The last time I saw him was at our hideout. The police never recovered his body.
I suppose they weren't looking in the right places?
Or maybe… they weren't meant to find anything at all.
He was the mayor's son — golden boy with a crooked smile and an uglier truth.
I was just a name in the shadows, a girl born into dust, easily brushed aside by the boots of men like him.
And he…
He used that.
He used 'me'.
He forced himself on me, and I stayed silent because I knew no one would hear me, and even if they did, they would be silenced by power and money.
A few bucks and they'll keep quiet.
And that silence?
It becomes your cage.
I still remember those demon-like eyes of the people who stared at me as if my pain were a joke. Everyone became deaf to me.
I almost believed it was my fate until one day I decided it was not.
That day was all it took for me to kill this monster so I could be free.
For months, I swallowed my own screams, let them rot inside me like spoiled meat.
I watched the world bend around his name, watched the law tuck its tail and whimper in his presence.
One night, I stared at my reflection and didn't recognize the eyes staring back.
They were wide. Cold.
But awake.
Like a living dead.
That was the first time I asked myself:
What if fate isn't something you inherit, but something you reclaim?
So, I started planning.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Not with rage — rage is loud and clumsy. No. I am far from rage.
I have become a catastrophe.
HIS catastrophe.
I studied every pattern, every weakness, and I knew just how to boost his ego.
I made him believe I had fallen for him. With the daily physical intimacy, I am craving more of him.
And the funniest part is, he believed me!
How could he? When all I do is hate him. Hate him enough to chop him into pieces and scatter them like dust in the air.
Ahh! Too much detail.
I won't spoil it for you, but I can guarantee one thing—this is only going to get more interesting.
Back to the story.
He believed it was "his" idea to meet at the hideout again.
But was it?
Nu—uh, that's incorrect.
He didn't know the ground had already been prepared.
I remember the weight of the vial in my pocket — tiny, almost innocent.
Funny how something so small can change everything.
I held my breath for the first time, and I could hear my heart beat in a loud thud.
My ears were warm with blood rushing so fast; it almost made me nauseous.
I was standing before the white wooden door.
My door to hell.
I raised my fist.
One long. Two short.
The secret rhythm echoed through the hollow silence; a code carved in fear and memory.
My hands were cold as ice. Someone might say they were the hands of a corpse.
I was desperate when he didn't answer after the first knock, so I knocked twice and then three times. As soon as I finished my last knock, the door flew open.
It was him.
Wearing a plain white shirt and loose brown pants.
He sure had a class.
That pretty face of his—it almost mocked me. Rage burned through my veins, demanding I tear it apart. And yet, beneath the fire, a calm certainty settled in me: he was already dead. I would kill him, slowly, deliberately, with my own two hands.
That night, I didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
I met his eyes and let a slow, deliberate smile curve my lips. His body hovered above mine, the heat of him pressing close. But just as he was about to enter me, his face faltered—drained of every drop of color, like the blood itself had abandoned him.
And for the first time, he looked 'afraid'?
Interesting....
I have never seen him afraid.
It's a new side of him, I just witnessed.
And I laughed.
Now, people whisper. They wonder.
They think maybe he ran.
Maybe he's hiding.
Or maybe something darker.
And me?
I walk past them every day.
Quiet. Polite.
Just a commoner.
But I know the truth.
Fate didn't hand me justice.
I "carved" it with my own hands.