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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warnings:
Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death
Category:
Multi
Fandom:
Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Characters:
Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverLisa Wilbourn | TattletaleAlec | RegentBrian Laborn | GrueRachel Lindt | Bitch | HellhoundEmma Barnes (Parahumans)Sophia Hess | Shadow StalkerAmy Dallon | Panacea | Red QueenVictoria Dallon | Glory Girl | AntaresUndersiders (Parahumans)Brockton Bay WardsThomas Calvert | CoilMadison Clements
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 4: Hypnos
Chapter Text
1/The Girl Who Didn't Die
Hypnos
"…In recognition of their swift action Monday night, Mayor Christner praised Armsmaster and Glory Girl for their coordinated response to an attempted robbery. He cited their cooperation with law enforcement, low civilian risk, and minimal property damage. Notably, Glory Girl, often criticized for reckless tactics against gang activity, was commended for showing 'measured restraint'…"
Dad snorted into his tea, reclining deeper into the couch. "Armed robbery, huh? I feel a bit old. I thought modern villains came with talking snakes or laser eyes. Feels like someone forgot to catch up with the times."
I shifted the ice pack on my ankle. It stung a little. The swelling was worse than I thought.
"You're imaginative, Dad," I murmured, adjusting the cushion under my leg. After a beat, I added, "I prefer the guns."
He glanced sideways, one brow raised, uncertain if I was joking. I wasn't.
"Oh?" he said, light, but testing the waters. "Why's that?"
I moved the ice again, this time to the side where the heat was starting to pulse.
"Guns are old. Predictable," I said. "We've had time to figure them out. Protocols, ballistics, angles of failure. A guy with a sunbeam stare? That's problematic."
He tilted his mug slightly, watching the steam curl.
"…Touché."
The TV droned on, voice bright and urgent beneath a veneer of neutrality.
"…Mayor Christner also praised the heroes' quick adaptation to the situation, noting the suspects were apprehended within five minutes. He cited the incident as a success for independent hero groups, arguing they can respond to threats more efficiently than the PRT, which often struggles under bureaucratic constraints. Critics, however, claim that the city's lenience toward unsupervised teams like New Wave is just another sign of administrative impotence, especially given the rising influence of criminal groups such as Empire Eighty-Eight and the ABB…"
Dad waved his mug vaguely at the screen, frowning.
"Can't say I disagree with that part," he muttered. "I've seen more of those ABB kids around the boardwalk lately. Loud, always itching to start something. I just wish the city would stop milking the crime stats for campaign ads and start actually training more capes."
I shifted the ice pack against my ankle. The cold bit deep. A sharp, nerve-pinging jolt shot up my calf and into my hip. I let it crest, then vanish, then settle.
"They don't care," I murmured, eyes still on the flickering screen. "The Protectorate doesn't care about order. Just appearances. Leash first, tame second, release last. Criminals are just the ones they haven't collared yet."
Dad went still. He didn't argue. Just sipped his tea, watching me over the rim. That same worried glance he gave me whenever I said something that skated too close to therapy talk.
"That's a bleak way of looking at it," he said eventually. "You sure about that? I mean, yeah, some of those guys in spandex are walking disasters, but…"
I sighed, eyes half-lidded. The TV droned on. I didn't listen.
"The government had nukes, Dad," I said. "They'll always be the bigger threat, no matter who they're pointing at. The Protectorate's just their PR stunt. A kennel for the twenty-first century's nukes. The kind that breathe, bleed, and have these things called 'feelings'."
He didn't answer right away. I took it as a chance to drive my point in.
"Imagine a gun that cries after someone pulls its trigger."
I felt him shift on the couch. Felt his stare as I changed the ice to the other side again.
"It is problematic," he conceded with a resigned tone to his voice, not even bothering to argue.
The reporter's voice cut through the quiet.
"…Brockton Bay will experience a peculiar accumulation of humidity over the following days, coupled with a rise in temperature. People are recommended to wear light clothes but be prepared for eventual downpours Friday through Sunday…"
"How's your foot?"
I eased the ice pack off my ankle. The skin underneath had gone blotchy and tight. "Swollen."
Dad hummed, blew on his tea like it was still too hot, and took a sip anyway.
"Does it hurt much?" he asked. "Didn't catch how you twisted it. I could take you to the doctor. They'll poke at it, give you something if it needs it. Might even sneak in a general checkup. Your mom always wanted us to do those, remember?"
He paused before adding, lighter, "And after that, if you're up for it… we could grab some ice cream. It's getting hot. The weather guy said so."
He gave me a crooked grin. It didn't sit right on his face. Too sly, like someone else's grin had wandered onto him by mistake. I'd seen that look in the mirror more than once, and it never meant anything good.
I stared at the ceiling, tracking a jagged line, and let my hand drift out lazily like I needed help reaching something.
"Some biker pushed me. I fell wrong," I said after a moment. "Did school call?"
The mug paused mid-twitch in his fingers. He blinked once, then set it down a little too carefully.
"Yeah. Once or twice."
"Did they ask you to pay for the locker?"
The next silence landed heavier. His reply came dry and deliberate.
"They mentioned damage to school property has to be covered by the parents." A bitter exhale. "Didn't seem too bothered by the part where you were locked inside. Guess it's more important the lockers look nice than students staying safe."
I curled my toes. The joint ached when I tried to move it.
"How much?"
"That's not something you need to—"
"We don't have the money," I said, not meeting his eyes. "Not for ice cream. Not for a checkup. I'll find a way to cover the locker. It was my mistake. I should've waited."
He didn't say anything at first. Just shifted in his chair and let out a quiet, breathy chuckle.
"You're fifteen," he said softly, like it still surprised him. "You don't need to get a job to cover some busted metal. Just rest. Let the foot heal, or I will drag you to a doctor."
Another beat.
"I get it, and… thank you. But honestly? I'm more pissed at the school than their invoice."
I paused. Stilled my breath. Let my fingers glide over the ice pack's seal, slow and deliberate. The plastic crackled faintly. I imagined slicing it open, watching the cold bleed out in ribbons. Did it matter whether it spilled solid or liquid?
Would it matter if it was blood?
Dad had made up his mind. I was the innocent bystander in a teenage tragedy. No point arguing with a verdict already passed.
Easier this way. Simpler.
I could've worked, would've, gladly. Shift after shift in some fluorescent-lit backroom, counting screws or lifting crates, anything to earn enough for the locker. Maybe a second knife. Not to replace the first. Just to have options.
But a job meant hours away, and too many hours away needed permission which I wouldn't get. Not from him. Not with this ankle.
The foot throbbed in sync with my pulse, a petty little drum of limitation.
Heberts never changed their minds. They crystallized them, polished them, passed them down like heirlooms. Not exactly fatal. Just... enduring. Like rust.
I looked at him. Nodded. Twitched my lips into something vaguely smile-shaped.
"Okay, Dad," I said. "Thank you."
He huffed something halfway between a laugh and clearing his throat.
"For what, kid? Saving you from the horrors of a nine-to-five?" he said, pushing up from the couch with a grunt, mug still in hand. "Pay me the locker when you're twenty. Just take it easy, alright? It's been a couple rough days."
A tic fluttered beneath my right eye. A couple rough days. That was one way to phrase it.
I smiled. Or tried to. It was easier not to look at his face, his features all cut up by the lines, like some uninspired puzzle of a human face. I fixed my eyes on his chest instead. Less movement there.
"Giving me credit now?" I muttered. "You should've been a banker."
He stepped closer. Bent down. Pressed a kiss to my head. Careful, as if I might crack open.
"I ain't got patience for numbers, kid," he said. His voice had warmth. His mouth curled at the edges. "Stay home and stay safe, okay? Call me if anything happens. Or if you need anything. Anything at all."
I hummed. "Work?"
He sighed, slow and gravelly. "I wish. Gang violence is up again, guys want hazard pay now. City Hall's pinching every penny. Same old story. I'd rather be here, but, you know."
"Money," I said, adjusting the ice on my ankle.
"Yeah. Money," he echoed, with that tired huff that sounded more like surrender than agreement. "We do need that."
And just like that, the pain dulled – an unwelcome courtesy. I let my back sink into the couch cushions and glanced up.
I didn't mean to meet his eyes. I tried not to, usually. Not out of fear. I wasn't scared of many things. It was more like habit, like avoiding open windows in a thunderstorm. No point inviting anything in.
But I saw him, anyway.
The glasses hid part of it, but not all. There was something wrong in the way his eyes sat in their sockets. Not just tired. Deeper than that. Like someone had scooped out rest and replaced it with something... vacant. Still, they softened a little when they met mine. Affection. Concern. And something raw behind it, twitching just beneath the surface.
I couldn't name it. That made it worse.
…When was the last time he slept? Really slept?
Not the nodding-off-on-the-subway kind. Not the one-eye-open-on-the-sofa kind.
When did the city last leave him alone?
I licked my lips. Tried to smile. Just a little one. It wasn't the cracked grin I used to keep people from asking questions. A real one, or close enough.
He didn't smile back.
The lines on his face didn't still. They shifted, like shadows on water.
He patted my head, once. Then turned and walked out of the room.
I blinked. My hand was wet. Meltwater from the ice pack. The pain in my foot was quieter now. Manageable.
But not gone.
I clicked off the TV. The screen went black. For a moment, I saw myself. Blurred, pale, ghostlike. A reflection stitched with faint red fault lines.
Two blue pinpricks glowed in the center of the screen.
Watching. Waiting.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
…It wasn't enough anymore.
Not the screens. Not the furniture. Not the voices behind glass.
I needed something warm.
Something breathing.
The public library was my usual retreat when I needed to vanish. Not in the dramatic sense. I simply wanted to go somewhere and exist quietly, sometimes. Somewhere I could sit for hours and stare at nothing without Emma throwing shade at me or Dad hovering with that sad, well-meaning silence of his.
I never came for the books. I had shelves full at home, handpicked, owned. Borrowing always felt wrong. Like pretending. So when I wanted a book, I bought it.
But the library had other uses. Computers. Noise dampening. Shelter. A place to close my eyes and not explain why.
Today, I wasn't sleeping.
The walk from home throbbed up my leg, pain blooming and fading with every step. But I'd had worse. Pain didn't matter if I could disassociate from it, and I could. That was the one thing I had always been good at.
It took me thirty minutes. I pushed through the glass doors and drifted to the back, past dead-eyed undergrads and two kids arguing over a sea creature slideshow. I found a station. Sat. Let the plastic seat creak under my weight.
The screen was dark. I pulled the chair closer, leaned forward, and slipped my hand into my pocket. The knife was there. I thumbed the edge. Folded. Unfolded. Folded. The screen hummed to life with a flicker.
A landscape appeared. Too green. Too cheerful. Some curated stock photo of rolling hills and empty skies. It felt obscene.
I stopped fidgeting. Clicked open the browser. Typed 'gang violence brockton bay recent'.
The results loaded faster than I needed.
ABB. Nazis. ABB. Nazis. A few splinter gangs already dead and buried. ABB against Nazis. Nazis claiming retaliation. Half the names were forgettable, the rest already ghosts. There were numbers. Injured. Crippled. Dead. Concerned headlines about teenagers on drugs, and teachers asking for more funding.
Click. Scroll. Click. Scroll.
The screen glared back at me. My reflection was faint. Shimmering between open tabs and search results. Blue eyes. Pale skin. The faintest shadow of something behind me that didn't exist.
Same as always.
I stared at the screen until the headlines blurred into one long, twitching line of static.
Every few seconds, another name. Another mugshot. Another body. Sometimes with a photo, sometimes just a block of text - 'suspect at large,' 'fatal altercation,' 'no arrests made.'
It was hard to tell whether the dizziness was from scrolling too fast or from the sheer volume of it all.
Crime in Brockton Bay: updated live, like a sports ticker.
You'd think the government would do something. A coordinated strike, maybe. Use the capes like scalpel and bone saw. Cut out the rot in one sweep. It wasn't like these people were subtle. They weren't misunderstood.
They sold poison to kids who looked too much like siblings I didn't have. They carved up neighborhoods and charged rent in blood. They lit fires, left bodies, put price tags on human beings and called it business.
I hadn't let it bother me, before. Dad kept pushing pepper spray on me every time I left the house. I never took it. It felt like admitting I was prey. Like I was supposed to walk smaller, talk softer, wait for a man with a knife to decide how my story ended.
The same way talking about Emma made my teeth hurt, thinking about gangs did too.
As if I was supposed to step aside and let the world rot around me. As if I needed protecting from them.
As if they weren't the ones who should be afraid.
I didn't go out much anyway. Home was safer. Home was quiet.
But the headlines didn't stop. They didn't even slow.
Territory clashes. Child overdoses. Bodies in rivers.
A girl my age with her wrists zip-tied and her eyes gone.
One a day. At least. Like clockwork.
…It didn't make me angry. Didn't make me cry.
If anything, it helped.
There were names on this list nobody would miss.
I wasn't trying to be righteous. I wasn't looking to make a statement.
I just needed something to cut.
And if someone had to be on the other end of that, it might as well be subhuman trash.
Still, I wasn't stupid. If I was going to go hunting, I'd start small. Someone soft. Someone who wouldn't get back up.
Deep breath. New tab.
I typed 'Empire Eighty-Eight'.
The results came fast. I clicked the ugliest site on the front page, an amateur wiki slapped together by people with too much time and not enough shame.
Two black swastikas twisted into a crude 88 greeted me, stamped over a red field.
Fancy.
The Empire wasn't a gang. Not really. Calling them that was like calling cancer a rash. They were a white-supremacist terror cell dressed up like neighborhood thugs.
They didn't just believe in racial hierarchies. They enforced them. Proudly. Publicly. No masks, no metaphors. Kill a non-white person to get in. That was their initiation.
I remembered a kid back in school, blond, square-jawed, smug. Said joining them would be cool. I figured he was joking. Maybe he wasn't.
'Pathetic', I used to think. Too caught up in ideology to actually get anything done. Too loud, too dumb. But visibility had its perks.
You didn't have to dig deep to find a skinhead. And it wasn't like the cops could arrest every white guy with a bad tattoo and worse ideas.
They were easy. Obvious.
Ideal.
I scrolled down.
Crimes, affiliations, sightings.
Then the capes.
Kaiser. Hookwolf. Krieg. Fenja and Menja. Night and Fog. Stormtiger.
The screen blurred slightly as I skimmed their death records.
Impaled with iron.
Cut to pieces.
Beaten to death.
Crushed - twice.
Unknown cause - twice.
Torn apart by wind.
I kept reading. Imagining. Testing myself against them like it was a math problem. Like that would help.
I stopped at the eighth death.
Swallowed dry.
…They weren't just street thugs with bad taste in iconography.
They had powers. Experience. An identity.
If I carved up one or two of their skinhead interns, they wouldn't shrug it off. They'd treat it as a declaration.
A threat to the tribe. A target to hunt.
They'd come for me. And I'd die.
Three years of stagnation and a single night of experimentation didn't exactly stack up against trained murderers in body armor.
I closed the tab.
Empire Eighty-Eight was off the table.
I leaned back, hand pressing against my stomach until the tightness eased.
One more breath. Slow. Measured.
This wasn't a war. Not yet. I wasn't tearing down an empire or playing hero against swastikas and capes.
I was just… hunting. Picking the right prey. Nothing more, nothing less.
I shut my eyes for a moment. Another breath in. My gaze drifted left, right, a sweep across the rows of shelves and the lone librarian behind the desk. No curious eyes. No one close enough to see my screen.
A misstep of my foot sent a sharp throb racing up my ankle. I hissed between my teeth, adjusted my leg until it stopped screaming, and set my hands back on the keyboard.
'ABB brockton bay'.
The page I chose looked like it had been thrown together in an afternoon by someone who'd never met a spellcheck. Perfect. I didn't need history books or surveillance logs. Just enough to see the shape of them.
Compared to the Empire, the Azn Bad Boys looked smaller, less… monumental. No grand speeches about bloodlines. No whitewashed armies. Just a street gang, but one that knew exactly who belonged and who didn't.
Their idea of 'Asian' wasn't a slur, but a checklist. Chinese, Japanese, Korean. Teen, adult. Male, female. Didn't matter. The only requirement was a drop of the right blood, and once they marked you as theirs, it wasn't really a choice.
Their territory was the Docks. Every Asian kid there grew up under the same shadow. Not if, but when someone in red and green came knocking.
The ABB read simple on paper. Drugs. Guns. Prostitution. Terror through intimidation. The boilerplate recipe for any gang that wanted its name carved into a city in blood and fire. They stopped reading simple when you remembered they were just as infamous as the Empire Eighty-Eight, maybe more so, with the added advantage of being harder to predict.
Fewer soldiers. Looser structure. Less money. Fewer capes.
Sharper teeth. Wilder bite.
I tapped my fingers against the mouse. No need to skim; there wasn't much to skim.
If the Empire was an international cult of white supremacy, the ABB was an armed pack led by old-world warlords. Local. Direct. Transparent. A Frankenstein's monster of Yakuza and Triads, stitched together from people who should've hated each other on principle.
I scrolled down. Pictures came up. They were fuzzy, half-lit, always at a distance. Two capes total.
Lung, their leader, didn't show himself often, but his name carried weight. The photos caught him in fragments: a tall, broad man, shirtless, red-and-green dragons crawling over his skin in ink. Black hair in wild tangles. A metal demon mask.
In the rare shots of him fighting, he was never quite the same size twice. Always a little taller. Always a little worse. Skin bleaching to a dull grey as metal forced its way out from underneath. Flames licking at orange veins pulsing from within his flesh.
An animal built from steel and fire.
A predator that didn't need to leave its den, because everything living nearby already knew exactly where it slept.
Thump.
My hand rose to my chest. Not from pain. Not from discomfort. Just… to press something quiet.
Thump.
It was familiar in a way I couldn't name. No weight. No texture. But I'd felt it before, in the same way you 'know' a stranger you've never met.
Thump.
Recognition without memory.
Thump.
I smacked both my cheeks, hard enough to make my eyes water.
"Focus."
I scrolled down.
Second in command... Oni Lee.
Two pictures, both worse than Lung's. A shadow cut from cheap resolution. Tactical gear bristling with knives, pouches, and an uncomfortable number of grenades. A pale demon's grin glared under a hood, striped in green where eyes should've been.
The second photo showed three of him, in three different places, all mid-motion.
I exhaled through my nose. Read further.
My brow twitched at 'teleportation'. My mouth went dry at 'suicide attacks'.
Lung was the boss. Unmovable. A fortress of scales and heat.
Oni Lee… he tripped something deeper. Not an animal. Not a predator. A blade that walked. A killer.
Either of them would end me. One would split me in half. The other would cut me open and feed me his explosives.
Still… they were only two. And I wasn't after the big fish. I wanted the current. The swarming shapes that followed behind.
ABB foot soldiers would do just fine. If they'd joined willingly, I wouldn't think twice.
If they hadn't… well, maybe I'd be doing them a favor.
I shut down the computer. Stretched until my shoulders popped.
Considered my options.
The Docks didn't appeal. Not because I was scared—though, maybe, a little—but because my power wasn't the kind of thing you just… brought somewhere and expected to work. It was too good, too sharp, too final. And still, I knew it wasn't enough by itself. It needed instinct, reflex, something fast in the moment.
I could read the lines, see how they curled, straightened, throbbed against the world's surfaces. How slow they slid across skin, how quick they darted over steel. And I could feel it. That ease, that obscene effortlessness of sinking something into them and watching everything come apart.
But that was all it was right now. Sight without speed.
Against Sophia, a basic, textbook bully, my hands had lagged behind my eyes. Against the Docks? Against people who lived violence every day? That was walking into a jungle with a revolver and hoping the first bullet hit.
I closed my eyes. Swallowed the lump pressing against my throat.
This wasn't hero-versus-villain. This was a hunt.
One strike. From the dark. When they never saw it coming. If I missed, I left. Simple.
I nodded to myself, stood, eased weight off my bad ankle. Noon might be safest for scouting. Enough daylight to see, but too early for real trouble to be out. Later would be riskier… but maybe riskier meant easier to read their patterns.
I glanced sideways without thinking.
Paused.
No.
A laugh almost clawed its way out.
"No way."
At the far end, hunched over a table like she'd been dropped there by mistake, was a girl with bleach-blonde streaks over chestnut hair. Designer sweater, perfect nails.
I circled for a better look at her face, the way a cat circles a half-recognized bird. Then slapped a hand over my mouth as a snicker escaped.
Madison Clements.
In the library.
Reading a book.
"…Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit."
I drifted around her table like a lazy comet, orbit after orbit, always keeping a shelf between us. Five passes in, it was definitely her. By the sixth, I had to look away, shoulders shaking, biting my lip to keep the laugh from exploding into something hyena-loud in the middle of the library.
When the tremors passed, I pushed my glasses up, tugged my hood back, and closed in from behind. Close enough to see without casting a shadow. I leaned just a fraction, angling for the title.
Dark blue hardcover. Gold-leaf letters. The Theogony.
A snort escaped before I could strangle it. I looked away fast, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
Madison Clements. Queen of tight shirts, fresh manicures, and bad bleach jobs… reading Hesiod. In a library. Voluntarily.
Why bother trying to make sense of anything anymore? The world was clearly ending. The signs were right here: a girl I'd bet money couldn't recite the days of the week, reverent over Greek classics.
I edged closer, enough to catch her voice. A low murmur, rhythmic, like she was coaxing the words into place.
"And Nyx bore hateful Moros, and black Ker, and Thanatos…"
Her pen hovered over a notebook, tapping once, twice. Pages already bloomed with sticky notes, margins thick with neat, curling lines of ink.
"And she bore Hypnos, and the tribe of Dreams…"
The rest of the verse completed itself in my head without permission.
Then she bore Blame and painful Misery - dark Nyx did, the goddess.
My stomach gave a faint, inexplicable twist.
Madison simply hummed to herself.
"So Night gave birth to Doom and Fate… and also Hypnos and Thanatos. Sleep and Death."
She plucked a sticky note from somewhere, pressed it down with care.
"Sleep is gentle surrender," she whispered. "The nightly rehearsal of death. Death is the final sleep… the one you don't wake from."
Her pen moved again, this time not in words, but shapes. Two little masks bloomed side-by-side: one slack with drowsy peace, the other a cheerful skull, tiny scythe propped beside it.
It should've been funny. Now it wasn't.
Adorable, yes. But also… like watching someone braid a ribbon through a noose.
Done with simply watching, I drifted closer, bent down, and murmured into her ear—
"—Did Barbie lose her fashion magazine?"
"Hya!"
She jolted, bumping the table, the book clutched to her chest like it might shield her. Painted lashes fluttered. Her gaze darted up and down me, recognition blooming into something tighter, smaller. She shuffled her notebook behind her like I hadn't already seen it.
"T-Taylor," she stammered.
"Hi, Miss Clements." Hands in pockets, I didn't break stride. "Ready to present your thesis on Greek mythology?"
Her eyes flicked to the cover she was holding. As if caught with contraband, she stuffed it behind her back, straightening into a pose that was all hips and defiance…if you didn't notice the uneven weight in her stance.
"T-That's none of your business," she said, swallowing the tremor in her voice. Then a twitchy little smile. "What about you, Taylor? F-finally washed off the smell?"
I smiled back, slow.
Then snapped a hand forward in a feint.
She squeaked, eyes squeezing shut, before I slipped my hand back into my pocket.
"Still got it…" I muttered, before speaking up. "Yeah. Most of what you girls dumped in there stayed in the clothes. Didn't have to scrub too hard."
Her makeup stayed perfect. Everything else didn't. The lift of her brows. The single bead of sweat tracking past her temple. The way her weight kept shifting from one heel to the other.
She gathered herself enough to start, "You better—"
"Who was it?" I cut in.
A beat.
Her throat bobbed. "Who what?"
"Who came up with the idea for the locker?"
We held each other's eyes for a moment. Mine didn't move. Hers faltered. The proud pose sagged into something smaller.
"…Sophia."
I kept my eyes on her. Long enough for her to start shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Then I closed mine, gave a small nod.
"I see. Thanks."
Her arms snapped across her chest like a shield.
"Do you actually think you're cool?" she shot back, voice just above a whisper but sharp at the edges. "Acting like nothing fazes you? Playing the dark, mysterious, tragic girl?"
She tilted her chin, trying for defiance. "You're a freak, Taylor. If you laughed along, nobody would've put you in that locker. But you… you scare people. You call girls bitches. You're a psycho."
I raised a brow. Let the words hang there. Then I shrugged.
"Do you like getting hurt, Madison?"
The fake bravado faltered for a beat.
"What…?"
"Do you like getting hurt?" I said again, even tone, as if asking the time.
Her breath hitched. "If this is..."
"I'll hurt you, Madison."
Her arms unfolded. Her fingers brushed the table behind her, eyes flicking over it like she was measuring how fast she could get around it. Under the makeup, her face tightened, just enough to show something older than fear. Instinct.
"I'm not mad at you," I said, hands in pockets, gaze steady. "I don't think you're a bitch. But I will hurt you if it makes you stop bothering me. Nothing personal. Nothing cool about it. Same way there's nothing cool about dumping trash in a locker because you think the girl inside is freaky."
I stepped forward. She stepped back until her thighs hit the table's edge. Her head turned slightly, looking for space that wasn't there.
"The only reason your nose isn't broken," I murmured, leaning in, "is because I know you weren't the one who came up with it. Sophia had her bright idea. Emma thought it was hilarious. And you? You just went along for the ride. You wouldn't cram someone into a locker. You'd just stand off to the side and laugh. Better me than you. Right?"
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"I get it," I said after a moment. "If I'd been a little more insecure, I might've done the same. But I'm not. So here's something for you: Don't let petty girls feed you ideas you don't believe in. Being ignorant's normal. Being cruel's a choice. Choose better."
I straightened, giving her space.
"Oh," I added casually, "I like your makeup. You're cute."
She blinked. Once, twice. Her mouth hung open, shaping a word that never quite made it out. Her gaze slid down, not to the floor, but somewhere inward, and the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth made me wonder if shame actually looked like that.
My eyes drifted to the dark-blue spine still peeking out from behind her. I let out a breath, a dry puff of air that might've been a laugh.
"…If you ever want to borrow something, I've got a copy of the Iliad at home," I said, already turning away. "Just don't set it on fire. I will break your nose."
I started walking, keeping my gait even, hiding the limp. I'd made it only a few steps when a voice caught the space between us. Soft. Unsteady.
"…I'm sorry."
I stopped. The library's hum filled the pause.
I didn't look back. Didn't answer.
Then I kept walking.
I had work to do.
Madison's apology stayed behind along with her perfume. I limped my way out of the library and, after around an hour, into the Docks.
The talking heads on TV loved to gush about 'vulnerable communities,' as if growing up broke or in a bad zip code made you some kind of moral saint. I never bought it.
I wasn't rich, wasn't starving, either. Just a white girl from a so-so neighborhood who preferred staying home unless I had a damn good reason. That kind of life made it easy to tune out whatever ugliness was going on outside. Usually, I liked it that way.
Winslow didn't let me forget it existed. Neither did this modern recreation of Mordor.
The moment I hit the edge of this place, something in me bristled. My shoulders pulled in, breath caught high in my chest. Not fear… closer to irritation, the kind that made my hand itch for the knife in my pocket.
As if the air itself was daring me.
Everything here looked ruined in the same tired, hopeless way: boarded windows, half-collapsed brickwork, graffiti layered thick enough to feel like bark. If someone jumped me from an alley, that would've felt more honest than nothing at all.
Part of me wondered why the city hadn't just torched the whole place and been done with it. Pretending these people had any future beyond jail or a slab felt like a bad joke.
…Not that I was one to talk.
I tugged the hoodie lower over my head and kept walking, eyes skimming ugly, low-rent housing and the sagging frames of warehouses halfway to collapse. No point in dwelling on how nasty poverty could get… everything here already looked like it was straining to be worse.
Seeing the lines shifting across the whole mess made it easier to stomach. It was a tiny but helpful reminder. There was something far worse than the smell or the rot.
It didn't take long to spot ABB colors.
First came the toothless drunk mumbling into brick, then the hooker who sized me up and made an offer until I answered with a middle finger. A block later, there they were - a loose knot of guys posted on a corner, smoke curling from their mouths, laughter carrying down the street. They passed handguns and knives between them like they were comparing phone cases, the metal catching light in sharp flashes.
Even at a distance, I could clock the common thread: all East Asian, or close enough in my eyes. No Indians, no Thai, nothing like that. Even in a melting pot like Brockton Bay, some groups kept their borders tight.
Red and green clothes, inked dragons and snarl-faced demons creeping across their skin. The kind of thing that belonged in a different century, but I guessed some parts of the world never caught up.
I pressed my back against a wall, paint flaking against my hoodie, just out of sight of the ABB's street corner. My hand dipped into my pocket and came back with a folded strip of paper. A gutted teabag spilled its contents into my palm. Cheap leaves, dark and dry. I spread them across the paper, working slow, fingers moving like I'd done this a hundred times.
Looked enough like weed if you didn't look too close.
Then I slid down into a crouch, hood low, face hidden.
A lone girl in a hoodie who kept glancing too long before looking away? Suspicious. But a hunched addict, folded in on herself like a broken marionette, scratching at paper in a shadowed corner? Background noise. They wouldn't look twice… as long as I didn't drift too close. Not that I doubted they'd shoot me for sport.
I stayed in the Docks for hours, melting into alleys, crouching low, fingers twitching at scraps of paper like they had a will of their own. Once, a wiry man with glassy eyes lurched over to ask if I was 'moving in'. I slapped his hand away. The smell of rot clung to the air. Damp crept into my ankle until it throbbed.
Worth it.
By the time the light turned orange, I'd counted thirty ABB members moving through the streets. Probably more I didn't see. They looked like idiots, swaggering, laughing, but their routes were tight. No one walked alone. Always three or more, blades or pistols flashing under streetlights. Sometimes they'd kick in a door, break a few things, stroll out grinning with crumpled bills. Other times, it was just a random addict catching a boot in the ribs.
No Lung. No Oni Lee. Lucky me, their muscle was stretched thin across the Docks.
The prostitution spots were easy to mark. All ABB girls, every one inked in red and green dragons curling down bare arms. They were the dangerous ones. The corner grunts barely noticed me. The women watched everything, eyes scanning while they leaned on lampposts. Out here, they'd see too much.
I kept my distance, watched from the shadows.
By the time the light bled out of the streets and shadows swallowed the corners, I was still hunched over my strip of paper, scratching at it like it was a stubborn lottery ticket.
…This isn't working.
The ABB might've been just a street gang on paper, but out here they moved like someone had drilled them. Always in threes. Always sweeping the same loops. Loud and sloppy in that teenage way, but too consistent for it to be an accident. Someone had told them: Don't give anyone an opening.
Lung's house. Lung's rules.
Three of them together? I wouldn't last long. Even if I managed to drop one before the others reacted, the rest would scatter, call for backup, spread my description faster than lice. No easy prey here.
For a moment, I pictured peeling a skinhead off a street corner instead. Fewer moving parts. Less chance of being ventilated.
I shut my eyes, breathed in dirt, damp concrete, and something sharp and metallic in the air.
Patience.
There was no hurry. Patterns always had weak spots; it was just a matter of waiting for them to slip. So I stayed. Let Dad worry. The animals came out at night, and I needed to see them prowl.
It was during another lazy circuit of one ABB patrol that something finally bent. One of the trio peeled off, laughing at something only he thought was funny, flashing his friends the finger. Kid with a fade and a white tank top, dragons curling up his arms. His buddies shifted on their feet, uneasy, but let him go.
Breaking formation. Why?
I slid after him, keeping to corners and pools of shadow. The prostitutes were landmines scattered across the sidewalks, gaudy traps with sharp eyes, and I had to weave past them without a second glance. School had taught me that one useful skill: hiding.
The trail ended on a side street lit by a single busted lamp. The kid was leaning over an ABB girl, arm braced against the wall. Black hair, too much gloss on lips and lashes, clothes that caught the light like oil.
I eased forward into the darkness of an alley.
"…Make it worth your time, Lily," he was saying, syrup dripping from his voice. "Your shift's over, yeah? I'll take you someplace nice. Dinner, then a hotel. My treat. Everything."
Her sigh was pure boredom. "The goods are off-limits."
He grinned like he'd been waiting for that. "You're not just goods to me. You're special. I don't care what you do. I'll treat you right. Not like the others. What do you think, ojōsan?"
Her hand went to her forehead. A groan.
"Are you deaf, James?" Her voice stayed soft, but it carried steel. "Boss said so. We don't consume our own product. You try, I enable you, and we're dead. Either he hangs us… or Bakuda plants C4 somewhere creative."
"There you go again, being so pessimistic," the young man said, grin tugging at his lips like he thought persistence was charm. "Nobody's gotta know. And I'm not just buying you. I'm inviting you. There's a difference. You're a human to me. I'll take care of you—"
"I don't want you taking care of me, you retard," she cut in, voice low and sharp enough to slice the air. "I'm already doing just fine without you putting us both in the ground. I've got my mom and my little brother to protect. I'm not leaving them for dead just because you want your dick wet."
Their voices tangled in quick bursts; his syrupy promises, her steel-edged refusals. A hiss of threat from him. A short, derisive laugh from her.
I eased back a few steps, letting the shadows take me. My heartbeat thumped against my ribs, eager and hungry. This was something. Not much… but enough.
A sudden crack split the air. My shoulders twitched before I forced them still. Leaning in again, I caught him cradling his cheek, eyes wide. Lily stood in front of him, trembling, not with fear, but with anger.
"Fuck off already!" she spat, each word vibrating in the air. "I don't want your money, and I don't want some Prince-fucking-Charming in my life! I just want to live!"
She spun on her heel and strode away, fury in every stomp. I flattened myself against the wall as she passed, her perfume, cheap and floral, mixing with the sour air.
When I peeked again, James was still watching her go. His face was blank, but his body betrayed him: jaw clamping tight, weight shifting, a fist curling slow and deliberate at his side.
The corner of my mouth tugged upward before I could stop it.
Perfect.
I gave it a couple more days with my new, unsuspecting friend. Not to learn his favorite food or childhood dreams—he didn't strike me as the kind of person who had either—but to map the rhythm of his life. When he woke. Where he went. Who he walked with. How his stride changed when he was sober, drunk, or high.
James, 'Little James' in my head, was maybe a few years older than me. Never saw him set foot near a school. He slept late, came out of some greasy apartment complex looking scrubbed and grinning like the world owed him a favor, then drifted into the day's work of being a gang member. No family I could spot. No real friends. Just the ABB, a steady rotation of cheap thrills, and the occasional beggar to kick when boredom struck.
If there was any pulse of warmth in him, it was for one of the prostitutes. Lily to her clients, May Lee when whispered between friends. He chased her every chance he got, circling back to her corner even when it risked both their necks.
Some might've called it tragic romance. I called it… leverage.
Lying in bed one night, Swiss knife clicking open and shut in my hands, I stared at the shifting red fracture-lines above me.
I had his routes. His habits. His soft spot.
I could go after him tomorrow. Stalk him. Finish it.
But my mind snagged on the thought, quietly.
Was that all there was to people, once you scraped away the polish? Sleep. Eat. Hurt someone. Repeat. No capes. No heroes. No villains. No Asian, White, Black. Just animals in cotton and denim, itching to break something.
Sophia. Emma. James.
Me.
Not even dressed up with excuses… just a blade looking for something to cut.
Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold.
The knife clicked in my hands, steady as breath.
I watched the ceiling, watched those thin red fracture-lines shifting like restless veins. Three years, and they were the only thing that hadn't changed. Or maybe they'd always been there and I'd just learned to see them. One night to notice. Years to understand. And even now, I wasn't sure I did.
I only knew the lines were real, and they always came apart.
I stayed like that until time blurred. Then I got up.
Cold water splashed over my face in the bathroom sink. The cracked mirror threw my image back at me. It was fragmented, fault-lined. My reflection's eyes looked lit, wide, too still.
No more waiting.
I'd done the prep. I knew his patterns, his blind spots. One person no one would miss.
They'd thought the same of me once. They hadn't checked if I'd get back up.
I would show them how it was done.
"I will…" My voice faltered, as if I had to persuade it to keep going. "…do it."
Yes. Do what, Taylor?
"I will follow him."
Yes. And?
"I will… wait for the right moment."
And?
"I will hit him when his guard is low."
Hit? With a love tap?
"I will hit him with my knife."
Not the right word.
I swallowed, eyes drilling into my reflection.
"…I will cut him."
A simple fact. A statement of intent. Nothing more.
And yet... why did it feel like something was missing? The thought slipped away before I could name it.
…Didn't matter. Sophia had taught me the other lesson worth keeping: hesitation meant losing.
I pocketed the knife and slid out of the house before Dad came home.
Tonight, I'd hunt.
The night pressed in, thick, humid, clinging to my skin like the inside of a coffin. Or maybe that was just the hoodie trapping the heat.
I walked. Stepped over cracks, skirted the lines. There were too many tonight, webbing the sidewalks, slicing the streets apart. Maybe they'd always been there and I was only now seeing how badly this city was stitched together.
Storefronts slid past. Cars glimmered under jaundiced streetlights. Laughter spilled out of a bar, warm and human, brushing against me like a thing from another life.
My kind of good time wasn't the sort you shared. It didn't need witnesses.
Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold.
The knife was warm in my palm, a weight to anchor me. A promise in steel.
The Docks welcomed me in their usual way. Quiet where it mattered, crawling with ABB where it didn't. Their patrols were easy to ghost now. Too easy. I knew these streets like the inside of my bedroom. Shadows, corners, the safe gap between two parked cars, the sweet stink of garbage masking my scent.
It didn't take long to find James. His little pack had bunched up ahead, muttering.
"Fuck's sake, dude," one said. "Couldn't you wait 'til the shift was over?"
"Oh, go ffffuck a dog, Yan," James slurred. "I'm in a bad mood. Can'tshou be a pal and shut your ash?"
The words rolled out thick and uneven, like marbles spilling from a tipped bag. His hand swung loose, the glass neck of a half-empty bottle catching the light. Even from here, the alcohol stung my nose.
"Don't know about being your pal if you're gonna get us three killed…" the second said. "We're supposed to do our rounds. If we don't, boss cuts our balls. And I'd rather that than whatever Bakuda's got planned."
Glass exploded against brick before James jabbed a finger at them.
"Bah! Ya know what? Fuck Lung. Fuck Bakuda. And fuck you two pusshies. I'm off to do shit, and you ain't telling anyone. Unlessh… you want everyone to know I'm being a bad boy. Hic!"
And then he staggered away, weaving into the dark, leaving the others frozen in place, faces pale under the streetlamp.
I slid after him, silent and slow. Even drunk, he wasn't ready to see me.
Not yet.
I trailed him the way I'd learned these past two nights, never closer than fifteen feet, never too far. Casual. Forgettable.
My ankle burned with every step, a white-hot thorn digging deeper the longer I walked. The pain anchored me, forced my pace into something deliberate. Hunger carried me the rest of the way. Not quick. Not sluggish. The kind of rhythm that predators knew by instinct. Slow. Steady. Lethal.
I already knew where he was headed. Lily's corner. A rendezvous dressed up as romance, but it reeked of something else.
Perfect.
Better than perfect.
Drunk. Infatuated. A man served up whole, his flaws piled on a platter just for me.
Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold.
My fist tightened on the knife. Energy, or something worse, buzzed in my bones, made my hand tremble with anticipation.
James finally found her. Lily leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall, scrolling her phone, boredom carved into her posture. Her eyes snapped wide the instant she spotted him weaving toward her.
"J-James? What the…?"
He hiccuped his way across the gap like a toy with a broken spring. "Lily… hic! Lookit you, ya gorgeous—hic—specimen of… human bein'."
Her face drained pale, then flushed crimson.
"…Are you fucking mental?" Her voice carried, sharp enough to cut air. "Have you lost what little brain you had left? What if someone saw you like this? You'll get us killed."
"Oh, fuck off with that…" He waved clumsily, his words slurred into each other. "Ain't got time t'worry… if yer afraid o' livin', then don't get born. Tha's what I say! Hic—"
She pressed a hand to her temple, exasperation warring with something softer. Her tone gentled, the way you talk to someone standing at the edge of a cliff.
"James… please. Stop this. Whatever you think is between us? Not like this. Not now." Her hands rose, palms out. "Just… come with me. I'll get you water. Then we'll talk. Okay?"
My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Not now. Don't let her lead him away. Not when I was this close.
For a heartbeat, I almost gave myself permission: first him… then her.
The thought slid in smooth, like it belonged.
She didn't deserve that, did she? Just a girl trying to keep her family fed. Not a sin worth punishment. But punishment wasn't why I was here. Justice wasn't, either.
Something inside me went soft.
She wore ABB colors, even if only by proximity. That was enough. One more body sinking beneath the tide.
If it wasn't me tonight, it would be someone else tomorrow. Wasn't that a kind of mercy?
I caught myself, slapped my palm against my cheek to ground the thought.
Focus. Only James. Anything else was restlessness, nerves, hunger trying to drag me off course.
I pulled air sharp through my nose, crouched lower, knife steady. Waited.
James swayed like a buoy in the dark, rubbing his face raw before he muttered through his teeth, voice drenched in liquor.
"Alwaysh… alwaysh so high 'n' mighty… like I need help. I jusht wanted… hic… a date. But yer chicken shit. All now, no later. So… so it's ABB forever? That it?"
Her head shook, soft eyes pulling toward him even as her mouth tightened.
"James, you know why I can't. If we're made an example… there won't be an after. I don't even know what I want. I just don't want to end up in pieces."
His hands snapped around her arms. She gasped, stiffened.
"Ah, fuck that. Alwaysh you, you, you… hic!"
She shoved at his shoulder, kicked against his stance. His grip only dug deeper.
"Let go! James, this isn't you!"
"Shaddup, you—hic—beautiful, infuriating bish," he slurred, dragging her closer, her palm smacking his face once, twice. He didn't move an inch. "I'm a… gentleman, yeah. Tonight, I'm payin'. Shervishes. A man of prinshiple…"
Her eyes flared. "Wait, no... somebody, hel—"
His palm clamped over her mouth. Her scream died against his skin. He hauled her stumbling into the alley, legs kicking uselessly against pavement.
My breath came fast, sharp.
Oh, James. You really are the gift that keeps on giving.
A quick glance. No patrols, no girls on the corner.
I slipped from the shadows, body low, knife firm, trailing them into the dark.
I slipped into the alley, rising once the streetlight no longer reached me.
The knife clicked open in my hand. I held it forward, almost tentative, like it could part shadows, like it could ward off the unseen shapes breathing the same stale air.
"James, plea—"
"Yeah, yeah… hic! Jush'… stay put fer a sec…"
I couldn't see them. Didn't matter.
The hoodie came off. The glasses, too. And then... there they were.
Lines. Crawling, jagged, twitching with that faint red glow, pulsing like veins threaded through a monster's hide.
My breath hitched. My grip locked tighter. I stepped forward.
Thump.
At last.
Thump.
The world was flat, quiet, still. Except for them - their lines tangled in erratic bursts, jerking against each other. One pressed, striking, shoving. The other wavering, grasping, greedy.
I raised the knife and aimed at the hungrier one.
THUMP.
Another step.
Another.
The thought gnawed the back of my skull again: what did flesh feel like? Metal, wood, brick, paper - I knew them all. But flesh? Bone? What would it be like when something sharp slid in and stayed there?
I'd denied myself the answer. Too long.
But tonight… tonight I didn't want to wonder. I wanted to know.
It was a leap off a rooftop. A baby dropped just to hear the sound.
THUMP.
The alley dissolved. No James, no Lily. Just a black stage, and the lines drawing me nearer, whispering.
THUMP.
Heartbeat in my ears. And beneath it, something deeper, raw, wrong.
For an instant, the rot was around me again. The coffin of rust and meat. Skin prickling, lungs gagging, pretending to breathe life where there was only decay.
Heat flared in my throat, sliding down as if I'd swallowed fire. Another in my arm, burning along the scar. Then everywhere at once - each scar screaming awake, every wound past or present glowing alive. I couldn't tell what was broken and what wasn't anymore.
I wasn't a body.
I was a hand with a knife.
THUMP.
Closer.
THUMP.
Closer still.
A low rasp reached me - gasping, growling. Them?
No. Me.
My own throat dragging up sounds I'd never heard myself make.
It didn't feel wrong.
It felt inevitable.
THUMP.
Pain split my skull, stars bursting behind my eyes. A hammer blow to the crown.
"Ah—h…hah."
I kept moving. Little steps. Baby steps. The kind you never walk back from.
THUMP.
A line shimmered steady across the dark, diagonal at gut-level. My target.
TH-UMP.
I could've stepped back.
I didn't.
TH-UMP.
The knife hovered. My other hand clamped my wrist to steady the tremor.
TH-UMP.
And with slow, merciless pressure, I drove the blade into the line.
The dark peeled back.
Moonlight spilled into the alley - thin, pale, enough to make everything sharp.
James hung there, caught mid-breath, trembling like wire drawn too tight. Whatever haze had dulled him moments before was gone; his eyes were wide, fever-bright. I watched his face from beside him.
Lily pressed herself against the wall. Her hand clamped over her mouth, nails scraping brick, chest heaving. Her gaze wasn't on James. It was fixed on me.
James's head jerked by inches, neck stiff, as though every movement burned. His eyes dipped down.
To my hand.
To the blade pressed into the black seam across his waist.
Then back to me.
"W–Who… the fuck are you?" His voice cracked, brittle.
I said nothing.
I shifted the knife. Just enough. Just a sliver.
Then drew it free, the steel sliding smooth. Pocketed it.
James's stare locked to mine, hollow and furious all at once.
"You little—" His hand left Lily, reaching.
Fingers brushed my cheek, then trailed down my shoulder, my arm… lower, lower, until his palm met only air.
He didn't crouch. He didn't stumble. He just looked bewildered, like gravity itself had betrayed him. And then... he was gone.
The sound came next. A wet tearing. Then a heavy, final thud.
I looked down.
James lay sprawled, staring at nothing, face frozen in terror. His fingers twitched against the dirt, useless. Red welled from the impossibly clean break at his waist, flooding out into the alley. The rest of him… gone.
No, not gone.
His legs still stood upright, blood coursing down the severed plane as if it were glass. His jeans darkened, soaked crimson, until the whole thing resembled some grotesque installation in a gallery.
Another thump. Lily slid to the ground, knees buckling. Wide eyes, fixed not on James's corpse, but on me.
Her lips moved, barely sound.
"Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please."
The plea wasn't for him.
I didn't answer.
The blood spread, glimmering in the moonlight. I watched it a while, lost in the slow widening pool.
Then I turned, my steps strangely light, and left the alley behind.
I don't remember when I got home. One moment I was outside, the next I was shutting the door behind me.
Shoes off. Upstairs. Then back down again.
Cereal. Milk. The crunch was loud in my head, louder than the clock on the wall. Sweet for a second. Then gone. Bowl rinsed, dried, stacked neatly with the others.
The house was empty. Dad must've been working late.
I sat in front of the TV. A man in a suit was talking about something urgent, lips moving fast, his voice too tangled for me to follow. I stared anyway. An hour of static dressed as news. Then black screen.
Upstairs again. Bathroom. Routine.
I washed my hands. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The skin burned, pink and raw, lather stinging in the cracks.
When I looked up, the mirror gave me a stranger. Hollow cheeks. Lips cracked white. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut and yet vacant, like glass marbles dropped in a skull.
I tried words.
"I cut someone."
Too small.
"I ended someone."
Not quite. My lips twitched. The lines in them seemed to shift, to slither.
The right word crawled up my throat like barbed wire.
"I killed someone."
Silence.
The reflection shifted. Not me, couldn't be me - eyes spilling tears, brow clenched, mouth bent into a grotesque smile that felt like rot spreading.
But it was me. My face. My lips. My eyes.
My hand on the knife.
Air caught in my chest, broke loose in a gag.
"—hhhk!"
Milk and cereal erupted onto the tile, splattering my feet, burning its way out through my nose. I lurched for the toilet, hugging porcelain like it could keep me afloat.
"Ghhh - aaaghhh!"
More came, violent, choking, spasming. Until it wasn't food anymore. Until it was bile. Until it was red. My throat a raw, open wound.
I hung there, shaking, eyes streaming, snot and spit stringing down my chin. Every heave tore at me, every gasp scraping my chest like glass shards.
Somewhere between sobs, something else broke loose. A laugh. Thin, jagged, wrong. It tangled with the crying until I couldn't tell which was which.
"I… killed…" My voice rasped, wet and cracked. "Killed a… a person. Just… like that."
I clutched the toilet harder, as if I could wring the confession out and flush it away with the vomit.
"I killed someone… And I didn't feel anything."
That was the truth.
I cut into his line. Split him.
Killed him.
And nothing came. I didn't feel grief or triumph or anything recognizable. There was just… satisfaction. That awful, greasy satisfaction. It'd been too simple. Too clean. Like snapping the last piece of a puzzle in place. Like pressing the big red button you're not supposed to.
My stomach turned. I folded over the sink, retching until bile scalded my throat and chest. My neck throbbed with every gag.
Then came the motions. Wiping. Scrubbing. Tile, toilet, sink, floor. Spray, wipe, repeat. More water on my face. A rhythm. A ritual. Through it I laughed, I cried, except neither sound belonged to either feeling.
By the end, the bathroom shone, reeking of disinfectant. The lines still ran across the world. Black, jagged, writhing. Untouched. Undeniable.
I staggered back to my room, clutching my head like I could squeeze the noise out. Shut the door. Fell onto the bed. The lines followed me in, faint red sketches crawling through the dark.
I bit my lip hard.
'Lines'. That's what I'd called them for years. Harmless if I didn't think about them too hard. Safe.
But they never were. Were they? They couldn't be.
And I called myself smart. What a joke. I ignored them even as they stared back at me. Pretended they were geometry, cracks, patterns. Pretended they weren't… what they were.
What was constant? What was final? What never lied? What was always waiting?
Not truth. Not weakness.
Not stitches or segments or cuts.
Cold. Indifferent. Absolute.
There was only one word for that.
Madison's voice floated back, a taunt, a reminder, a name I'd always known but refused to say. Not like this. Not with this sense of clarity.
I whispered it to the dark.
"And Night bore hateful Doom, and black Fate… and Death."
Death.
Not an idea, not a metaphor. Just… there.
Always there. Always waiting. Always one step sideways into nothing.
Had I known, deep down? Is that why I kept my hands off the lines for so long, because some dark, animal part of me understood what they were? Or was I only pretending ignorance, just to delay the moment?
I didn't know. I didn't know why I held back, or why this power landed on me, or how I was supposed to keep breathing with it carved into me.
But I knew what I was now.
Worse than weird. Worse than dangerous.
A girl who could cut Death into the world.
And I had done it. Not by accident. Not in defense. Because I chose to. Because in the moment, it felt right.
And when the body fell, I felt nothing. No horror. No shame. Just the neat little satisfaction of fitting a puzzle piece.
That was the worst part.
My stomach folded in on itself. I pulled into a ball, whispering the word in my head like a verdict.
Animal. Mistake. Monster.
The air sawed in and out of my throat. I made myself consider paths, because that's what I did. If there were problems, there could also be options, solutions.
First path: kill myself. End it here, cut the problem at the root. No more mistakes, no more risks.
Except I didn't want that.
I wasn't hollow, I wasn't hopeless. I wanted to live, even if the wanting itself felt obscene.
Second path: never cut again. Pretend the lines weren't there. Lie to myself. Pointless. They'd wait me out. A moment would come, and I'd give in.
Third path… the only path. Control. Structure. Rules. Bind the thing in my head with chains I forged myself.
I forced myself upright. Switched on the light. Found paper, pencil. My hands shook, but the first words came smooth:
NO CUTTING UNLESS THERE'S NO OTHER OPTION.
Cardinal. Untouchable. My knife didn't move unless there was no other way forward.
Then came the memory: steel sliding through James like nothing, his legs standing after his torso was gone. I tasted bile. I forced my hand down to write:
NO CUTTING UNLESS I UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M CUTTING.
Because I couldn't pretend it was just geometry anymore. Not when I didn't know what else I might unravel.
The third rule lingered, ugly, until shame pried it out of me. Too obvious, too late, but it had to be written:
NO CUTTING SOMEONE UNLESS THEY DESERVE IT.
No mistakes. No indulgence. Death had to be chosen, weighed.
I folded the page until it was small enough to disappear into the closet. Out of sight, but present, a weight tucked between my clothes.
I crawled back onto the bed, curled tight, tried to swallow down the sinking in my gut.
Tried to sleep.
Could not.
"…Like waking up from a dream," I whispered, "and into a nightmare."
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