Oh, darling, where do I even begin? It's me, Luna, spilling my guts here like I just sliced open some poor fool's belly. Twenty-five years old, fresh out of med school with a degree that's more useful for carving up the living than patching up the dead. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. You want to know me? Really know me? Pull up a chair, light a smoke, and let's chat. I'll tell you about my little slice of paradise in North Lake Town, Shimovit District. This European backwater where the city's hustle fades into suburban silence, and the rural edges are so empty you could scream for hours without a soul hearing. Perfect for a girl like me.
I woke up this morning with that familiar itch scratching at the back of my brain—the one that says, "Luna, it's time to play." The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows across my villa. Three stories of pure indulgence, paid for with blood money from the organs I harvest and sell on the black market. Yeah, that's right. No nine-to-five drudgery for this girl. I deal in kidneys, livers, hearts—fresh ones, still warm from the source. The villa sits ten kilometers from the nearest street, isolated like my thoughts, with that deep artificial lake right next door. My personal dumping ground. Bodies go in, secrets stay down.
My room's on the third floor, all velvet curtains and king-sized bed where I indulge my nightly rituals. I rolled out of the sheets, naked except for the tattoos that mark my skin like war paint—a serpent coiling up my thigh, thorns wrapping my forearm, a skull on my back that I got during a particularly wild night in university. In public, I cover them up, play the part of the sweet, unassuming graduate. But here? They're on display, reminders of who I really am.
First thing, always: a cigarette. I lit one up, inhaling deep, the smoke filling my lungs like an old lover's embrace. I've been hooked since I was sixteen, sneaking drags behind the dorms. Now it's part of me, like the betel nut I chew when the craving hits, or the wine I sip to take the edge off. Dependencies? Sure, call them that. I call them fuel. Without them, I'd be as dull as the idiots I prey on.
I dressed slowly, savoring every moment. Today felt like a JK uniform kind of day—crisp white blouse, pleated skirt short enough to turn heads if I ever wore it out. But I don't. This is for me. Black silk stockings next, thick and smooth, rolling up my legs like a promise. God, the way they hug my skin... it's almost sexual. If I go too long without that sensation, I get restless, irritable, like a junkie needing a fix. Then the boots—black over-the-knee leather, zipping up with a satisfying sound that echoes in the quiet house. They make me feel tall, dominant, ready to stomp on whatever gets in my way. Finally, the gloves. Medical rubber, white and sterile, snapping on with that crisp pop. I flexed my fingers, admiring how they gleamed under the light. Perfect.
Breakfast was simple: black coffee spiked with whiskey, a betel nut to chew on while I planned the day. The town's changed since I arrived three years ago. Back then, North Lake Town was bustling—people coming and going, streets alive with chatter. Now? It's a ghost town. Over a dozen murders, twenty-plus disappearances, all unsolved. The locals whisper about a serial killer, lock their doors at dusk, and the TV blares warnings to travelers. "Stay alert in Shimovit District suburbs." Ha! If only they knew it's me, the quiet girl who occasionally pops into town for groceries, dressed in jeans and a sweater, makeup toned down, tattoos hidden. No one suspects. Why would they? I'm just Luna, the med school grad living a quiet life.
But quiet? Not really. Those cases are my handiwork. Perfect crimes, every one. I pick my victims randomly, observe them for days—sometimes weeks. Learn their habits, their weaknesses. Then, when they're alone, a quick drug in their drink or a chloroform rag over the mouth. Drag them back here to the basement. Ah, the basement—negative first floor, my laboratory. Up top, the house looks normal: sunroom, kitchen, living areas. Down there? It's a wonderland of horrors. Tables with restraints, walls lined with tools—scalpels, saws, hammers, even a sniper rifle for those quick jobs. I've done experiments, you know? Like seeing how long someone can survive with their heart exposed, no machines keeping it going. Not often, though. Mostly, it's about the torture, drawing it out, savoring the power.
The lake takes care of the rest. Weighted bodies sink deep, no traces left. And the money from the organs? It keeps me in luxury—fine wines, endless supplies of stockings, gloves, boots. Black satin ones for variety, or those tight latex bodysuits that make me feel like a goddess of death.
By afternoon, my ritual kicked in. I changed into something sexier—a short black skirt that barely covered anything, keeping the stockings and boots on. Makeup time: thick black eye shadow, lipstick dark as dried blood. I sat in the sunroom, sunlight pouring in, and lit another cigarette. Inhaled slow, exhaled slower. Poured a glass of red wine, the color reminding me of last week's victim. Sipped it, letting it warm my throat. Then the betel nut—chewy, bitter, addictive. I leaned back, gloved hands resting on my thighs, feeling the silk through the latex. Two hours like this, every day. Pure bliss. No interruptions, just me and my vices.
But as the wine hit, the other craving stirred. Sex. I'm addicted, plain and simple. Twice a day at least, sometimes three. I headed back to my room, shedding the skirt but keeping everything else on. My drawer was full of toys—vibrators that buzz like angry bees, dildos in every shape. I lay back, gloved fingers exploring first, the latex adding that clinical detachment I love. Then the toys, building to climax after climax. But when it's not enough, when the hunger gnaws like a beast? That's when I use my "hunts." The ones in the lab become more than experiments—they're outlets. Fuck them, break them, kill them. No mercy.
Today, though, the lab was empty. Last victim was a week ago—a woman in her thirties who'd strayed too close to my territory. I'd flipped my coin: tails. Bring her home. Befriended her at a cafe, lured her with talk of medical advice. Drugged her tea, dragged her here. In the lab, I bound her naked to the table, vivisected while she screamed. Cut slow, watching organs pulse. Her heart in my hand, still beating for minutes. Orgasmic. Then into the lake.
The emptiness bugged me. I needed a new one. After my session, I wiped down, crushed out a smoke, and planned. Dressed normal—jeans, hoodie, no makeup. Drove into town, the roads desolate. Parked near the bar, the one spot with life left. Inside, dim lights, sad sacks nursing drinks. I ordered whiskey, scanned the room.
There he was: Mark, mid-20s, alone, looking like fresh meat. Vulnerable eyes, that lost puppy vibe. I approached, smile sweet as poison. "Mind if I join? Town's too quiet for solo drinking."
He perked up. "Not at all. I'm Mark. New here."
"Luna," I said, sliding in. We talked—his job transfer, the eerie quiet. I lied about being a nurse, helping folks. He bought it, hook, line, sinker.
As drinks flowed, I flipped my mental coin. Tails again. Home it is.
We left together. In my car, I offered a "special" bottle—spiked, of course. He sipped, slumped.
Dragging him to the villa was easy. Down to the lab, bound to the chair. He woke groggy, panicking. "What the fuck? Let me go!"
I circled, boots clicking. "Oh, sweetie. You're mine now."
Gloves on, I grabbed a plastic bag from my kit. Slipped it over his head, taped it tight at the neck. He gasped, air thinning, face turning red. I lit a cigarette, watched him thrash. Inhaled deep, blew smoke at the bag.
Seconds ticked. He weakened. I pressed the lit end to the plastic, burning a hole. Smoke rushed in; he choked, tears streaming, face purple.
Bored, I kicked his gut hard, hearing ribs crack. Grabbed the hammer, smashed his knee, then skull. Cracks echoed like music.
Still alive? Barely. I lost patience, pulled my gun. Pressed to temple. Bang. Brains splattered, blood warm on my boots.
The rush? Electric. I cut him open, harvested—liver pristine, kidneys gold. Packed for sale.
Cleaned up, body weighted, lake-bound. Plop, gone.
Back upstairs, I stripped, showered, blood swirling down the drain. Touched myself again, reliving it—the fear, the power. Climax hit like a wave.
Dried off, slipped into black latex bodysuit, tight and shiny. Lit another smoke, poured wine, chewed betel. Reflected in the mirror: black lipstick smirking, eyes dark.
Why? Because I can. Society's weak; I'm the apex. Their lives mean nothing but my pleasure.
Town fears the killer. I am the killer. And I'm just warming up.
Tomorrow? Another hunt. Maybe snipe from afar—coin heads. Quick, clean.
Or experiment: no air, with twists.
The addictions hum: silk, smoke, sex, slaughter.