"…Thanks for telling me."
She didn't know why she said it.
Her voice had sounded like it belonged to someone else. Distant. Hollow. Like a puppet with cut strings, she just… folded, sitting down on Brandon's bed as if the floor had dropped out from under her.
He stood across from her, still. Silent.
Watching. He always watched.
Beth stared at the wall. She didn't cry. Couldn't. The tears didn't come. Maybe they dried up the night Jamal died. Or maybe they never existed in the first place.
He killed Jamal. She knew of course, deep down… but having it confirmed…
Her Jamal. Her other half. Her monster. Her mirror.
Her first.
Brandon had said it so simply. Like reading a grocery list. Like it didn't matter.
Like it wasn't the most important sentence she'd ever heard.
"Because I needed to know if you were going to kill me for it."
She should have. That's what she told herself. That's what her real self—the one hiding under the masks and the eyeliner and the perfect cold indifference—was screaming.
Kill him. Kill him now.
But she hadn't.
She still didn't.
Instead, she sat there. Breathing. Barely. Her hand gripped the edge of his mattress like it would float away if she didn't anchor it.
Brandon moved, finally. He didn't say another word. Just sat in his chair, back turned toward her. Gave her space. Gave her silence.
Ashes jumped up next to her, purring softly.
Beth blinked and looked down at the cat. The little ball of fur leaned against her thigh, content, as if it didn't sense the storm vibrating under her skin.
She stayed like that for an hour. Maybe two.
Eventually, she stood. Quietly. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't slam the door.
That night, her dorm room felt colder than usual.
Her bruises still ached, especially the one on her cheek. Her fingers brushed over it absentmindedly as she lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Brandon had killed Jamal.
He had watched him. Stalked him. Hunted him.
And she didn't even see it coming.
She thought she was the smart one. The dangerous one. The girl who knew all the angles and pulled all the strings. But she had been walking next to her boyfriend's killer for weeks now. She'd shared quiet laughs, private smiles, long stares that lingered too long.
She remembered the way he'd looked at her when she joked about them being together in front of the Deadfast Club. How his jaw had tightened, how his knuckles had curled, how he hadn't denied it.
He didn't hate her.
Even after knowing what she was.
Even after knowing who she had been.
Beth rolled over, burying her face in her pillow.
You should hate him.
You should gut him and leave him on his floor like a trophy.
You should make him feel what you felt when you saw Jamal's mask soaked in his own blood.
But she didn't move.
She didn't scream.
She just lay there, heart thudding slowly, heavily, like her body didn't know whether to grieve or relax.
Because… if she was being honest—really, brutally, knife-to-the-throat honest with herself—part of her wasn't angry.
Part of her was… relieved.
Jamal had been spiraling.
He was sloppy. He was erratic. He was possessive.
She remembered their first kill together. How it felt like flying. Like fire and freedom and love all tangled into one. But by the end?
He started killing just to hurt her. To test her.
He liked the fear in their victim's eyes, but he liked it even more in hers.
And she never told anyone that. Not even herself.
But Brandon had seen what Jamal was and stopped him. Efficient. Quiet. No games.
Just justice.
And now, she was still here. Alive.
Not in a jail cell. Not dead in a ditch.
Still breathing.
And she liked the way Brandon looked at her more than she ever liked the way Jamal did.
Beth sat up in bed, the sheets clinging to her legs. Her knife was still under her pillow, out of habit. She pulled it out, turned it over in her hand. The blade caught the moonlight pouring through the blinds.
She could still kill him.
He wasn't invincible.
He had weaknesses.
You could wait until he's sleeping.
Drive it between his ribs. Slow.
Look him in the eyes like he looked at Jamal.
Beth exhaled, long and tired, and set the knife on the nightstand.
She didn't want to.
Not tonight.
She turned her head and stared out the window, at the distant glow of the campus streetlamps.
Brandon wasn't Jamal.
That was the truth she was struggling with.
He didn't kill for fun. He didn't laugh when it hurt. He didn't play with people just to see them break.
He killed people like Tico. Like Dean Lomas.
Like the real monsters of the world.
And… he was trying to help her, in his own fucked-up way.
Beth scoffed under her breath, a bitter smirk tugging at her lips.
She should be furious.
Instead, she just felt… empty.
No, not empty.
Reset.
Like someone had kicked over the chessboard and all the pieces were scattered and she had no idea which ones she wanted to pick up again.
And even stranger?
She wasn't afraid.
Beth closed her eyes, letting herself drift off with Ashes curled up next to her. Because the damned cat followed her home… again.
In the dark, a single thought echoed quietly:
He killed Jamal… and I let him live.
And she wasn't sure if that made her weak—
— or finally free.