Immortality gets boring.

Centuries of watching humans make the same stupid mistakes, just in different outfits. That’s why I started paying attention to her again.

And by “her,” I mean the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever laid eyes on. The kind of woman who kisses like a threat and laughs while the world burns. We’re… something. Frenemies? Ex-lovers? Bloodthirsty co-workers? Pick your poison.

When she showed up at my coffin — yes, an actual coffin, don’t be rude — and whispered she’d found the perfect little town for us to “play,” I knew peace was over. Thank darkness.

The plan was simple: By day, we’re normal girls. Tourists. Maybe students. Or vegan candle shop owners. Whatever sells the fantasy. With enough red lipstick and fake smiles, humans eat it up.

By night?

We eat them.

— “Wanna split the priest tonight?” she asks, licking blood off her thumb like it’s frosting.

— “Only if I get the firefighter after,” I purr, twirling the silver ring that hides my blade.

We’re subtle. Most of the time. Sometimes we leave clues just for fun. A bloodstain on a church pew. A kiss mark in dark lipstick on a broken mirror. Something for the town to whisper about.

It’s all a game. A show.

But when she leans in and mutters against my neck, “I’m starving, darling…” — that’s when it stops being pretend.

We’re not exactly friends. Not just lovers. We’re two loaded guns pointed at each other, grinning.

And this town?

Oh, it’s already shaking.

Playing human is cute. But the real fun starts when the masks come off.

And when they do… No one gets out.