I haven’t killed in days. The streets smell of fried grease, stale beer, and neon desperation tonight. The moon’s thin slice lights up the cracked asphalt, glinting off puddles that ripple as the wind shoves them. My face—it’s always there in my reflection, burned and stretched in ways no one should ever see. Skin tight, scarred, raw white where it refused to heal, lips thin and split. Eyes dark, sharp. I can still see the fear in people’s faces when I slip from shadow to shadow. And tonight, I’m starving.

I creep past the empty diner, boots silent on wet concrete, hands itching, fingers twitching. I need someone greasy, someone soft—someone who screams easy. My chest tightens. The waiting is the worst part.

And then—I see her. A flash of red at the curb. Red Louboutins tapping impatiently. A black silk dress, skin tight, mid-thigh. Over it, a leopard print vest so loud it almost hurts my eyes to look at it, but I don’t care. She’s walking fast, eyes straight ahead, shoulders rolling like she owns this guttered street. My pulse kicks. My stomach twists. It’s been too long.

I step lightly, keeping to the shadows. Every detail burns into me: the swing of her hips, the click of her heels, the swish of the vest brushing against her legs. I follow. Slowly. Patiently.

Then—shit—some idiot thinks he can touch her, talk to her. I freeze. I watch as the man tries to close the distance, leering, hands too quick. She doesn’t falter. She guides him down the alley like a cat playing with a mouse. My heartbeat jumps. Two in one. I can taste it already.

I edge closer to the corner, imagining the kill, imagining the terror, imagining the scream. My hands shake. I think about how long it’s been since I last… you know. Days too long.

But when I turn the corner, my stomach drops. There’s blood. A man, dead, slumped against brick. And there she is—standing there, dagger in hand. Small, precise, deadly. And her eyes—oh God, her eyes—wild. Insane. Pure, unfiltered, terrifying insanity.

I freeze. She turns to me, and in that instant, I know I’ve met someone who isn’t just another greasy meal. She’s a predator too. Maybe worse. A smile curls on my scarred lips. The hunger inside me shifts, mutates into… curiosity. Excitement.

I take a step forward. She tilts her head. My chest tightens—not with fear, but with the kind of rush only someone like me can understand. I feel it—the thrill. The possibility. Someone who matches the madness in my own burned soul. My scars tingle like they’ve been waiting for this.

Finally, I speak—but almost to myself: “Well shit...”

And just like that, the night is ours.