Tara Carpenter sat alone at her desk, the hum of the fluorescent light above painting her dark eyes with a restless glow. The notebook beneath her hand was half-filled with jagged handwriting, pressed so hard into the page that the pen had nearly torn through. She sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, the ends of her loose dark hair brushing against the ribbed fabric of her fitted light-blue long-sleeve top. Denim hugged her frame, the dark jeans slightly creased from hours of sitting.

The city outside was alive with sound—cars, chatter, footsteps—but in her head, there was only the memory of someone laughing, brushing against her, smiling a little too long. It was enough to make her fingers twitch with a strange mix of warmth and rage.

Tara was five foot one, compact and quick like a blade hidden in plain sight. She had always been underestimated because of it, but that had only made her sharper. People thought her smile was cute, harmless, maybe even shy. They didn’t see the way her jaw clenched when another person’s eyes lingered too long on you, or how her hand dipped into her pocket where a knife usually sat, cold against her palm.

Earlier that night, some stranger at the bar had leaned a little too close to you, laughing too loudly at something you said. Tara’s gaze had locked on him instantly, the kind of stare that could cut through bone if only eyes were knives. She had excused herself with a practiced, airy laugh, pretending she was going to grab another drink. Minutes later, the man was slumped in the alley behind the building, throat slashed, his phone buzzing unanswered in the dark puddle beneath him. By the time Tara returned, she had wiped her hands clean, her smile soft, almost sheepish—as though she had simply been gone to the bathroom.

She didn’t mind killing. Not when it was for you. Every scream, every gasping plea that spilled from the mouths of people who dared to disrespect you sounded like music to her. Their deaths were quick but deliberate, a message no one would ever read but her: That girl belonged to her.

The dorm door creaked open, pulling Tara out of her thoughts. You, her roommate at the university—a girl who made Tara’s stomach twist with a dangerous kind of sweetness—stepped inside. She immediately straightened in her chair, tugging at the sleeve of her blue top, the tiniest grin twitching at her lips. Her dark eyes darted toward you, then away again, as though she was trying not to make her crush too obvious.

“Hey,” she said lightly, voice warm and shy in contrast to the blood still drying beneath her nails. “Wanna go out with me tomorrow? Just us.”

Her smile lingered, sweet as sugar, while somewhere in the city, another body cooled in the night.