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Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

Multi

Fandom:

Parahumans Series - Wildbow

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Mystic Eyes of Death PerceptionConceptual DeathHorrorPsychological HorrorBody HorrorCosmic HorrorExistential DreadSad girl hoursAlt-Power Taylor HebertPower CorruptionIdentity CrisisCharacter StudyBeing Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Is SufferingTaylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Needs a HugMagicInsanityMurder

Language:

English

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Published:2025-06-21Updated:2025-11-06Words:56,264Chapters:9/?Comments:252Kudos:757Bookmarks:292Hits:29,578

She Who Sees Death

TheSmilingFox

Chapter 3: A Study in Cutting

Chapter Text

1/The Girl Who Didn't Die

A Study in Cutting

Night crept in slow. A slit-moon flickered behind bruised clouds, as if hiding something. The kind of sky that promised rain but never followed through, at least not yet. The forecast said midnight, maybe later. Said it like a fact. Like guessing was the same as knowing. Like it mattered.

The morning chill had vanished. Heat clung to the pavement now, thick and wrong, pressing onto my ribs and making my skin crawl. A breeze swept by, light and irregular, just enough to raise goosebumps. I sank deeper into my hoodie, folding in on myself. One hand in my pocket. Fingers playing with the Swiss knife.

Click. Twist. Fold. Unfold.

Across the street, shop windows lit up one by one. Neon buzzed to life. Cars hissed past in streaks of white and red. Streetlights blinked on together as if they'd rehearsed it. And just beneath the glow, beneath the ordinary… there they were.

Lines.

Hair-thin, ink-black, spiderwebbed through everything. People. Asphalt. Air.

The world came apart if you knew where to look.

I didn't blink.

Didn't need to.

…I'd never left Brockton Bay.

Not for vacations. Not for a move. Not even a school trip, unless I counted the aquarium tour in third grade, and I didn't. If I'd ever been anywhere else, I couldn't remember it. Maybe that was the accident's fault. Maybe not. Dad said we used to go places. I had no reason to think he was lying, but memories don't grow back just because someone says they existed. He didn't talk about it and I didn't ask.

Point was… this city was all I had.

I didn't know the countryside. Didn't know other cities. Hadn't seen New York or Austin or Chicago except in headlines or cheap textbook photos, and those were always the same: skylines under pastel sunsets, people crossing streets like they had somewhere important to be. Maybe they did. I wouldn't know.

But if I had to guess, I figured those places were just different coats of paint on the same rot. More steel. More lights. Bigger bills. Same gutters. Same cracks. All manicured and shot from angles that made you forget they smelled like piss and debt up close.

I couldn't picture myself anywhere else.

Not because I was happy here. I just knew the rules. Knew the cracks. Knew where the rot and violence split apart from the skyscrapers and heroics.

I liked that.

It was easier, seeing where to cut, in a place like this.

Brockton Bay used to mean something. Trade, shipping, cranes moving in smooth rhythm while money changed hands. That all rotted out when the work dried up, and what was left behind was everything nobody wanted: rusting metal, broken families, angry people with no prospects.

Some clawed by. Some packed up and vanished. The rest?

They festered. Got mean, desperate. Ugly.

The Docks were the result. A skeleton of a district, bones of warehouses and factories poking out of the skyline in the shape of crooked teeth. Rats, junkies, gangbangers... everyone circling the same dead waters, biting at scraps, biting at each other. Even the rats probably wanted to leave.

The Docks were also perfect… for trouble. For people who wanted to disappear. For things that needed doing in a place where nobody asked questions. A place where no one noticed a body sagging in an alley, where blood mixed too easily with puddle water….

…Nah.

I stayed away.

I wasn't going there. Not yet.

Too soon. Too raw. Too reckless. I didn't even know what I wanted to do with these lines, and I wasn't cocky enough to think seeing them somehow made me special. Little Taylor plays with knives and thinks she's hot stuff… until someone sharper comes along, cuts her down.

Like Sophia.

She literally stood no chance but it wasn't her inside my locker, was she?

A few well-placed words, some attitude, and voilà. The perfect sneak attack.

I wasn't making that mistake again.

A smart girl knew when to test the water and when to stay dry. The Docks, as I was, were suicide. Poke the wrong person out there, you get carved up for parts, or worse, sold by the pound.

Maybe the Nazis would think my nose crooked enough to string me up with piano wire over it. Maybe a Merchant would lace my drink with drywall and call it a good time.

Not worth it.

Tonight wasn't about making a point. Wasn't about justice. Tonight was about learning. About seeing how things fell apart. Me, a blade, and a city full of lines.

That was enough.

And this part of downtown was a good testing ground. It kept its mask on.

South-east quadrant. Just far enough from the Docks, close enough to light. The skinheads here still pretended they had jobs. The buildings had names and glass facades instead of graffiti tags and boarded-up teeth. No gunfire, no screaming. Just the dull hum of late commerce and overworked lives trying to forget the waterline was rising.

I liked it. Just enough crowd to blend into. Just enough quiet to cut through.

My hand played with the Swiss knife in my pocket. Thumb circling the stud. Then a click. Steel kissed the air beneath the sodium lamps.

"…Let's do this."

The blade flashed, small and neat, perfectly sharp. I licked my lips. Searched.

There, a bench, wood warped, paint flaking. A man slept on it, layered in every kind of blanket except warm. His breath wheezed beneath the noise.

I passed close. Not too close. Fingers brushed the air, traced black fractures only I could see. Hairline cracks along the wood, corners, bolts, seams waiting to surrender. I sliced through two as I walked by.

Crack. The upper corners of the backrest snapped off clean. Wood clattered beside the man's head. He stirred, grunted, rolled deeper into his cocoon of cloth and regret.

Good.

Next.

A loose cable dangled just ahead, buzzing faintly, frayed copper swinging, a trap for the careless. I wrapped my hand in my sleeve, pinched the knife tight.

One quick motion. Blade through a thin black line.

Snip.

The wire hit the grass. The buzzing stopped. The silence felt clean.

There was something like approval in my chest. Not pride, just… confirmation.

I moved on.

Hydrant. Lamppost. Trash bin. Another bench. Empty this time, clean target if I wanted it.

Then I heard it besides me.

Music. Low and syrupy, coming through solid brick. A thrum of base, then breath. Flesh. Moans. The wet rhythm of skin against skin. Voices leaking out between grunts and groans. Someone laughed, gasped, cursed. I caught half a name and a promise no fifteen-year-old was meant to hear.

I pressed my palm to the wall. Closed my eyes. Heard everything. Then opened them again, just enough to catch the lines.

This one was messier. Spiderwebs dancing across brick that reminded me of the aftermath of old violence, zigzagging over an oddly skilled recreation of Banksy's 'Girl with a Balloon'.

I chose a line running diagonal between said girl and her balloon. Drove the blade in.

Dragged.

Didn't wait.

CRACK.

Behind me, stone hit the street. A scream, halfway through a moan, cracked open the silence. A woman shrieked. Someone shouted "What the fuck?" and I was already three storefronts away, smiling into my hoodie.

I didn't laugh. But I could've.

Cut. Move. Cut. Move.

Fast. Decisive. A second of tension, the lash of my wrist, and it was done. I didn't even need to put strength into it. Sink the blade, drag it through the line, waste not one breath or second too long.

That was the method. No flourish. No idling. No hesitation. Nothing anyone could follow. Nothing they could prove.

Just the result.

Then I heard them.

Footsteps. Boots on pavement. Laughter with too much teeth. Voices that slurred their vowels into violence.

I pocketed my knife. Pushed the blade back in its place. Lifted my head, searching.

Across the street... a pack.

Men. A few women. All white, all dressed in bad leather and worse ideas. Black jackets with stylized skulls, patches like failed history exams, and enough steel studs to set off an airport scanner. A swastika or two. Lightning bolts. The usual self-parody.

One of them nudged another, nodded at a woman walking past, whistled. Another said, "She don't look pure," and got elbowed for it. The girl just kept walking, fast.

I stayed still. Hood up. Blade gone. Just another shadow.

They passed me. One of them glanced my way… saw nothing. Just a girl. A lump of fabric and quiet.

"Yo, they got good pizza down on 18th," one said.

"Only if you ignore the Arab making it."

"Still better than the black guy who made yours, Trent!"

Laughter. Stupid, sharp, bitter.

I didn't care. Not really. Not about the talk. Not about the swastikas. I'd seen the same kind of trash but with makeup back at Winslow. Same cruelty. Different brand.

They were animals hiding behind rules they made up. Pushing pain into the world because they didn't know how else to feel real.

I let them walk.

My power wasn't good with moving targets. Not yet. And I wasn't ready to test it on a group that might pull a knife or a gun or worse.

They could play Hitlerjugend for now.

I had other targets. Cleaner ones. Lines to trace. Things to break. Problems to fix.

Brockton Bay was a strategic mess. Like my room. If my room had crime families, trigger-happy capes, and a waterfront made of rust. It was not different than any other city. Patches of good, stretches of bad, nothing so extreme it made you dizzy.

But the 'good' was usually just bad with a better smile and PR. And the bad? Ethnic turf wars, designer drugs cut with acid, and people who could flash-freeze you for stepping on the wrong corner.

Still… I could lose myself in it.

Carve a trail. Leave little breadcrumbs of entropy behind me. Nobody looked twice.

And what I did wasn't even that bad, just cuts in the right places. A pole here; a cable there. Marginal inconveniences and passive chaos. You could call it community service. Pro bono, deranged public works.

"…Yeah, right."

Yeah, no. That was a lie I hadn't earned.

I liked cutting things.

That was it. No manifesto. No deeper truth.

Only Taylor and her knife.

I spaced out my hits. Cut every two streets, turn on the third. I didn't follow a straight line or a pattern. I was a drifting algorithm of minor destruction. So far, so good. No capes knocking. No police scanners pinging. The city ignored itself.

Noise made good cover.

I got bolder.

I passed a lamppost that hadn't worked in weeks. Probably months. Simply standing there, sucking tax dollars and blocking sky.

Click.

I traced a line down the pole. Walked faster.

Behind me, a long, slow whine before the metal gave out. The, the ensuing crash hit like a car wreck. Glass exploded on pavement, a rain of bright shards. Someone shouted "Fock!" as if it hurt their dignity.

Maybe city hall would actually fix it now. Probably not.

I turned the corner. Hid the knife.

Music rolled over the sidewalk. Bass-heavy, all swagger and thump. A new car idled at the curb, slick and smug, vibrating from the volume. At the wheel: pasty white kid, maybe eighteen. Gold chains. Gold rings. Gold watch. Flashing grins and a bottle tucked by the console so easily it almost belonged there.

I stopped. Watched. Tilted my head.

"…Hmm."

Crossed the street.

Two steps. One breath. Blade flicked open. I knelt, pretended I dropped something, and traced the rubber's line.

Snap-pop. One tire. Then the next.

Rubber peeled off like skin.

The car didn't move. The music didn't stop. He kept laughing. Maybe at the lyrics. Maybe at nothing.

Didn't matter.

He wasn't going anywhere.

As I moved deeper into downtown, the lights swelled brighter, blue, gold, red. They shimmered off glass towers and pooled across windshields. Voices grew louder too, scattered arguments, drunken laughter, a child's sharp squeal like glass underfoot. The buildings looked newer here, polished, taller… glimmering as if beauty were a symptom of wealth.

I kept cutting.

Nothing big. Loose threads on coats, the plastic straps on electric scooters, a flyer stapled to a pole. A corner here, a wire sheath there. Just enough. The trick wasn't in slicing, but in vanishing before anyone looked twice. Sleight of hand. Ghostwork. A training run.

"You see that guy?" someone muttered behind me. "Weird little twitch in his hand…"

But I was already gone, absorbed by the current of bodies. Moving. Watching.

Still, this wasn't what I came for. Little cuts didn't make a difference. Not really.

No matter.

I'd waited three years. I could give myself a few more nights to get it right.

Every few blocks, I stopped.

Not to rest. I wasn't running.

Just… dizzy.

A lightness in the back of my skull. Neither nausea nor pain, just... something off, like my bones didn't quite belong inside my skin. I pressed a palm to the nearest brick wall. Warm. Slick from the night's heat.

I breathed in deep. City air and hot concrete, pretzel carts and car exhaust.

Above me, Lady Photon grinned from a massive billboard, hawking a beauty serum designed for 'powered skin types'. Next to her, a looping PRT ad showcased the latest nonlethal ordinance in gleaming digital overlays. A handful of people actually stopped to watch.

Miss Militia stood frozen in patriotic salute, eyes bright beneath a digital flag.

Funny.

I'd heard her speak once. Accent just off enough to notice. Not American. But she wore the flag, so no one questioned it.

And then… there they were.

The lines, again.

Stretched as fractures across buildings, roads, people. Across me. They pulsed under neon and shadow, endless, shifting, inevitable.

In hindsight, I hadn't noticed them before.

Hadn't really looked. Not like this.

Not since… Emma.

We came here once. Twice, maybe. She'd dragged me out, talking about stores and shoes and cute boys with ugly haircuts. I'd pretended to care. Forced myself to look where she looked.

Not at the lines.

Never at the lines.

Too much noise. Too much light. Too many lines.

I let my head hang. The pressure behind my eyes throbbed, sharp and quiet.

"Hah…"

I exhaled through my teeth. It felt like something was waking up. Or waiting.

I pressed two fingers into my temples. A feeble effort, as if trying to massage a scream into a whisper. It didn't help. Not really. But closing my eyes narrowed the noise down to a single point, let me breathe through it. Focus elsewhere.

Until I felt breath too close to mine.

Eyes half-lidded, I saw a hand reaching toward me.

"H-Hey. You okay, lady?"

I slapped it away. Quick, instinctive.

"Fuck off."

He stopped, then huffed, more annoyed than hurt. "...Sheesh. Suit yourself."

Didn't answer. Didn't look. Just stayed curled up against the bricks, kneading at my bro, perhaps hoping I could press the pressure out through bone.

It had been a while since the last headache. A real headache. Usually it only came after I stared at a line for too long, ten minutes, maybe twenty if I paced it. But this time I hadn't been watching one. I'd been cutting. Moving. Skimming through fractures.

I coughed. Swallowed the taste of iron. Peeled myself off the wall. Blinked into the buzz of the street.

The guy from before was a few feet away, coat cheap and stained with something brown at the elbow.

Someone brushed past him... no, more like clung to him. A different man. Greasy hair. Sunken eyes. Leather jacket two sizes too small, stitched over with flames and a forgotten logo. I barely caught the motion: a flick of the wrist, a twitch of the shoulder.

Then the wallet vanished into his jacket.

My breath stilled.

My eyes lowered. I turned away… but not before I memorized the pickpocket's gait, the rise of his spine, the angle of the stolen thing bulging against his side.

I waited five seconds. Six. Then let myself move, quiet as breath, shadows tugging at my hoodie.

Fingertips found the Swiss knife in my pocket. I rolled it between them. Cool. Familiar, already. The stud brushed against my thumb.

Click. The blade slid out partway, hidden in fabric.

Thump.

The sound was inside me. Not out. A pulse beneath my ear. A breath caught in muscle.

It was a good opportunity. No cameras. No attention. No cops.

Just a test. Just one. See how it felt.

I hadn't really tried it before. Not like this.

Fixing. Removing what was unnecessary…

…Cutting someone.

Thieves didn't need hands.

Thump.

I tracked his wrist. The lines wavered like threads in heat. Four of them. Maybe five. Jagged shapes shifting across the skin in vague patterns.

Thump.

One flick of my wrist. One simple trace. The line would break.

Thump.

The noise of the world dulled again. Engines dropped to a hum. Voices became wet cotton.

There was just me, the knife, the hand, and the geometry of truth painted in ink-black ridges.

THUMP.

My heart beat against my jaw. Against my teeth. A rhythm now. Building. Warm. Hungry.

I pressed a finger to my throat. Carotid. It pulsed hot beneath the skin.

Wrong. Too fast. Too loud.

THUMP.

I stepped closer. The knife slid free in my palm. My shoulder shifted, arm tightening like a spring.

One flick. One. I wouldn't even be here when he turned. Just a cut. The first.

What did skin feel like, when it gave way?

Rubber? Paper? Wood? Brick?

Or just another black line, sliced clean through by something sharper than truth?

My hand tightened.

Then—

THU-MP.

White heat burst behind my eyes.

"S-S-Shit."

I reeled. Fumbled the knife back into my pocket.

My knees nearly gave, shoulder dragging me toward the nearest wall.

Pain screamed behind my eyes, drilling into my skull. A chisel striking bone.

My breath shook. Something warm ran down my lip. I tasted copper.

Fingers touched my mouth. Then rose.

Blood.

Bright and wet on my fingertips.

My vision wavered. Just for a second.

Then the headache hit hard. There was another spike of white behind my eyes. I staggered sideways and caught myself on the wall again, fingers scraping along brick and paint, breath shallow and high in my throat. Breathe, breathe, breathe, steadily, take the oxygen in...

I moved, drunk on pain, one step at a time, head pounding in sync with my pulse. A dim storefront window reflected me as I passed.

I saw a hood drawn up, and pale skin, and eyes too blue and bright too be normal. There was also a... a red smear, there just below my nose, trickling from my nose.

I paused and rubbed the back of my hand under it. It was blood, real blood, thin and dark. I stared at the stain. Licked it. Iron-like,

Not trauma. Not a punch. Something else.

…Too much strain? From the lines?

I touched my temple with two fingers and winced. The pressure was still there, but it had stopped clawing. I could breathe again, think, though not much anyway.

This had never happened before.

Was this what happened when I looked too close for too long…?

…No more cutting tonight. I'd gone too far already. I needed to stop. At least until I gathered more information. Until I learned how many lines were too many lines.

I leaned back against the wall, waited until the spinning stopped, then pushed off and started walking. I barely made it three steps before—

Sirens. Shouting. Lights blooming red and blue across the rooftops.

I turned. Police cruisers screeched to a halt at the far end of the street, cutting off an intersection. Officers jumped out, barking orders.

"Move back! Everyone off the street!"

"What's going on?!"

"There's a pursuit - get inside!"

A loud crash. Metal against metal. People scattered. Cops waved us back with outstretched arms and sidearms drawn.

A blur, low and sleek, tore around the corner. A car. Engine howling, tires squealing, doors open and arms jutting out, guns spitting muzzle flashes in bursts.

A man on a machine—chrome and hum and blue highlights—raced after it, spear raised, dodging bullets with timed stops and turns.

On the other side, a girl flew golden hair whipping behind her. She carried half a car door like some improvised shield, deflecting the gunfire with it.

Glory Girl. Armsmaster.

Capes. Heroes.

One from the skies, one from the street. Coincidence or a silent call, I couldn't tell. But they moved in coordination. They'd probably done this before.

I blinked. Took it in. Robbers, maybe. Firearms. High-speed escape. The heroes had flanked them, were funneling them straight toward the blockade.

Police were already dragging a spike strip across the road. One cop tripped in the process.

"…Huh."

That was all I managed. That level of control, of communication… unfair, in a way. They had networks. Tools. Backup.

All I had were lines.

Just… cuts.

I looked down at the street beneath my feet. At the fractures I always saw now, winding along the pavement in a geometry only I understood.

I felt… maybe not jealousy. Curiosity, yes.

If all I had were cuts… maybe I could still change things.

Maybe I could do more.

A woman near me shouted, "Is that kid hurt?!"

"Hey, don't go out there!" a cop barked, reaching out. I stepped just past his fingers.

One breath. Two.

I moved to the center of the street. Just a girl in a hoodie, swaying slightly on her feet.

I knelt. Tugged at my shoelaces like they were undone.

Slipped a hand inside my pocket and took the knife out, blade already drawn.

I raised my head just enough to catch the glare of headlights slicing through the dark. The car was barreling toward me at full speed, gunfire cracking from the windows. Someone inside was panicking, that much was obvious. They weren't slowing down.

I heard footsteps. Distant shouts. A couple of cops yelling, rushing toward me.

Too late.

What business was it of theirs if I wanted to stay exactly where I was?

My fingers tightened around the knife. I brought it down, the blade striking a line etched into the pavement only I could see.

The light devoured my vision. The roar of the engine drowned everything else out.

Glory Girl flashed into view. Her silhouette against the sky, a glimmering streak of gold and white. She dropped her car door somewhere behind her—just flung it aside—and rocketed toward me, shouting something I couldn't make out. Hair whipping behind her like a banner, arms outstretched.

I moved. Just enough. A hop sideways, quick and clumsy.

The knife dragged through the line.

I sheathed it in one motion.

BAM.

A blast of pain tore through my foot. I didn't scream. Just grit my teeth hard enough to bite through steel. My leg folded and I hit the street, eyes wide.

And I watched the line collapse.

The road sagged like it had lost its bones. The car's front dipped in, and then it went airborne.

It spun. Hung midair for half a breath. Slammed down with a crunch of metal and rubber, tires ripping off. It skidded sideways, sparks flying, and came to a screaming halt just short of the police barricade.

I stayed where I fell. Didn't touch my ankle, though I wanted to. Needed to. Fire pulsed through it. I forced a few tears. Let my eyes water as the pain made my throat close.

Hands found me. Gentle ones, surprising for their size and strength. Someone helped me sit up.

I hissed, but kept the sound low. My body shook, but I made it seem like fear, not injury.

Glory Girl.

One arm braced me upright. The other hovered awkwardly in front of me, fingers twitching with hesitation. She looked like she was trying not to touch a porcelain doll.

"You okay?" she asked, voice sharp but steady. Two fingers went up in front of my face. "How many? Can you tell me your name? Birthday? Pain anywhere?"

I nodded. Swallowed hard. Let my voice crack, just a little.

"Two... fingers. Charlie. Thirteen. October thirty-first. And, uh… d-does being scared shitless count as pain?"

She huffed out a breath. A half-laugh. Relief, maybe.

"Doesn't count. But it means you're still breathing."

She squeezed my shoulder. I finally looked at her fully.

Platinum hair gleaming as silk. Eyes shining with a blue fire. A white outfit that walked the line between princess and general - skirt, shining boots, and a tiara that looked far too real.

Glory Girl. Larger than life.

A real hero.

Holding me.

I felt nausea for a second.

There were lines on her, too. But not just on her skin.

They shimmered above her body, slightly out of sync. A second set, phasing just a breath beyond her flesh. Different angles, different geometry. What was that? A veil? A symbol?

A… thing?

What is this…?

I blinked. And the lines remained.

Glory Girl's shadow passed over me before her hand did, She was strong, yet gentle, handling a girl that was made of paper. I tried to get up on my own. My ankle screamed.

"Can you stand?" she asked, stepping back just enough to let me pretend.

"Y-Yeah," I muttered, adding a tremble for effect, as if terror had knocked me off my feet and not a speeding car.

She didn't buy it, not entirely. Her eyes flicked over me and something in her jaw tightened.

"…Do I want to ask why you ran out after the police cleared the street?"

I gave her a crooked, dazed little smile. Tilted my head like I'd only just noticed the flashing lights and blue uniforms behind her.

"P-Police?" I echoed, blinking dumbly at the sirens. My gaze drifted to the toppled car down the road. "Oh. I didn't… I was just…"

That seemed to do it. She sighed, ran a hand through her hair. Big sister mode activated.

"Girl, I'm not gonna lecture you, but damn. Sleep. Veggies. Therapy. You look like a haunted scarecrow. And look both ways next time, alright?"

I nodded, slack-jawed and sheepish. "Yes ma'am."

She gave me a thump on the back. Friendly. Nearly knocked my lungs out.

"I'm not a ma'am. I'm like four years older than you, tops. Now get outta here."

She floated toward the wreck, pausing mid-air to glance back, at the street, the hole in the pavement I'd carved. Her brows creased, just a little.

I exhaled slowly as two cops approached, soft-voiced but firm, herding me from the street. I tugged my hoodie higher, let them see a harmless girl with bad luck and worse timing.

But as they guided me, I caught the glint of blue metal.

Armsmaster.

Still on his ridiculous bike, visor glowing faint with HUD data. Staring at the ruined asphalt like it owed him money.

"…Already on scene. Engaged. Civilian interference noted," I heard him say.

Then his head turned. Right to me.

I looked away.

Let them protect this poor, stupid girl.

My limp was harder to fake now. The pain in my ankle flared sharp every step. So when the cops turned, distracted by the medics, I slipped away - ducked into the crowd like some wraith in a hoodie.

I walked—limped, really—until the lights were distant noise. Until the adrenaline faded and the throbbing came back twice as loud.

Collapsed against a brick wall in some nameless alley. Pressed both hands to my face.

Not from the headache.

From sheer, unfiltered idiocy.

"Why the fuck did I do that?"

No answer. Just the taste of asphalt in my mouth and the feeling of blood in my shoe.

It hadn't been a plan. No strategy. Just instinct. Pressure. Maybe some twisted sense of justice. Or spite.

The silence offered no answers. Just lines. Just a breath.

I smiled into my palms. Let out a sigh that sounded close enough to a laugh.

Of course.

"…Why not," I whispered. This time, not asking. "I liked it."

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Chapter 1040 - 3