My blade moves almost lazily—across her throat in one clean motion.
The screaming stops.
Silence crashes back down, broken only by the wet sound of blood pooling on concrete and my own slightly elevated breathing.
Two. Four. Six breaths before my heart rate returns to baseline.
Even numbers.
Safe.
I straighten, surveying my work with the detached interest of an artist examining a painting.
Both bodies are positioned almost symmetrically, one on each side of where I'd been standing. Their blood is alreadyspreading, dark and viscous, creating abstract patterns on the grey concrete.
It's almost beautiful.
In a fucked-up, deeply disturbing way.
Mama would be so proud, I think with a giggle that bubbles up unbidden.Look at me, doing extraordinary things. The world definitely didn't know what hit it.
The bodies are already starting to cool, that peculiar stillness of fresh death settling over them like a shroud.
I should feel something.
Guilt. Remorse. Horror at taking human life.
But I don't.
Haven't for a while now.
Does that makes me a monster?
Maybe that makes me a survivor.
Or it's the same fucking thing in a place like this.
Blood pools around my feet—I can feel it seeping through the satin of my ballet shoes, warm and sticky—and some distant part of my brain screams that I need tomove.
I hop.
Once. Twice.
Little bunny hops that would look adorable if I wasn't covered in someone else's blood, my blades still dripping, my smile still too wide.
The blood pools connect, spreading outward in a perfect circle that will trap me if I don't?—
I jump.
A propersaut de chat—cat leap—that carries me clear of the blood and landing me on clean concrete six feet away.
Perfect.
My blades slide back into their sheaths with practiced ease, the leather grips kissing against fabric with a softshickthat signals the end of combat.
I don't look back.
Don't check to make sure they're dead—I know they are, I'm good at my job.
