Page 28

My hands curl into fists so tight I can nearly feel my nails bite into my palms through the thick leather gloves.

He doesn’t see me at first, going toward the kitchen, seemingly operating on muscle memory and the dim light from the street lamp outside. I hear him digging in the fridge, the tap of cans as he searches for something to calm his nerves.

What a sad little man, living a sad little life. I almost smile behind my mask because of how pitiful it is.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost, but not quite.

I wait until he turns, beer in hand, heading back toward the living room, where he probably plans to sit on his fold-out couch and jerk off to the thought of Wynnie until it is time for her to pick him up. Only then did I move quickly, blocking his path; a wall of shadowed death.

His body jolts when he sees me, every muscle going rigid with shock. The beer slips through his suddenly nervous fingers, hitting the floor with a loud thud. Foam sprays across the carpet, adding another stain to the collection.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, thick with shock.

I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, trying to process what he’s seeing. A raven figure, completely silent, standing in his house; a nightmare made of flesh. I watch as confusion changes to recognition, the pieces clicking into place.

“You’re… Ghost? Aren’t you?”

I tilt my head slowly, letting the movement answer him. Allowing the implications to sink in. He’s heard about me, that’s for sure, but he could never be me. I was sure he certainly never thought I would come for him or that his casual interest in Wynnie marked him for death.

Hudson scrambles backward a step, then two, until his heels hit the pony wall that separates his kitchen and living room. His breathing is coming in short, panicked gasps now, and his eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape route.

“L-Listen, man, if this is about Wynnie—”

Wynnie. Her name in his mouth is blasphemy; it makes my wrath ignite, and my control starts to fracture.

Without so much as a warning or empathy, I lunge. Hudson swings a wild and desperate punch, obviously thrown by someone who’s never been in a real fight in his life. I sidestep it with ease. Amateur. Insulting, really, that he thinks such a poor attempt could touch me.

I grab his arm as his swing follows through, and my fingers find the pressure points I’d memorized long ago. I twist until I feel the bone pop, sickeningly beneath my hands. His shoulder dislocates from the force. Hudson screams a high, winded sound that speaks of agony.

Good, I want it to hurt. His final moments are meant for him to understand exactly what he attempted to take from me.

He reminds me of a dying animal when they realize the end is coming, as he fights back harder, thrashing more, even with only one good arm. It doesn’t matter, not tonight. Not against me. I’ve been preparing for moments like this, training my body to be a weapon.

I slam him into the wall hard enough to knock an ugly framed painting to the ground, where it shatters into a dozen pieces. He tries to shove me off with his usable arm, fear giving him that final burst of energy. I’m ready for it. I knee him hard in the side, driving the air from his lungs in a choked gasp.

Coughing with a hard wheeze, he falls to the ground, trying his damnedest to crawl away from me toward his only escape.

“Please,” he rasps, fighting to get more air into his damaged lungs. “I haven’t even touched her, I swear… We’ve never—I wouldn’t—”

His truth is supposed to be reassuring, I think. An attempt to convince me he isn’t a threat. Sure, he hasn’t touched her yet, but he wants to; that much was obvious. Listening to him only makes things worse.

I crouch beside him, grabbing a handful of greasy, product-covered curls, and yank his head up so he’s forced to look at me and see his death reflected in my eyes.

“You may not have touched her yet, but you thought you could,” I whisper calmly, despite the inferno steaming internally. “And that’s just as bad.”

He shakes his head frantically, tears welling in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks, falling one by one.

“No, no… I never—She asked me out! I didn’t think—”

I pull out my switchblade, the friendly weight of it soothing in my hand. The freshly sharpened blade springs free with a soft click. Hudson’s eyes go wide with terror as I press it lightly beneath his jawline, just enough for blood to pool at the surface before spilling over, dripping to the floor.

A preview of what is coming.

He sobs, begging under his breath in words that run together into meaningless noise. “Please,” “don’t,” and “I’m sorry,” all blending into the bleak soundtrack of the end of his life.

“You tried to take something that wasn’t yours, and now it’s my turn to take something.”