She hasn't said a word since I tore her away from Maxwell.
"Are you okay?"
Stupid question. Of course you're not. But my mouth betrays me anyway.
"I'm fine."
Barely a whisper. The girl who laughs like sunlight now stands shattered—eyes on the tiles like they might swallow her whole.
"Want me to call an Uber?"
"You can't. If my mum sees me like this, she'll go crazy."
Your voice cracks like glass. Desperate. Like even saying it hurts. You're terrified—of becoming her. The devil in heels. The woman who wants to own you. You hate her. You hate what you might turn into.
"Corner shop. Two minutes. You good to walk?"
You nod, wobbling like a broken doll. That dress—once perfect—now drags like a corpse behind you. You carry pain like no one else is strong enough. Let me be the first.
"Wait here." I leave before I can change my mind.
The shop feels like a boutique. Kensington loves to remind you you're poor. Six-fifty for bread. Four quid for Sprite. Who knew love was so expensive?
"Have a good night."
I step outside—and freeze.
You're slumped against the wall. Hair clinging to wet cheeks. Makeup streaked like tears. Dress soaked from yesterday's rain. Do you even know where you are?
"Eat." I tear the bread, hold it to your lips. You take slow, careful bites. Crumbs cling to your lipstick. My chest tightens as your tongue sweeps them clean. Air thins. I want to close the gap and taste what you leave behind—but then your eyes find mine. Same blue as that first day, but darker. Fire flickers there.
Your hands tremble on the Sprite. You can't twist the cap. I take it, snap it open, guide it to your mouth. Sprite drips down your lips, sliding lower, soaking fabric that clings to your skin. Goosebumps bloom. You wanted me to see that, didn't you?
"Thank you," you whisper.
"Just glad you're okay."
Maxwell. What the fuck am I going to do with you? Is she the first? Or just the latest?
"Get home safe," I tell you.
"You too." That smile. Almost enough to make me forget why I came.
Almost.
⸻
11 p.m. sharp. There you are.
Bentley gleaming like a target. You're glued to your phone. Perfect. My skin hums with that old hunger—the same one that made me crush insects as a kid.
You don't see me coming. Rock in hand. One hit—down you go. Pulse? Weak, but there. Golden blood spills across the pavement like liquid sun.
Heavy bastard. Should've hit the gym. But I drag you anyway.
Don't worry, Maxwell. You'll never touch her again.
⸻
"Where am I?"
Moss on the walls. Rusted bars. One weak light keeping the dark at bay.
Your hands—bound in barbed wire. Blood dripping like rain.
"Fuck. Someone help me!"
Footsteps. Me. Not your savior.
"Relax. All this? Justifiable. Ask me anything."
Silence. Your eyes dart to my hands. Ah. The gun.
"Oh, this? Found it in your glove box. Didn't know you could get guns in England."
"Where am I, bro?" Sweat pours down your face. Twitching hands. Busted head leaking down your mouth.
"Slave quarters under Kingsmere. Before workers, there were slaves. This is where your ancestors kept them."
Fitting, isn't it? How the roles are reversed.
"How many girls have you raped?"
You freeze. Squirming stops. In any other jurisdiction you'd have the right to remain silent—not in mine.
"Listen to me, you rapist motherfucker. If you don't tell me every name, I swear I will make sure your whole family suffers the same fate as you. Understand?"
Finally, you look up. Realizing money can't save you. Protection can't save you. You're nothing now.
The muzzle stares into your eyes. My finger dances on the trigger. Did I think about consequences? Your father. The police. No.
If my eyes weren't bloodlust, maybe this ends different.
"The gun. You have the safety on, right?"
Safety, my ass.
Bang. Single shot. Straight through your skull. Blood paints the wall.
My chest cracks open. Guilt floods me. Did I do the right thing? I saved her. Saved others. Right?
"Congrats on killing me, Dan."
The voice. Behind me. Maxwell's voice.
"I killed you."
"You did. Didn't know you could shoot like that."
Hallucination. Manifestation of guilt.
I repeat it like a prayer: "I don't feel remorse. I don't feel remorse."
"Top of your class in psych, and you really think that'll make me disappear? Come on, Dan. You're smarter than this."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"Nothing. But you should clean this mess up."
Fuck. Fuck this tarp for not opening.
"Relax. You already done the hard part."
"You think this is the hard part? Pulling the trigger? No. This—this is the hard part. The part no one tells you about. Cleaning up what's left of someone who used to speak, laugh, touch. It's messier than you think, Maxwell. Messier than that fake-perfect life you built."
"You're confused again. I am not him I am an extension of you."
I slice the tarp open, drag you in. Hands slick with blood, my breath coming in sharp bursts. Plastic gloves stick to my skin like shame. Your eyes—what's left of them—stare through me. Mocking. I should gouge them out, but no. Later.
"Dental records?" Your voice. Not yours anymore. In my head. "Fingerprints? Bone structure? You're gonna fuck this up."
Shut up.
"Oh, come on, Dan. You really want them finding me in some ditch?"
The hacksaw squeals when it hits bone. My stomach flips but I keep going. Strip you down to nothing. Teeth first. One crack, two, three. I drop each molar into the black bag, tiny trophies of a war no one will know I fought. Blood streaks my sleeves. I don't care. You don't get to leave a single trace.
"You're thorough," you whisper, smug. "Didn't know you had it in you."
I rip gloves off, grab the bleach, drown the floor in chemical snow. No prints. No mercy. When I'm done, you're a shadow stuffed inside a plastic coffin.
Bentley keys in hand. God, you loved this car, didn't you? Gleaming chrome, leather seats that smell like arrogance. I shove the bag in the trunk, slam it shut. The night air bites, but inside—I'm burning.
The engine purrs like a sinner in confession. Maxwell's playlist kicks in—The Weeknd. Of course. Because nothing says sociopath like moody sex anthems.
"Smooth, Dan," you murmur from the passenger seat. "But you forgot something."
I grip the wheel. Hard. "Shut the fuck up."
"Oh, that's no way to talk to a friend."
Traffic lights blur. I keep my eyes forward. Focus on the plan. Burn the car. Bury what's left of you. Pretend none of this ever happened.
Then—Brooklyn.
Like God pressing pause. Standing on the curb in that hoodie, phone to your ear. You see me. Smile, small, tired. And my heart—my goddamn heart—punches through my ribs.
Window down. "Need a lift?"
You hesitate. Then, "Dan?"
"Yeah." I fake casual. Like my trunk isn't carrying 180 pounds of dead rapist. "Just finished up near Kingsmere. Thought I saw you."
You bite your lip. Jesus. "I was heading home."
"Hop in. Safer than waiting out here."
You slide into the seat—next to him. Maxwell. He grins like the devil. You don't see him, of course. Only me. Lucky you.
Your perfume cuts through blood and bleach. Warm vanilla. Home. You talk, soft, about your mum losing it if she knew where you'd been. I nod, play the part.
"Maybe we grab a drink sometime," I say.
You glance up. Smile. "Yeah. Sure."
Her number lands in my phone like a promise. You, Maxwell, snickering over my shoulder. "Smooth operator."
Fuck you.
"See you later. Brooklyn."
"You too Dan."
Your voice cuts through the god awful stench coming from the back. Hearing my name from your mouth makes this all worth it.
"Check the mirror." Snickering. Foot laying on the gear shift.
Blue lights flash behind me.
Shit.
Cop strolls up. Big guy. Hand on the door frame. "Evening, sir. Everything all right?"
License. Right. I fake a laugh, drop the name like a hammer. "Langford. My father—Langford Co."
His spine straightens. Respect seeps in like oil. "Oh. My apologies, sir. Have a good night."
He walks. Just like that. Money wins again. Not mine—but who cares?
"You're good," Maxwell hums. "But you're not done."
No, I'm not.
Country road. Empty. Dark as a grave. I torch the Bentley, flames licking sky. Heat sears my face but it feels good. Cleansing. Goodbye, Maxwell.
Except—you don't go. You linger in the smoke, smirking. "Uber home? Really, Dan?"
Yeah. Really.
By the time I hit my building, the city feels hollow. I unlock my door—and stop.
Place is wrecked. Couch gutted. Books ripped open. And on the wall—red marker slashed across white paint.
Didn't know you could take care of a body like that, Dan Lieberman.
Fuck me