Page 138 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Once. Twice. Again.

I lose count.

Dexter barks somewhere nearby, but it’s muffled—like I’m underwater. Only the rhythm of the knife exists.

In. Out. In. Out.

I straddle him now, knees digging into his ribs as he squirms. He tries to throw me off, but he’s bleeding out too fast.

I drive the blade in again—below the collarbone. He jerks.

Dexter growls, proud. Or maybe that’s just me.

My tiny demon cheerleader.

Another stab.

Messier. The blade snags. My hands slip but I don’t stop.

I can’t.

Because this?

This is release.

Every blocked case. Every predator who walked. Every girl who cried and got nothing. Every fear I swallowed like glass.

It all breaks.

And I break with it.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear slips off my chin and lands on his cheek.

Fitting.

He gurgles something. A protest? A plea? Doesn’t matter. He’s beyond words now—just breath and blood and the slow crawl toward death.

I poise the blade at his neck and look him in the eye.

He’s still smirking. Still thinks he’s in control. That I’ll hesitate.

I lean in close, voice steady, breath shaking.

“You die knowing I wasn’t afraid of you.”

Then I drag the blade across his throat.

Crimson blooms, oozing from the gap.

His hands twitch like he’s trying to move them to his neck. Like he can push the blood back in. But then, they go slack.

His head drops to the side. Stare fixed on nothing.

And I feel it.

The moment he dies.

The moment the silence is sudden. Whole.

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