Page 47 of Peak Cruelty

She doesn’t cover herself.Doesn’t duck behind the wall.

She looks at him.

Then looks at me.

And smiles.

Not wide, not fake.

Just enough to ruin me.

His gaze recalibrates—lower now, sharper.Not just at her—at his phone.

It’s already recording.Screen lit.Angle tilted.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

And that’s enough.

It won’t end here.Not with a phone.Not with a witness.Not withhim.

I push him toward the porch.He swallows.Tries to mask it.“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

That’s the moment I know: He won’t be able to forget her.

And someone, somewhere, is going to come looking.

He starts to backpedal.

Too late.

I step onto the porch.Close the door behind me.

“Hey,” he says, hands up, defensive.“I didn’t mean anything.I didn’t?—”

The first hit drops him.Wrench to temple.Not lethal.Just enough to send him sideways.

He hits the porch hard.Scrambles.Hands slick on the stone.

“Wait—Jesus, wait?—”

I don’t.

The second hit caves in the side of his head.Bone gives.Then silence.

No screaming.Just the sound of weight shifting from alive to not.

I drag him inside.

Fast.Efficient.Not at all clean.

The rug is ruined.

She’s standing at the edge of the hall when I look up.Still naked.Still watching.

Her expression doesn’t change.

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