Brandon walked six paces behind Beth, quiet as the grave.
She hadn't asked him to come. She hadn't even looked at him since they left the dorms. But she knew he was there. That was part of the deal now—his rules, his targets. Her leash.
This wasn't a mercy. It was containment.
And maybe, a test.
The mark was a gang runner named Tico. Petty extortion, suspected in two disappearances, and recently linked to a girl who was found half-dead behind a diner with track marks and a shattered cheekbone. Shane had dealt the poison; Tico had made sure it kept flowing.
Brandon wasn't usually the kind to outsource justice. But Beth was too unstable to leave idle, and too slippery to keep contained. So here they were—hunting together, like a pair of wolves trying not to bite each other.
He watched her approach the small, crumbling house near the edge of campus—low-income, no security, lights on. She paused behind a tree, silent, waiting. Her posture was composed now, tight and quiet like she'd been trained to do this. Like she'd done this many times before.
She had. He knew it now.
What he didn't know—still didn't know—was why she hadn't slipped up and tried to kill him again yet.
Maybe because she hadn't decided if she could.
Maybe because he hadn't decided if he'd let her.
Beth crouched low and approached the rear of the house. Brandon followed at a distance, close enough to intervene, far enough to let her feel alone.
She didn't wear a mask.
He didn't comment. He just observed.
Tico answered his back door with a pistol in one hand and a joint in the other.
Beth moved like lightning.
A flash of silver, a duck, a twist of the wrist. The gun clattered to the concrete. Tico barely had time to curse before she buried the knife in his side. Not deep—just a warning. She wanted him conscious.
Brandon stayed hidden, leaning against the alley wall, one foot propped casually behind him. Watching. Evaluating.
Tico staggered, blood wetting his shirt. "Bitch—"
Another cut, this time across the thigh. Tendon. His leg gave out. He collapsed to his knees, wheezing.
"I know what you did to that girl," Beth said, voice low and clinical.
"I didn't—! You crazy—!"
She shoved him flat on the ground. Foot on his back. Knife pressed just below his ear.
Brandon exhaled through his nose.
She could've killed him already. That wasn't what this was.
This wasn't about justice. It was about release.
He could see it on her face in the low streetlight: the tension, the anticipation, the need.
"Say her name," Beth whispered.
"I don't—I don't—"
She slammed his head into the pavement. Not hard enough to kill. Just enough to rattle.
Brandon tensed. One step forward.
Then stopped.
Beth adjusted the blade. Tico began to cry.
"Say. Her. Name."
He gurgled something, broken and panicked.
Beth stood, dragged him by his shirt collar into the shadows, and whispered something Brandon couldn't hear.
Then, quick and clean, she slit his throat.
Tico twitched. Then went still.
Beth stood over the body, not moving.
Brandon waited. One second. Two. Five.
Then he stepped forward and broke the silence.
"Feel better?"
Beth didn't turn.
"No," she said, voice dry. "But I don't feel worse."
Brandon walked up beside her, glancing down at the corpse.
"You were controlled. Restrained. Didn't overdo it."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not." He paused. "But I wanted to see if you'd go too far."
"I didn't," she said flatly.
"No. You didn't." He looked at her. "That's a start."
Beth finally turned to him, eyes shadowed. There was blood on her cheek, a dot of it near her collarbone. She didn't bother wiping it off.
"I'm not you," she said. "This wasn't justice. This was just… necessary."
Brandon nodded once. "I don't expect you to be me. I just expect you to follow the rules."
Beth tilted her head, a faint smirk forming.
"Remind me. What are they again?"
He held up a finger. "First rule: No innocents. Ever."
A second. "Second rule: No excess. Kill what needs killing. Don't indulge."
A third. "Third rule: No masks. If you're going to kill someone, own it."
Beth's smile turned bitter. "A killer's code. How quaint."
"It's the only thing keeping us from becoming monsters."
"We are monsters."
"Speak for yourself," he said, turning from the body. "I still sleep at night."
Beth trailed after him. "Then you're either a sociopath or a liar."
Brandon didn't answer. The two of them disappeared into the alley's mouth, quiet again.
Back in his dorm room, Ashes greeted them with a lazy stretch and a flick of her tail. Beth gave the cat a weird look as she sat stiffly on Brandon's desk chair, peeling off her hoodie and letting the adrenaline wear off.
Brandon went to the mini fridge, tossed her a cold bottle of water.
"Thanks," she muttered, cracking it open.
He sat on his bed, elbows on knees, watching her. She didn't squirm under his gaze—Beth never did—but she looked… different.
Calmer. Not satisfied. But centered.
"You get it out of your system?" he asked.
She took a sip of water and shrugged. "For now."
Brandon leaned back. "Just remember—you don't get to choose targets. Not anymore. Not if you're working under my rules."
Beth rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're the grandmaster of ethical murder."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," she snapped, then sighed. "Fine. For now, you pick. But if I get bored, I will find my own prey."
He frowned. "That's not how this works."
"Then make it work," she shot back.
Ashes meowed and leapt up beside Brandon, curling into a ball in the space between them.
The silence grew heavy again.
"I don't trust you," Beth said finally, voice low.
"And I still think you're full of shit."
"Good," Brandon replied. "Means you're paying attention."
Beth stood, shouldering her hoodie again, blood-spattered and all.
She headed for the door but paused just before stepping out.
"Same time next week?"
Brandon didn't smile, but something close to amusement flickered across his eyes.
"Maybe sooner," he said. "There's a lot of trash on this campus."
Beth's laugh was short and sharp, almost human.
Then she was gone.
And Brandon sat back, exhaled, and scratched behind Ashes' ears as the cat purred like he hadn't just watched his murder partner find herself again.
It wasn't a team. It wasn't a friendship. This was control, nothing more.
Ashes brushed against him to draw his attention then meowed, as if telling him; "Keep telling yourself that."