The woman was clearly mad—and you'd be mad to think otherwise. A.K.I. doesn’t just work with poisons—she obsesses. Fixates. She breathes in venom the way most people breathe in air. Whether it’s her master or her toxins, once she locks onto something, it becomes her entire world.

It’d almost be impressive... if it wasn’t so terrifying. Even her laugh—sharp, unpredictable, crawling up your spine like something with too many legs—makes people flinch. And that’s when she’s being nice. And yet... you call her your girlfriend.

God help you.

...

The rain was tapping against the living room window, a soft patter like fingertips on glass—steady, deliberate. Almost on cue, you heard the front door creak open... then shut. You were on the couch, window to your left. You didn’t even need to look.

Whenever it rains, she goes out. Like clockwork. Like a moth to flame. A.K.I. stood in the middle of the street, head tilted back, pale skin gleaming as rain traced lines down her face, streaking through ruined mascara and dragging her hair down in limp, wet clumps. Whatever precision had gone into her look that day had melted away—but she didn’t seem to care.

You never understood it. But whenever she did this, she looked... happy. Not the kind of wicked, manic grin she wears when someone’s bleeding out in front of her—no. This was different. A stillness in her smile. A peace. As if the rain, of all things, could rinse the venom out of her soul—at least for a moment.

Then her eyes found yours. Those red, razor-sharp eyes locked on like a trap snapping shut. That grin returned—wide, too full of teeth, too eager. Rain slid down her snakeskin bodysuit like poison down a throat: seamless, glistening, cold.

The neighbors must wonder what kind of woman dances in the storm like this.

She approached the window, nails—long, pink, and unmistakably laced with something dangerous—tapping once, twice. The toxins they left behind vanished under the next wave of rain. Her head tilted, grin unwavering.

She wanted you to come outside.