⚠️
Blood is beautiful when it gushes slow.
Not the frantic spray of panic. Not the sloppy mess of amateurs. No—I like the slow trickle of surrender. The quiet collapse. The last blink of life extinguished by my hand.
Tonight, I'm finally allowed to feel again.
No more stiff university halls or professors I had to resist stabbing in the throat. No more pretending to be the model daughter of Gabriel Cisco.
I'm back in my skin.
Back where I belong.
My target is an accountant—pathetic, flabby, greedy. A traitor to the Cisco family who sold secrets to the De Lunas. He's hiding out in a rented penthouse in Queens under a fake name. I've been told to send a message.
"Leave a body. Make it cruel."
And oh, how I love when they beg.
I knock on the door just after midnight.
I'm dressed in all black—combat boots, tight jeans, a matte leather jacket. My hair is pinned up neatly, nothing loose to grab.
He opens the door groggy, squinting through his glasses. "Who the f—"
My blade is in his throat before he finishes the question.
He stumbles back, hand clamping down over the wound, gurgling.
I step in, close the door behind me, and watch him writhe.
"You thought they wouldn't find you?" I say softly, wiping the blade against his shirt. "Or did you just think my father was bluffing?"
He tries to crawl toward the hallway. It's adorable, really.
"I always find it fascinating," I continue, kneeling beside him, "how quickly people try to live once they know they're dying."
I roll him onto his back and straddle his chest.
There's panic in his eyes now—yes. That's what I wanted.
He tries to scream, but the blood chokes him.
I stabbed his left knee. Twisting my blade.
To hear his sweet sweet moans.
"You aren't crying enough fool."
I pull a second knife from my thigh holster and slide it slowly into his stomach.
He jerks. Twitches. Breathes in wet rattles.
"Shh," I whisper, running my fingers through his thinning hair. "Don't waste your last breath on noise."
The gurgle becomes a sob.
I slice again—across his ribs, his thigh, then his cheek. Not deep enough to kill. Just to hurt.
The pain is a lullaby. His terror, a drug.
This is what I live for.
Not power. Not approval. Not even my father's pride.
This.
Control. Pleasure in their pains.
I lean in close. "When you close your eyes, I want the last thing you see to be the face of the girl who ended you."
He's crying now.
I twist the blade once more, deep into his heart.
His eyes freeze open. Blood bubbles from his lips.
And then—nothing.
I sit back on my heels, drenched in red, panting like I've just come.
God, it's better than sex.
The cleanup takes ten minutes.
I leave a message on the mirror in lipstick:
"Tell De Luna his time is coming."
It's childish. But effective.
It'll stoke Sinveer's paranoia. He'll think the Ciscos are emboldened.
Let him feel pressure. Let him feel hunted.
Let me watch.
~
The next morning, I'm back at my desk at De Luna headquarters, hair neat, skin glowing, my blouse a pale pink.
Nobody would guess I spent last night slicing a man into ribbons.
Sinveer walks in with Marek flanking him, both of them stone-faced.
They've heard about the accountant.
"Lock the west sector," Sinveer says quietly. "Double patrol. And get me surveillance footage of every access point around that building."
"Yes, sir."
His eyes land on me.
For a moment, there's something raw there—like he's trying to see through me.
"What are you smiling at?" he asks.
I hadn't realized I was.
"Just… glad to be here," I reply sweetly.
He stares a moment longer.
I can tell he wants to say more. His instincts are screaming.
But he doesn't.
Later that afternoon, he calls me into his office.
I walk in, posture perfect, face composed.
"Close the door," he says.
Click.
He leans back in his chair, watching me with that stillness that's more dangerous than rage.
"Sit."
I do.
"I've been thinking about that night," he says.
I keep my expression neutral. "What night?"
His jaw ticks.
"The one two years ago. The attack."
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "The one where you were stabbed?"
His eyes narrow. "Yes. That one."
"Still no idea who it was?"
"No," he lies.
A pause.
"I remember something strange," he murmurs. "A scent. Not perfume. Something… sharp. Like gardenias and blood."
He says it like a question.
"I wear vanilla and white rose," I answer softly.
A beat of silence.
He leans forward slightly. "Do you believe in instinct, Liach?"
I meet his gaze evenly. "I believe in logic. And consequences."
He chuckles, dark and low.
"I think you're dangerous."
The hair on my arms rises.
"I think," he continues, "you're hiding something. But I can't prove it. Yet."
I smile slowly. "Then maybe you should stop staring and start looking."
He blinks.
Then he laughs again, deeper this time.
There's heat now. Cracking the ice.
"Well, well," he murmurs. "The little assistant has claws."
You have no idea.
That night, I replay our conversation over and over in my head.
He's getting closer.
But he's also falling into the trap.
This is how it starts—with a suspicion. Then a fascination. Then an obsession.
And then, when he's at his most vulnerable… I'll strike.
At least, that was the plan.
But there's a tiny crack forming in my resolve.
The way he looks at me… not with fear. With interest.
It excites me.
Worse—it distracts me.
I can't decide if I want to kill him or kiss him.
Maybe both.