Page 195 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Like he saw everything I just imagined.

For half a second, IswearI see it—his face just as I left it in the fantasy.

Mouth a ruin. Gums exposed. Blood seeping from the raw holes where his teeth used to be.

His lips move, forming no sound. Just wet gurgling from the back of his throat.

I blink—and it’s gone.

Just Nathaniel Mercer again, clean-cut and intact.

But his eyes still hold that knowing glint.

As if he can smell the smoke from the fire I haven’t lit yet.

I straighten in my seat, smooth my skirt with hands that don’t shake, and clear my throat.

“Your Honor,” I say evenly, calmly, like I haven’t just imagined pulling twenty-two of his teeth out, “Mr. Mercer has previously faced multiple allegations involving the use of sedatives against women, followed by acts of violence. Each case was dismissed for reasons unrelated to merit. The state believes he presents a substantial and ongoing threat. We request that bond be denied.”

The judge pauses. Considers.

“Bond denied,” she says firmly, gavel coming down with a satisfying crack.

Mercer’s jaw tightens.

Just slightly.

I should be disturbed by what I imagined. I should feel something sharp or broken inside me. But all I feel is clear.

Like fog burned off by morning sun.

As the bailiff begins to escort him out, Mercer glances over his shoulder—then leans slightly into the aisle. Just enough so only I can hear.

That grin. Wide. Menacing. Teeth still intact—for now.

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart” he says, voice low and slick with threat.

I don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

I just smile.

Sweet. Pleasant.

Almost excited.

“Actually,” I say softly, “you might.”

His expression falters for a fraction of a second.

And I sit there, warm and sunny, watching him vanish through the door with a heart full of storm.

The day of the raid feels less like gearing up for an op and more like surviving a hostage negotiation.

Except the hostage is my sanity.

And the negotiator is Poppy fucking Hartwell.

Trying to control Poppy is like trying to nail a hurricane to the floor.

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