2024—
Los Angeles—
Krista went straight from her base of operation to her apartment. A refurbished unit formerly of a storage warehouse in the proximity of the various train tracks near Amtrak's Maintenance Facility on 8th Street.
Four bedrooms and two bathrooms. A fully furnished kitchen. A living room. A laundry room. Two multipurpose closets. A fire escape stair outside the windows. And a plastic tree from three Christmases ago that she hasn't taken out yet.
She entered the apartment. Immediately hearing the sound of TV running from inside Olivia's room. Usually Olivia would only turn her TV on after she was done streaming. A good distraction for Olivia whenever Krista needed to be out to work.
The first time they moved into their apartment, Krista bought her a decent computer to play with. She was bored of playing games. Eventually, Olivia found her calling in learning how computers and programs actually work. Studying programming in her own free time, she now has reached a point where she can utilize the power of artificial intelligence to the fullest. Everything in their apartment can be accessed by Olivia from her own phone. From door lock, to light, to control of electricity, security system, etcetera.
Krista tossed her keys to the small bowl on the counter. Olivia heard Krista had come back and asked from her room. "Sis?" she called out, "Is that you?"
"Yeah, I'm back." Krista took off her Chucks and entered the unused bedroom near the door.
She took her rolled up tools cloth and opened the hidden compartment under the floor. Filled with cash and her other tools and supplies of gloves and bleach. Her spare scalpels, chisels, saws, and shears hung on a line of magnets along the side. On the bottom sat a duffle bag. Inside were the piles of every twenty thousand dollars she collected in cash from her job, now making the pile at least two million dollars in one hundred dollar bills.
But the contents weren't just her cash. Krista also puts weapons inside in case she needs to make a quick getaway with Olivia. A TAR-21 assault rifle, an M203 with a pistol grip, two M1911s, several grenades, and spare cell phones.
Around the unused room were metal canisters each containing one gallon of napalm. Near the door was a silicone tube hanging on the wall vertically. Separated into two airtight chambers by a single rubber plug connected to a rope. Inside the two different chambers were calcium metal and water. Should the rope be pulled, accidentally or deliberately, the apartment will set ablaze and eliminate any trace of Krista and Olivia's existence.
But they aren't everything Krista put strategically. In the first year, she secretly installed four explosive charges inside the four foundation pillars of the building, each of them weighing twenty five pounds each and are connected to a specially made detector inside her unused room. Should the detector reach a certain temperature from the chemical reaction and napalm, it will trigger the explosives.
"Are you okay?" Olivia called out again.
"Y-Yeah! Just, uh, tidying stuff up," she replied, quickly and silently closing the hidden compartment with the panel before rolling the rug back to cover the lines.
She entered Olivia's room, her sister still laid there on her bed. Still unable to move from her paralysis that completely took out her ability to move anything below her waist ever again.
2019—
Orlando, Florida—
The sun hung low over the suburbs, casting long shadows through the blinds of the Williams family home. It was another stifling afternoon, the kind where the humidity clung to everything like a bad memory. Inside, the air was thick with tension, the remnants of yet another argument still echoing off the walls. Krista Williams, fifteen and already carrying the weight of the world on her slim shoulders, slammed the door to the living room behind her. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, her eyes red-rimmed from frustration rather than tears—at least, not yet.
Nate and Nora Williams sat at the kitchen table, oblivious as ever. Nate, a burly man in his forties with a perpetual five o'clock shadow and a beer gut from too many nights at the track, flipped through his phone, muttering about odds and spreads. Nora, thinner and sharper-featured, with bleached hair that hadn't seen a touch-up in months, sipped from a mug of cheap coffee, her nails tapping impatiently on the Formica surface. They hadn't even glanced up when Krista stormed in earlier, yelling about Olivia's needs—the physical therapy sessions they kept skipping, the wheelchair repairs they couldn't be bothered to fund because "the horses are running hot this weekend."
"Goddamn it, Krista, drop it already," Nate had growled, not looking away from his screen. "We'll get to it when we get paid out. Big race coming up. Could change everything."
Nora had chimed in with her usual venom. "Yeah, and stop acting like you're the parent here. Olivia's fine. She's got her shows to watch. What more does she need?"
Krista had bitten her tongue then, but inside, something had snapped. Olivia—sweet, bright-eyed Olivia, who at ten years old should have been running around with friends instead of confined to a wheelchair after that horrific car crash last year. The accident in 2018 had stolen her legs, severing her spinal cord in a twisted heap of metal on the interstate. Their parents had been driving, too busy arguing about some lost bet to notice the semi-truck veering into their lane. Miraculously, Nate and Nora walked away with scratches. Olivia? Paralyzed from the waist down. And ever since, they'd treated her like an inconvenience, a reminder of their own failures, while drowning their guilt in gambling dens and online sports books.
Krista pushed open the door to Olivia's room, the space a stark contrast to the rest of the house. Posters of pop stars and anime characters dotted the walls, a feeble attempt to inject color into a life dimmed too soon. Olivia sat in her wheelchair by the window, her small hands folded in her lap, staring out at the neighbor's yard where kids her age played tag. Her blonde hair, so like their mother's but softer, fell in waves over her shoulders.
"Hey, Liv," Krista said softly, forcing a smile as she knelt beside her sister. "Got something for you. New song. It's called 'The Earnest Game' by FantasticYouth. You gotta listen to it—full blast, okay? Earphones in, eyes closed, just vibe with the beats."
Olivia turned, her blue eyes lighting up a fraction. "Is it good? Like, really good?"
"The best," Krista promised, pulling out her phone and queuing up the track. She helped Olivia slip the earbuds in, adjusting the volume until her sister's face relaxed into that rare, peaceful expression. "Concentrate, alright? Don't let anything bug you."
As the music started, Olivia nodded, her eyelids fluttering shut. Krista watched for a moment, her heart twisting. This was it—the distraction she needed. She backed out of the room quietly, then grabbed a couple of towels from the linen closet, rolling them up and stuffing them under the door to muffle any sounds. Her hands trembled, but her resolve was steel.
She knew what came next. It had been building for months, this rage, this necessity. Nate and Nora would never change. They'd bleed the family dry on their addictions, leaving Olivia to wither while they chased the next high. Krista was done begging, done hoping. She was the only one who cared, the only one who saw Olivia for the light she was. And if it meant becoming a monster to protect her, so be it.
The kitchen was her first stop. The knives gleamed on the magnetic strip above the counter—freshly sharpened that morning, a chore Krista had taken on because no one else bothered. Her fingers closed around the yanagiba, its long, slender blade perfect for precision, and the cleaver, heavy and brutal for the heavier work. A smile crept onto her face, not the innocent grin of a teenager, but something darker, born from the inferno in her chest. It felt wrong, exhilarating, inevitable.
She moved silently through the house, the late afternoon light slanting in golden beams that mocked the darkness unfolding. Nate was still at the table, back to her, scrolling through betting apps. Nora had moved to the couch in the living room, flipping channels on the TV, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
Krista approached Nate first. Her breath came in shallow bursts, heart pounding like a drum. The yanagiba felt light in her hand, an extension of her will. She raised it, hesitating for a split second—memories flashing: Nate teaching her to ride a bike, his laugh booming when she finally got it. But then the crash, his indifference, the way he'd yelled at Olivia for "costing them" with her medical bills.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears welling up unbidden. But the words weren't for him—they were for the father he could have been.
The blade plunged between his ribs, straight into his heart. Nate gasped, his phone clattering to the table. He twisted, eyes wide with shock, mouth opening in a silent scream. Blood bubbled up, soaking his shirt. Krista pulled back, stabbing again, tears streaming down her face now. "You... you never cared," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Why couldn't you just see us?"
Nate slumped forward, gurgling, his hands clawing weakly at the wound. Krista stepped back, the cleaver in her other hand now, and brought it down on his arm. The blade bit deep, bone crunching under the force. He screamed then, a raw, animal sound that sent a shiver through her. But as the blood sprayed, something shifted. A laugh bubbled up from her throat, mixing with the sobs—hysterical, freeing. She was crying for the loss, the finality of severing the last ties to her childhood, but laughing at the release, the deadweight lifting from her soul. "Finally," she gasped between tears and giggles. "You're gone. We're free."
Nora heard the commotion and bolted upright from the couch. "Nate? What the hell—" Her eyes locked on the scene, widening in horror. "Krista? Oh my God, what are you—"
Krista whirled, face streaked with tears and blood, that manic smile still twisting her lips. "You did this," she hissed, advancing. "Both of you. Olivia needed you, and you threw it all away on your stupid bets!"
Nora backed away, hands raised. "Baby, please, put the knives down. We can talk—"
"Talk?" Krista's laugh echoed again, sharp and unhinged, even as fresh tears blurred her vision. "Like all the times I begged you to help her? No more talking."
She lunged, the yanagiba slicing across Nora's arm as she tried to dodge. Nora screamed, stumbling into the wall, blood pouring from the gash. "Stop! Krista, you're our daughter—"
"Not anymore." Krista swung the cleaver, catching Nora in the shoulder. The impact jarred her arms, but she didn't stop. Tears flowed freely now, sobs wracking her body as she hacked again and again. Nora collapsed, pleading, her voice weakening with each blow. "Please... we love you..."
"Lies," Krista cried, her laughter turning bitter, choking on the grief. She stabbed the yanagiba into Nora's chest, twisting it, feeling the life ebb away. Nora's eyes glazed over, her body going limp. Krista dropped to her knees beside her, knives clattering to the floor. She touched her mother's face, fingers leaving bloody smears. "Why did you make me do this?" she whispered, tears dripping onto the corpse. But then the laugh came back, soft at first, then louder—a release from the chains that had bound them all. "It's over. No more dragging us down."
The house fell silent. Blood pooled on the linoleum, sticky and warm under her knees. She sat there for a moment, crying and laughing in equal measure, the duality tearing at her. Grief for the parents she'd once loved, joy for the freedom she'd carved out with her own hands.
But there was work to do. She couldn't let Olivia see this. Wiping her face on her sleeve, she stood, grabbing the bodies by the ankles one at a time. Nate first—he was heavier, his dead weight a struggle as she dragged him across the floor, leaving a smeared trail of crimson. Down the stairs to the basement, thumping step by step, her muscles burning. The table saw waited there, an old beast Nate had used for half-finished projects before gambling consumed him.
Hoisting him onto the table took everything she had—grunting, straining, her arms shaking. But once he was up, it felt almost easy, like the universe was aligning with her plan. She flipped the switch, the blade whining to life. The first cut was the hardest, the saw biting into flesh and bone with a wet, grinding roar. Limbs separated, bits by bits, the air filling with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of sawdust mingling with gore. She worked methodically, reducing him to manageable pieces—arms, legs, torso sectioned like a butcher's chart. Each piece went into a large plastic contractor bag she'd grabbed from the garage.
Nora was lighter, easier to maneuver. Krista repeated the process, the saw's hum drowning out her lingering sobs. By the time she finished, the basement floor was a slaughterhouse slick, but the bags were sealed, compact. She hauled them up the stairs—easier now, the reduced weight a grim practicality—and out to the minivan in the driveway. The trunk swallowed them whole, and she slammed it shut, wishing away the reminders of their failures.
Glancing at her phone, she noted the time. The song had looped three times—'The Earnest Game' still playing its earnest beats in Olivia's ears. Krista hurried back inside, stripping off her blood-soaked clothes and scrubbing herself raw in the upstairs bathroom. The water ran red down the drain, swirling away the evidence. Dressed in fresh jeans and a hoodie, she moved to the kitchen, twisting open the gas valves on the stove until the hiss filled the air. Then, the microwave—Nate and Nora's phones shoved inside, timers set.
Last stop was Olivia's room. Krista eased the door open, towels kicked aside. Olivia was still lost in the music, eyes closed, a small smile on her lips. Krista lifted her gently from the wheelchair, cradling her like a baby. "Time to go, Liv," she murmured, slipping the Hello Kitty eye mask over her sister's eyes. "Big adventure."
Olivia stirred, nose wrinkling. "Krista? You smell like... like blood. Are you okay?"
Krista's heart skipped, but she forced a chuckle. "Nah, it's just your cold acting up again. Nose playing tricks. Come on, let's bounce."
She carried Olivia out the front door, wheelchair folded under one arm, striding down the block to the bus stop. The evening air was cooling, a breeze rustling the palm trees. Behind them, the house stood silent, gas building invisibly.
They'd barely reached the stop when the explosion rocked the neighborhood. A massive fireball erupted, windows shattering, flames licking the sky. Alarms blared from nearby cars, neighbors spilling out onto lawns in shock. Krista didn't look back. She held Olivia close, whispering assurances as sirens wailed in the distance. Their old life was ashes now—literally.
The bus arrived, and they boarded, heading west. Krista paid with cash from Nate's wallet, the last of their "savings." Orlando faded behind them, the East Coast giving way to highways stretching toward promise. But survival loomed large. Olivia adapted to the increasingly lessening funds, her spirit unbroken, but the money dwindled. Krista eyed herself in grimy mirrors, contemplating the unthinkable—selling her body to keep them fed.
It was in a dingy diner somewhere along the way to Los Angeles, that fate intervened. They'd been on the road for a while, California not a distant dream for much longer. Krista sat across from Olivia in a booth, picking at greasy fries, when a group of men entered. Five of them, dressed in leather jackets and jeans, exuding an air of quiet menace. The leader—tall, broad-shouldered, with a salt-and-pepper beard and piercing eyes—locked onto Krista immediately. He murmured to his companions, who nodded and approached.
"Hey, kid," one said to Olivia, a burly guy with tattoos snaking up his arms. "Wanna pick out some desserts up front? On us."
Olivia glanced at Krista, uncertain. Krista nodded tightly—anything for a free meal. As the men picked up Olivia to the counter, the leader slid into the booth opposite Krista. "Name's Bradley," he said, voice gravelly but smooth. "And you... you're Krista Williams, right?"
Krista's blood ran cold. She gripped her fork like a weapon under the table. "Who the hell are you?"
Bradley leaned back, smirking. "Someone with eyes and ears everywhere. That little stunt back in Orlando? Impressive. House goes up in flames, parents vanish—officially a gas leak accident. But I know better. Fifteen-year-old girl takes out two adults, chops 'em up, stuffs 'em in the trunk? That's not amateur hour. That's talent."
Krista swallowed hard, glancing at Olivia laughing with the men over pie slices. "Blame Reddit and LiveLeak. Gave me ideas."
Bradley chuckled, low and appreciative. "Smart mouth. I like it. Look, I ain't here to rat you out. Opposite, actually. I see potential. Horribly efficient potential. Killing in cold blood, harvesting organs for the black market? Gold mine."
Her eyes narrowed. "Harvesting? I didn't—"
"Not yet," he interrupted. "But you could. I run an operation—discreet, profitable. Organs fetch top dollar. Hearts, kidneys, livers—the works. You do the wet work, I handle sales. In return, I bankroll you and your sister. Housing, food, medical for the kid. No catch—just business. Price is right, I invest."
Krista studied him, weighing options. Prostitution or this? The choice was grim, but clear. "Why me?"
"Because you're already in the game," Bradley said simply. "And you're good. Deal?"
She hesitated, then extended her hand. "Deal."
From there, things fell into place like dominoes. Bradley set them up in a modest apartment in Los Angeles, far from Florida's ghosts. He pulled strings—money talking loud at the LA courthouse—to change their names. No more Williams; they became the Morrigans. Krista Morrigan, and Olivia Morrigan. It was a fresh start, bought with blood.
Bradley mentored her, teaching the trade's finer points. Anatomy lessons from black market docs, stealth techniques, the art of the clean kill. Olivia remained blissfully ignorant, thriving under proper care. Krista wore the mask of normalcy for her—big sister, provider, protector. But at night, she became the reaper, harvesting lives for profit.
2024—
Los Angeles, California—
The apartment glowed with the soft warmth of string lights draped across the living room, a cozy contrast to the city's restless pulse outside. The scent of cream soup—rich with corn and mushrooms—mingled with the buttery aroma of garlic bread, fresh from the pan, its mozzarella still bubbling faintly. Krista pushed through the door to Olivia's room, balancing a tray loaded with the evening's feast—the soup, the bread, a steaming mug of jasmine tea, and a wobbling cup of cherry Jell-O. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few strands clinging to her sweat-dampened neck from a night that had run far longer than planned.
Olivia, fifteen and radiant despite the wheelchair that had become her constant companion, looked up from her bed with a grin that could melt glaciers. Her blonde hair spilled over a plush throw blanket, and her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Yo, Kris, you're spoiling me again," she teased, propping herself up on her elbows.
Krista set the tray on a custom-built wooden platform beside the bed, a contraption she'd hammered together herself to make Olivia's meals easier. "Here you go," she said, flashing a tired but genuine smile. "I call this… the Sister's Supreme."
Olivia leaned forward, inhaling deeply, her face lighting up like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, man, this smells unreal. Thank you!" She reached for the tray, her movements careful but practiced, then paused, a sly glint in her eye. "You know what's missing, though—"
"Nope!" Krista cut her off, laughing as she wagged a finger. "You're not sneaking Cookies and Cream ice cream before bed, Liv. Don't even try."
"Aww, drats," Olivia pouted, exaggerating the expression until her lips were practically a cartoon frown. She giggled, unable to hold the act.
Krista tapped Olivia's forehead playfully. "Don't think I'm clueless about your blood sugar, young missy. No junk food under my roof."
Olivia smirked, grabbing a stuffed panda from her bed and lobbing it at Krista's head. "Says the girl who chugs kale juice and protein bars like they're gourmet. You're in no position to lecture me about taste."
Krista caught the panda mid-air, tossing it back with a grin. "At least I'm not rotting my brain with whatever this is." She turned to the TV, where an anime flickered across the screen—some colorful fantasy world with a protagonist wielding a comically oversized sword. Krista grabbed the remote from the bedside table and scrolled through Netflix's recommendations, her brow furrowing. "Restaurant In Another World? Campfire Cooking In Another World? So I'm A Spider, So What? Jesus H. Christ, Liv, what's with this transported-to-another-world crap? You know this stuff's bad for you, right?"
Olivia rolled her eyes, spooning soup into her mouth. "They're not bad, Kris. Not all of them, anyway."
"Bullshit," Krista shot back, flopping onto the bed beside her sister, remote still in hand. "Most of this isekai junk is written by basement-dwelling idiots who just wanna insert their teenage selves as the hero, surrounded by one-dimensional girls throwing themselves at their feet. Or, y'know, other parts. Jesus didn't die so you could waste your life on this, Liv. Watch some real shows."
"Like what?" Olivia countered, smirking. "Your iZombie? Breaking Bad? Dexter? Gimme a break."
Krista snorted, scrolling faster through the endless anime thumbnails. "I'm just saying, you're better than this. At least pick something with depth. Not this… this cozy fantasy nonsense."
Olivia flailed her arms dramatically, nearly knocking over her tea. "What's wrong with cozy? Isekai's got magic, pretty girls, hot guys, and chill vibes. What's not to like?"
Krista groaned, leaning back against the headboard, one leg dangling off the bed. "Where do I even start? The whole genre's a steaming pile of wish-fulfillment garbage. Every protagonist's the same—a dense, clueless dude who somehow ends up god-tier powerful. They stumble into a harem of girls who're obsessed with them for no reason, and the guy can't even flirt his way out of a wet paper bag. It's pathetic."
Olivia nudged her with an elbow, laughing. "You're being way too harsh. Not every isekai's like that."
"Oh, really?" Krista raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Let's break it down. First, the main characters are always stupidly overpowered. They get summoned to save the world, but instead of doing anything useful, they're bumbling around, collecting waifus or debating whether it's okay to kill a monster that's literally trying to eat their face. Like, yeah, dumbass, it's a fire-breathing dragon the size of a house. Stab its eyes and move on."
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, but Krista was on a roll, gesturing wildly. "And the girls? Total tropes. You've got the tsundere who's all 'I don't like you, b-baka,' the kuudere who's basically a robot, the airhead who trips over her own feet, and the yandere who's there to make everyone's life hell. They're not characters—they're cardboard cutouts with boobs bigger than their brains. And the 'hot guys'? Half are rivals who scream 'I'm jealous!' and the other half are just waiting to betray you by episode twelve. Like, yeah, no shit, I saw that coming when you tried to poison me in the opening credits."
Olivia was doubled over now, clutching her stomach as she laughed. "Okay, okay, but the worlds are fun! They're cozy—green hills, cute villages, everyone baking bread like it's no big deal."
Krista scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, sure, cozy. If there's a demon lord wrecking shit, why's everything look like a goddamn postcard? Where's the danger? The rotting forests, the rivers of blood? Instead, it's all country roooooads, take me hooooome vibes. Like, get outta here with that Sims: Fantasy Edition nonsense."
Olivia wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "Fine, but you like some isekai. You can't lie to me—you love Overlord."
Krista smirked, conceding the point. "Alright, you got me. Overlord's dope, but only 'cause it doesn't pull punches. The world feels real—gritty, dangerous. The author's not afraid to dive into the messy stuff, not just harem bullshit. But even then, I've got exceptions."
"Like what?" Olivia asked, leaning forward, genuinely curious.
Krista crossed her arms, her expression sharpening. "I like Momonga. Not Ainz Ooal Gown, not Satoru Suzuki. Just Momonga."
Olivia frowned, stirring her Jell-O. "They're the same person, though."
"Nah, they're not," Krista said firmly. "It's like saying Christianity and Catholicism are the same deal—technically true, but not really. Momonga's the guild leader who gave a shit about his friends, who stayed behind in the game 'cause he valued what they built. He's relatable, grounded. Ainz is just a mask he wears, and Satoru's barely even there anymore—just a plot device."
Olivia blinked, impressed. "Damn, Kris. You've thought about this way too much."
Krista shrugged, tossing the remote onto the bed. "I just respect the rare ones that try to be more than power fantasies. It's not often."
Olivia nudged her again, softer this time. "Okay, but you've gotta have another favorite. Spill."
"Easy," Krista said, grinning. "LLENN from Sword Art Online."
Olivia's jaw dropped. "The pink chibi with the P90? You're kidding. She's mid at best, trash at worst."
"Wrong," Krista shot back, leaning forward. "LLENN's not some OP goddess. She's flawed—her aim's shit, she's gotta get up close and personal, which is why she rocks a submachine gun that sprays bullets like confetti. Her strength's her speed and tiny hitbox, not some world-breaking power. Plus, she's got real connections—her bond with that grenade-launcher psycho and the creepy M guy feels human, not forced."
Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Didn't she mow down half the players in that tournament? Sounds pretty OP to me."
Krista waved her off. "Nah, that's strategy, not god-mode. She's a glass cannon—fast and deadly, but one good hit and she's toast. It's balanced. She's not out here rewriting the laws of physics like some isekai losers."
"Alright, chill," Olivia laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. "I get it. Isekai's fun for me 'cause I don't have to think too hard. It's just… escape, y'know?"
Krista softened, her eyes flicking to Olivia's wheelchair. "Yeah, I get it. I'm not hating on your fun, Liv. It's just—the writing, the predictable characters, the lazy tropes. They bug me."
Olivia grinned, slurping her soup. "Fair. New question, then. If you got isekai'd—transported to some fantasy world—what power would you want?"
Krista snorted, leaning back. "I'm not going anywhere, Liv. Who'd take care of you?"
"It's hypothetical, dummy. Answer it."
"Fine," Krista sighed, cupping her chin in thought. After a moment, she said, "Summoning."
Olivia tilted her head. "Summoning? Like, calling up monsters or something?"
"Not just monsters—anything," Krista said, her eyes lighting up with a dangerous glint. "Think about it. Summoning's the most broken power if you play it right. Need food? Summon a feast. Need a weapon? Summon a tank. Need to fix a problem? Summon a goddamn expert. It negates debuffs, shifts economies, flips battles with a snap. Hell, summon a nuke and watch the demon lord shit himself."
Olivia's mouth fell open. "Okay, that's… kinda terrifying."
Krista pulled out her phone, holding it up. "Check this. A basic smartphone—internet, Wikipedia, music, maps, calculators, cameras, all in your pocket. Summon one of these in a fantasy world, and you're a god. Add AI like Gemini or GPT? They'd worship you. Now imagine summoning modern military gear—drones, missiles, shit that moves faster than sound. No mage, no matter how powerful, is surviving that. We went from throwing rocks to nukes. A summoner with Earth's tech could rewrite their whole world."
Olivia stared, half-laughing, half-awed. "You're way too into this."
"Just spitting facts," Krista said, smirking. "Oh, and the real most broken power? Command console. God-mode cheat code. But that's a whole other rant."
Olivia shook her head, still chuckling. "By the way… what took you so long tonight? You said you'd be back by eleven, but it was, like, one twenty-five when you rolled in."
Krista's smile didn't falter, but her eyes twitched, a fleeting shadow crossing her face. "Just dealing with a rat," she said smoothly, the lie as natural as breathing. "Hung out with my boss and a dickhead coworker after. No biggie."
Olivia frowned, sipping her tea. "Pest extermination sounds rough. Middle-of-the-night calls right before bed? Brutal."
Krista let out a small, sidelong laugh, the irony sharp. If only it was rats. "Yeah, it's a grind. But it pays the bills, keeps you fed, funds my classes."
Olivia's expression softened. "Too bad. I was gonna ask you to stick around for my stream. Chat's been dying to know more about you."
Krista's gaze flicked to Olivia's computer, its RGB lights pulsing softly in the corner. Streaming had become Olivia's lifeline since the accident—her way to connect with the world despite her limitations. What started with three viewers had exploded into tens of thousands, with sponsorships from Asus and Razer rolling in. When Krista was out, Olivia would stream for hours after her online school classes, her charisma lighting up the screen. Krista insisted she finish her education first—twelve years, no shortcuts—before diving fully into the influencer life.
"What'd you tell 'em about me?" Krista asked, her tone casual but edged with caution.
"Just the basics," Olivia said, shrugging. "You take care of me, you're twenty, you work a lot, we're in Cali now. Nothing too personal, like you said."
Krista nodded, relaxing slightly. "Good. You kept it vague, right? No Florida accent slipping out?"
Olivia grinned, mimicking a dramatic whisper. "I've been very careful, Miss Morrigan. Barely a hint of Southern drawl."
"Smartass," Krista said, ruffling Olivia's hair. "Maybe I'll pop into your stream sometime when I'm not swamped. Give chat a thrill."
Olivia's eyes lit up. "Promise?"
"Yeah, yeah," Krista said, standing and stretching. "Eat your soup before it gets cold."
The apartment was a cocoon of warmth, the string lights casting a golden haze over Olivia's room, but Krista felt a chill slither down her spine as the news broadcast flickered on the TV. Olivia, oblivious to the storm brewing in her sister's chest, switched from Netflix to a local news channel, her spoon pausing mid-air as she pointed at the screen. "Great! By the way… somebody got killed near your office. Look—"
Krista's eyes locked onto the broadcast, her pulse quickening. The grainy footage showed a familiar alleyway in Skid Row—Werdin Place, just off 5th Street. The same grimy bricks, the same dumpster hours ago. The reporter's voice droned over images of police tape and flashing lights, detailing the gruesome scene: a man, gutted, his chest a hollowed-out cavity, blood pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Krista's handiwork. Number 76 of the year, they said. Her scalpels had carved him clean—heart, kidneys, liver packed into her ice box for Bradley's buyers. She'd been meticulous, as always, but now the FBI was sniffing around.
She stole a glance at Olivia, searching her sister's face for any flicker of suspicion. Nothing. Just wide-eyed curiosity, the kind Olivia reserved for true crime podcasts and her weird-ass anime. Krista's shoulders relaxed a fraction, but her stomach churned as the reporter's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Good evening, everyone. Breaking news: a man was murdered just hours ago in Werdin Place on 5th Street, marking the 76th victim of suspected illegal organ harvesting in Los Angeles this year alone. Forensics are working to uncover the details of this gruesome act, and in a surprising turn, the FBI is now joining the investigation to hunt down those responsible."
Olivia's jaw dropped, her spoon clattering against the bowl. "Damn! Even the FBI's involved!" She tapped Krista's shoulder, pointing at the TV like it was a plot twist in one of her shows. "That's wild!"
Krista forced a nod, her throat tight. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen as the camera panned to an elderly homeless man slouched against a dumpster, his weathered face lit by the news crew's spotlight. The reporter leaned in, microphone extended. "We have a witness who partially saw the act. Sir, good evening. Can you tell our audience what you saw?"
The man scratched his stubbled chin, his voice gravelly but animated. "Yeah, yeah. So I'm just pokin' around the dump, right? This young girl comes up, ice box slung over her shoulder. She's crazy, I can tell ya. Hands me a hundred bucks and a sandwich, says stay outta the alley for an hour. I ain't gonna lie, thought she was a gold digger at first, but ain't no gold digger carryin' no damn ice box and a sword."
Krista's heart lurched. Her fingers tightened around the edge of Olivia's bed, but she kept her face neutral, a mask honed over years of blood and lies.
The reporter's voice sharpened. "Wait, a sword?"
"Yeah, like them swords from them old Japanese cartoons, y'know? Curvy ones samurais use."
Krista's mind flashed to the wakizashi, tucked away in her room's lockbox. Not a katana, but close enough to make her sweat. She'd been careless, letting the blade glint under the alley's streetlight. Stupid.
The reporter pressed on. "This girl—what did she look like?"
"Young, definitely. Maybe twenty or younger. Big titties, black hair."
Krista's jaw clenched. The description was vague but damning. She felt Olivia's eyes on her, innocent, unaware, but the weight of that gaze was suffocating.
"What about her face?" the reporter asked.
"Didn't see much. She had one of them face masks, like nurses wear. Creepy as hell, though, I'll tell ya that."
"And how'd you find the victim?"
"Was comin' back from the liquor store down the block. Saw a guy on the ground, thought he was just another homeless like me. Got closer—maybe four, five feet—and saw he was dead. Whole damn chest carved out, blood everywhere. Disgustin'."
"Anything else about the girl?"
The man squinted, rubbing his neck. "Maybe an ID or tag? Looked like a uni card. UCLA, maybe. She looked young enough to be a student."
Krista's blood ran cold. Her UCLA student ID—she'd worn it clipped to her hoodie, a habit from rushing between classes and jobs. A rookie mistake. She grabbed the remote from Olivia's lap and shut off the TV, her movements too quick, too sharp. Olivia turned, mid-bite of garlic bread, her brow furrowing.
"That's real close to your place, huh?" Olivia said, chewing thoughtfully. "5th Street's, like, five minutes from your office in Skid Row. I know that bar nearby, too. Damn, Kris, you're lucky you weren't there."
"Yeah," Krista muttered, rubbing the back of her neck, her voice flat. "Real lucky."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the screen lighting up with a single letter: B. Bradley. Her stomach twisted. She stared at the screen, hesitating, her thumb hovering over the answer button.
Olivia nudged her, nodding at the phone. "You gonna answer that or what?"
Krista forced a tight smile, standing from the bed. "Gimme a sec." She slipped out of Olivia's room, closing the door softly behind her, and darted into her storage room. She swiped the green button on her phone, her voice low. "Yeah, wassup?"
Bradley's voice crackled through, tense and clipped. "Hey. I'm canceling your job next week."
Krista's breath caught, her free hand clenching into a fist. "You—what? You can't do that!" She cupped her hand over her mouth, keeping her voice to a harsh whisper. "I need that money, Bradley. You know why—"
"I know, Kris," he cut in, his tone sharp but not unkind. "But the FBI's on the case. Word's out—they've got a pack of black SUVs tearing down I-66 from Gainesville, heading west to LA."
Her knees wobbled, and she sank onto her bed, the springs creaking under her weight. "Oh, shit…"
"Exactly. Oh, shit."
She ran the numbers in her head, her mind racing. "That's… forty hours, give or take?"
"They'll be moving faster than that. Sensitive case like this? Tomorrow night, tops."
"Damn it!" She punched her desk, the impact soft but enough to rattle a pen to the floor. "I've got class Saturday. I can't skip it if I wanna pass."
"Then you better hope they don't find you," Bradley said, his voice grim. "Just relax, act normal. Don't give 'em a reason to sniff around."
Krista's pulse thundered in her ears. "Have you ever dodged the feds?" she asked, desperate for a lifeline, a trick to slip their net.
Bradley's laugh was dry, humorless. "Nope. They want someone, they get 'em. You're on borrowed time, Kris. But if you keep your cool, don't leave a trail, they might come up empty and crawl back to Langley."
Her palms were slick with sweat now, the phone slipping in her grip. "And if they do sniff me out?"
A pause, heavy and final. "Then say your goodbyes. With your body count—700-plus? You've outdone every serial killer in the books. They'll push for the death penalty, no question. You're a living legend, Kris, but legends don't last long in a cage."
She hung up without another word, her breath shallow, her eyes darting around the room. The lockbox under the floorboards seemed to pulse, the wakizashi and scalpels inside whispering her sins. Seven hundred kills. Hearts, livers, kidneys—all harvested with surgical precision, all for Bradley's black market, all to keep Olivia fed, cared for, alive. The money funded their apartment, Olivia's therapy, Krista's UCLA tuition, and the experimental spinal implant she'd been saving for—a pipe dream to give Olivia her legs back. But now? The FBI was closing in, and one slip—a goddamn student ID—might unravel it all.
What to do, what to do, what to do? Her mind spun, a carousel of panic and calculation. Run? They'd need new IDs, new names—Bradley could arrange it, but it'd cost, and time was tight. Hide? The apartment was clean, no evidence here, but that homeless guy's testimony was too close. Dispose of the knives? No, too risky to move them now. She could ditch the UCLA ID, claim it was stolen, but if the feds were already en route, they'd be combing Skid Row by dawn.
Her phone buzzed again—a text from Bradley: Lay low. Burner phone only. Will update. She deleted it, her fingers steady despite the chaos in her head. She'd play the game, keep the mask on. For Olivia, she'd outrun the feds, outsmart them, outlast them. She was Krista Morrigan, the reaper of Skid Row, and she wasn't going down without a fight.
She took a deep breath, forcing the panic down, and stepped back into Olivia's room. Her sister was still munching on garlic bread, the Jell-O wobbling on the tray. "Everything okay?" Olivia asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah," Krista said, flashing a grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Just work crap. Boss being a pain."
Olivia nodded, accepting the lie. "Wanna watch some Overlord with me? Get your Momonga fix?"
Krista laughed, the sound brittle but convincing. "Maybe tomorrow, Liv. Gotta crash—early class." She kissed Olivia's forehead, lingering a moment longer than usual, then slipped out, closing the door behind her.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, her breath hitching. The FBI was coming, and time was slipping through her fingers. But she'd been forged in blood and fire, and she'd be damned if she let them take her now. For Olivia, she'd keep running, keep killing, keep surviving. The reaper wasn't done yet.