozen and scared to death. I don’t think I’m breathing, and the suffocation sends a blanket of sweat across my forehead and neck.
Why is he not doing anything?
Is it him?
Do I even want it to be him?
Suddenly, I smell it. Goosebumps rush all over my body, and I think I’m going to faint any second now.
Someone is standing in my bathroom ready to kill me, and my mind must be playing tricks on me—probably just letting me smellhimone last time before I go.
Leather, musk, cardamom, and cigarettes.
My legs start to tremble, and just like that, I know that if I try to run, I’ll probably trip over the first step. He tilts his head subtly to the side and just stands there, his hands in his pockets.
He looks so… unbothered?
Is he fucking enjoying this?
What the hell is he waiting for?
