kristina_2714
They called her a psycho long before she learned how carefully madness could be worn.
In the daylight, she was ordinary-almost forgettable. She braided her hair loosely, drank bitter coffee she never finished, and smiled at strangers like she had nothing to hide. But at night, when the city exhaled its secrets into wet streets and broken alleys, she became something else.
Kira learned early that killing was not about rage.
It was about control.
The first time, her hands shook so badly she thought her bones would crack. The second time, she cried afterward, scrubbing her skin raw in a public restroom. By the seventh, she no longer cried. Blood had become a language she understood-warm, metallic, honest.
Seven people had died by her hands.
Seven stories erased.
Tonight was meant to be the eighth.
Rain threaded the city together in silver seams as she followed the girl down the alley. The girl kept looking back, eyes wide, breath coming out in sharp,frightened gasps. Fear made people clumsy. Fear made them real.
Kira liked that moment-when hope finally realized it had nowhere left to run.
The blade rested comfortably in her palm. Not heavy. Not light. Familiar.
Then she felt it.
That prickle at the base of her neck.
Someone was watching.
Her lips curved into a slow smile. Witnesses were dangerous. Witnesses were mistakes.
She ended the girl quickly, almost gently, and stepped over the body like it was already a memory. At the mouth of the alley, a shadow broke into a run.
A man.
She chased him.
He slipped on the rain-slick road and fell hard, breath knocked from his chest. Before he could scream, she was on him-knee pressing into his spine, blade hovering where it would end everything.
"Don't," she whispered. "I hate noise."
Something changed.
The man didn't struggle. He went completely still.
Kira shifted, irritated, and pulled him just enough for the streetlight to fall across his face.
The world shattered quietly.