Rosalie held the knife, its blade slick with blood, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. Blood splattered across the room, coating the floor and walls. She smiled, a shiver of adrenaline running through her. Her tenth victim—an abusive, wealthy man who had kidnapped and tortured young girls—lay before her, lifeless.
Slowly, she rose, heels clicking softly against the tiles. She bent over the body, knife still in hand. "Look at you, all lifeless… hope you enjoy hell, bastard," she whispered before plunging the blade into his already pierced heart.
Rosalie didn't work recklessly. A real killer never left traces, and she was a professional. She removed her gloves, pulled a lighter from her purse, and set them ablaze. Checking the time, she smiled—her business here was done. One last glance at the body, and she slipped the knife back into her bag, draped her scarf, slid on sunglasses, and left the room with graceful poise.
In the elevator, she pressed the "G" button, watching her reflection flicker in the dim lights before disappearing from the CCTV cameras.
Outside, she strode to a sleek black Lexus, slid into the driver's seat, and navigated the city streets with a controlled elegance. Neon lights blurred past as she drove fast, yet effortlessly.
A notification pinged on her phone. Her client—the one who had commissioned this kill—sent a message: "Did you finish the work?"
She smirked. Had she ever failed? Typing with calm precision, she replied: "Done."
The night was young, and so was she. Why not have some fun?
Rosalie parked outside a bustling club, removed her scarf and sunglasses, and entered. Loud music and flashing lights enveloped her, the crowd moving like waves of chaos. She approached the bar, slid onto a stool, crossing her legs with effortless elegance.
The bartender, polishing a glass, looked up. His eyes couldn't leave her—silky black hair, pale skin that seemed to glow under the club lights, dark eyes that hinted at danger. His cheeks flushed as he stammered, "W-what would you like, miss?"
She gave a faint smile. "One cocktail, please."
He hurriedly prepared a drink, garnished with careful precision. When she took it, their fingers brushed. He jerked back, flustered. Rosalie only smiled, calm and unshaken.
For hours, she observed the crowd—people losing themselves to drink and dance. Men approached, drawn by her presence, but she declined each politely. Eventually, she slipped out, returning to her car.
Her bag, containing the knife, rested behind her seat. Tonight wasn't over. Disposal had to be clean, precise—just like everything else she did.
Rosalie parked on the edge of the river, the city lights flickering on the water's surface. The knife was in her bag, wrapped carefully. One wrong move, one careless glance—and this could all unravel. But she was meticulous.
She stepped out of the car, heels silent against the pavement, eyes scanning the dark riverbank. Not a soul in sight. The water rippled under the moonlight, black and waiting. Perfect.
Opening her bag, she removed the knife. The blade gleamed even in the faint light, a wicked promise. She tested its weight in her hand, turning it over slowly, methodically. Then, with a precise flick of her wrist, she wrapped it in a cloth and dropped it into a small steel canister she had brought.
A click. The lid secured. One hand on the canister, she hurled it into the river. It hit the water with barely a splash, disappearing into the darkness. No trace. No evidence.
Satisfied, she straightened, letting the night air wash over her. The adrenaline still hummed in her veins, but now it was calm—a predator finishing her hunt.
Her phone buzzed. Another client? Another job waiting? Perhaps. For tonight, though, the city was hers. She walked back to her car, heels clicking softly, the world unaware of the storm that had just passed through its streets.
She slid into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove back into the city lights. Clean, silent, unstoppable. Rosalie was never reckless—and the night would always bend to her control.