Beth stood under the flickering streetlight outside Brandon's dorm.
No mask. No cloak. No bullshit.
She wanted him to see her face when she carved his throat open. Wanted him to know exactly who was sending him to rot beside the man who took her Jamal.
Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from restraint. The switchblade tucked inside her jacket pocket was cool against her side, like a coiled serpent waiting to strike.
She could already hear it. The squelch of blade through flesh. His gurgled last breath. Her revenge, raw and bloody and earned.
Focus.
She kept to the shadows of the building, near the back entrance. The maintenance door was always a little loose—it was how she and Jamal used to slip in unnoticed when they needed a private place to plan. Or kill. Or kiss.
Her lip twitched at the memory, but she forced it down.
Brandon had to die.
Tonight.
Just as she started to move, a voice cut through the quiet night like a beer bottle being shattered.
"Yo—yo! Hey, hey—aren't you that goth chick from Psych class?"
Beth's eyes narrowed. She turned to see a group of five stumbling frat bros lumbering toward her like meat puppets dressed in varsity jackets and entitlement.
She cursed herself for not hearing them sooner. She'd been too focused on the kill.
Amateurs' mistake.
"Damn, you're like… hot in that scary witch kinda way," one slurred, beer sloshing in his red solo cup. "You summoning demons out here or what?"
Beth turned her body slightly, angling away.
"Walk away."
The drunkest one, some bleached-blond slab of Abercrombie rot, stepped forward with an exaggerated swagger. "Nah, nah, come on. Don't be like that. We're just tryna talk, babe."
"I'm not your fucking 'babe.' Move."
She took a step to the side, but another one circled behind her, chuckling.
"Oh she's feisty—look out, guys, she might curse our dicks off."
Another tried to grab her arm as she pushed past.
She yanked it away.
They laughed.
She didn't.
"Back. Off," Beth growled, all her anger bubbling up into her voice. "Or I'll carve your faces into jack-o'-lanterns."
"Ooooh, spooky!" one mocked, making fake jazz hands. "Someone's got a murder kink."
Blondie didn't laugh. He scowled instead, jaw clenched. "You think you're too good for us, huh?"
Beth didn't reply.
She tried again to move—but that's when the punch landed.
A heavy, clumsy fist slammed into the side of her face, hard enough to knock her against the brick wall. Pain shot through her jaw, a white-hot flash that bloomed behind her eyes.
The world spun.
Then chaos.
Rough hands grabbed her, shoved her. One twisted her arm behind her back while another slammed her into the concrete.
Boots kicked her ribs. Laughter rang in her ears like firecrackers in a tunnel.
She fought back, of course. Bit. Scratched. Screamed.
But they were drunk and wild and bored. She wasn't a person to them—just a freak to mess with. A girl in dark clothes who didn't laugh at their jokes.
They were going to make her pay for that.
One of them pinned her. She couldn't breathe.
Another unzipped his fly.
Jamal… she thought. I'm sorry.
But before anything more could happen—
It stopped.
A scream.
Not hers.
The weight vanished from her chest as the frat boy above her was yanked away.
Beth tried to sit up but the world was a smear of pain and haze.
Something fast. Brutal. Bone-breaking. She could hear it—the wet crunch of fist against flesh. The heavy, ugly sound of someone being fucked up.
Someone grunted. Screamed. Gurgled.
More punches. A sickening snap.
Then silence.
Beth coughed and rolled onto her side, her vision blurry with tears and blood.
Footsteps crunched toward her.
She tensed—was this another attacker?
But the figure knelt down, and in that moment, she saw them through the haze.
Tall. Lean. Calm.
Gloved hands.
A shadow of a face.
But no mask.
Just eyes like ice and a calmness that didn't belong here.
Before she could speak—
Before she could ask—
Darkness swallowed her.
The last thing she heard before everything faded was the sound of a cat meowing softly nearby.