Calmly, I press against the surface and drag it downward and the glass groans in protest, the sound high and grating, almost like a scream while I carve each letter carefully.
WITH MY PLEASURE.
I quickly turn the knife in my hand before driving my fist into the glass. The impact sends a violent shudder through the window, cracks splintering outward like a spiderweb, crawling toward the edges. The sound is explosive, deafening in the silent night and she jerks back in response to my sudden violence.
I flash my teeth with a snarl before my tongue darts out, the two silver hoops that pierce each side of the tip glinting as I drag it slowly and deliberately over the wordlick, now letting her know exactly what I fucking meant.
My blood smears across my tastebuds, rich and metallic, mixing with the rain streaking down the glass. And her eyes expand further, but she doesn’t run like she should. She just sits there, staring at me, trying to figure me and my next move out.
My grip squeezes around the knife as I turn my head, my gaze flicking to the front door on my left. It’s nothing but a flimsy piece of fucking plastic. One good kick, and I’d be inside.
As if she senses my menacing thoughts, she shifts, slow, cautious, like she’s trying not to set me off. My crimson eyes flash to her as she stands, then steps back, but I no longer over think it. I just fucking move.
My boots pound against the wet ground as I rush toward the door in a frenzy state of mind, desperate to be near her. My hand slams down on the handle, rattling under my grip, but the second I do; I spot her silhouette behind the frosted glass, and I stop.
My breath comes out harsh and fast as my fingers flex, trying to regain my self-control. After a few seconds, surprisingly, I growl, tearing my hand away.
Reaching into my leather jacket, I yank out a torn scrap of paper and pen, my hand moving rough and fast as I scrawl jagged letters across it.
Always sleep with one eye open, little corpse. Rest in peace.
Then, I crouch and slip it under the door.
I wait, watching her reluctance before she finally reaches down and once she has it, I force myself to step back into the shadows, turning around and disappear into the dense woodland.
After walking a short distance, I spot Hell standing outside The Dismembered Den. A place where I mostly work alone and do some horrific shit to people. It looks like a small, broken-down cabin surrounded by trees, like something from a horror movie, but something dwells far worse inside and beneath it.
As soon as he hears my heavy boots over the wet, crackling growth, he turns around to face me, a cig dangling from his lips. He exhales a long stream of smoke through his nose, watching me closely as I pass him, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
I know the second he gets the chance, he’s gonna start asking about this chick that’s suddenly set my balls on fucking fire, and honestly, I don’t give a shit. I don’t want to hear it or explain it. I just want what the fuck I want.
Her.
I aim straight for the rotting wooden door, and the stench of decay welcomes me as I push it open, hinges groaning like something alive.
The air is stale, carrying the kind of death that seeps into your skin and stays there. I glance around, walking deeper as chains dangle from the ceiling, their rusted hooks swaying, whispering against each other as if they know daddy’s home.
The floor creaks under my weight as Hell follows inside, closing the door, but I don’t even acknowledge him. I just move straight for the heavy, rust-stained door at the back, gripping the handle and forcing it open with a sharp yank.
The smell that wafts up from the steep stairs is far worse—dirt, mould and something lethal. It’s a foul smell only us killers could ever get used to.
But underground is where the real work happens.
I jog down the metal stairs, moving through the short corridor before shoving open the door on my left.
My red eyes lock onto the couple strapped to separate surgeon tables, their bodies completely still. Only their eyes move, darting to me, wide and full of terror.
I rip off my leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair, leaving me shirtless just as Hell steps in behind me, shutting the door with a click.
“So what am I here for?”
I grab a pair of black latex gloves from the cabinet, pulling them over my tatted fingers. My gaze lifts to him before flicking to the small, ball-sized object near him, then to the guy, instructing him with just my eyes.
Hell looks at it, already knowing I want the bomb inserted inside him and raises a brow.
“And you couldn’t do that yourself?”
My jaw clenches as I glance away, picking up a long, sharp needle with black thread. I could do it myself, but my hands aren’t steady enough for surgery tonight. Not after seeing her. I’d end up killing him too soon, so I texted Hell on the way here.