Page 211 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I turn back and point, like the man in the mirror is someone else entirely.

“You’re the one she wants,” I spit. “In the dark. Behind the mask. The fucking fantasy.”

The bitterness curdles in my throat, choking me.

“You made her like this. You could’ve stopped this any fucking time you wanted.”

My hand moves before I even register it.

A sharp crack splits the air—skin on skin—as I slap myself across the jaw, stumbling a step from the force of it.

The sting blooms instantly.

Hot. Humiliating. Real.

I stare at myself, panting, shaking.

What the actual fuck am I doing? Beating the shit out of myself like I’m in fucking Fight Club.

“Get your shit together.”

I blow out a huff.

This didn’t start with the mask.

It started a year ago.

I was testifying in one of her cases.

One of a dozen I’d done that month.

I didn’t even know her name at first—just a file number, a list of facts. Another ADA trying to spin a clean narrative out of a pile of shit evidence.

But then she walked in.

And fuck.

She owned the courtroom.

Commanded it without raising her voice.

No theatrics. No grandstanding.

Just sharp intellect, sharper eyes, and a voice that made everyone sit up straighter.

Including me.

I told myself I stayed to see justice play out.

To make sure the asshole got locked away.

But the truth?

I wanted a few more minutes to watch her.

So every day, I came back.

Took the same seat behind her.

---