The night should have been perfect.
The air was heavy with fog and cigarette smoke, the streetlights flickering like dying stars. Beth had picked the target hours ago—a frat boy type who bragged too much in class, laughed too loud when girls looked uncomfortable, and had more restraining orders than books read.
The kind of scum no one missed.
It wasn't about justice. Not for her. Not like it had been for Jamal.
No, this was about something else.
Reclaiming control.
Feeling something again.
Her hands had been twitching since the funeral. Every whisper about "how brave she was" or "how scary that mask must've been" made her skin itch. The rest of the Deadfast Club thought it was over.
But Beth knew better.
Someone had taken Jamal from her. And tonight, she just needed a taste. Just one kill to wake herself up again. To steady her grip.
She moved through the alley like a shadow, watching her mark stumble out of the liquor store, headphones in, oblivious.
She pulled the knife from her sleeve, thumb grazing the edge, waiting for that delicious little moment where anticipation flipped into action.
Then she heard a voice.
Calm. Casual.
"You out here sketching too?"
Beth froze.
She turned.
Brandon.
The new guy.
Too quiet. Too chill. Always just… there.
Of all the alleys, of all the nights.
"You lost?" she asked, slipping the knife back into her sleeve with a flick.
Brandon stood a few feet away, his hands in his hoodie pocket, a small notebook tucked under one arm. "Nah. Just walking. Thinking."
She didn't buy that for a second.
"Thinking in a dark alley?"
He shrugged. "It's quiet."
Great. She glanced over her shoulder. Her target had vanished around the corner. Great. There went her kill. All because Mr. Brooding Artist decided to play midnight philosopher.
"Do you always sneak up on girls alone at night?" she asked, half-joking, half-daring him.
"If I was sneaking, you wouldn't have seen me."
Beth narrowed her eyes.
Bold.
He smiled—not cocky, not creepy. Just… serene.
Something about that made her uneasy.
Not scared. Just aware.
"So," he said, as casually as someone asking about the weather, "why are you out here?"
She gave him a look. "Why are you out here?"
"Told you. Sketching. Urban mood. You?"
She paused.
Say something normal.
"Needed air. That, or I'd stab a wall."
Brandon chuckled. "Relatable."
They stood there a second longer, silent. The wind picked up and rustled through the trash and broken beer bottles like bones being stirred.
Beth sighed and turned to go. "You ruined my night, Whitfield."
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry.
She didn't respond. Just walked off.
But halfway down the block, she slowed.
There was something about the way he'd looked at her.
Not flirtatious. Not scared. Not curious.
Analytical.
Like he wasn't seeing a girl in an alley, but a puzzle he was almost done solving.
Beth ran her tongue along her teeth.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe she was paranoid.
But something in the back of her skull prickled like a knife's whisper.
She glanced over her shoulder. Brandon was gone.
Her heart thudded—once, hard.
Then she smirked to herself.
"Add him to the list," she muttered.
Not for now.
But soon.
Her dorm was a ten-minute walk from the alley, fifteen if she was pissed — which she was.
The hall was quiet, lit by the soft, sterile glow of fluorescents that buzzed just enough to be annoying. Her door creaked as it opened, the familiar scent of incense and lavender-scented bleach filling her nostrils. It was her own mix — the comfort of calm and the sting of cleanliness. Control. It made her feel safe.
She threw her jacket on the bed, peeled off her fishnets, and stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself.
The eyeliner was smudged. Her eyes looked tired. Not sad. Not scared. Just… tired.
She turned her lip piercing between her teeth and muttered, "I should've killed that asshole when I had the chance."
But she hadn't. Because Brandon showed up.
Beth sat at her desk, the chair squeaking under her as she opened a notebook that didn't look suspicious — class notes on the outside.
Murder maps on the inside.
She flipped to a page titled:
"Contenders"
There were six names.
She scribbled over the last one — her would-be victim from earlier — and added two new entries.
Brandon Whitfield (maybe.)
Unknown killer (definitely.)
Her pen hovered over Brandon's name.
He didn't scare her.
She could slit his throat in his sleep if she wanted to. Hell, she could make it look like he did it himself, leave a note, plant a bottle of sleeping pills, the works.
But…
Something about him didn't click. Not the way other people did. He didn't leer. He didn't flinch. He watched.
Like Jamal used to.
Beth curled up in her chair, pulling her knees to her chest, arms hugging them tight.
Jamal.
The moment she thought his name, the world around her softened like a dream dissolving — and her mind tumbled into memory.
Two Years Ago.
Somewhere off the freeway.
Middle of nowhere.
The gas station reeked of hot dogs and despair.
The clerk was maybe twenty. Greasy ponytail. Said something rude when she asked where the bathroom was. Looked down her shirt instead of answering.
Beth didn't flinch. She just smiled.
She walked out to the car. Jamal was waiting behind the wheel, chewing on a toothpick.
"Well?" he asked.
Beth said nothing — just tilted her head toward the station, that wicked little grin forming.
Jamal's eyes sparkled.
They didn't wear masks that night. Just hoodies. Gloves. Quiet steps.
She distracted the clerk by asking for rolling papers. Jamal came from behind. Zip tie. Box cutter.
It was over in under a minute.
Beth watched the blood puddle like a halo. She felt it spray on her boots, warm and real and perfect.
Her breath hitched. Not in fear. In joy.
They didn't say a word until they were halfway down the freeway, music blaring.
Jamal glanced at her and said, "You feel it?"
She nodded. "Like the world finally makes sense."
That was their first time.
The first of many.
They didn't need a reason. They didn't hide behind justice or trauma. It was about control. About power. About pleasure.
Beth smiled at the memory, her eyes glinting with heat and sorrow.
Then, quietly, like a prayer, she whispered, "I'm gonna kill whoever took you from me, baby."
She leaned forward and kissed the page in her notebook.
Then circled Brandon's name.