ALL ALONG I WAS THE SERIAL KILLER, BUT THEY NEVER KNEW

A Clean Cut

I always clean the blade first. Alcohol. Cotton. Patience. Death should never be messy. Not when it's this… personal.

The sound of the scalpel clicking into place is almost meditative. My gloves are snug. My breath is calm. The man in the chair? Not so much.

He’s gagged. Stripped to the waist. Duct tape binds him to the metal frame of an old barber’s chair. I dragged from an abandoned salon on the outskirts of the city. A relic. Just like him.

"You hurt her," I whisper, leaning in until my lips nearly brush his ear. "She was sixteen."

He flinches. He knows who I’m talking about now. The girl whose wrists wore more scars than bracelets. The girl no one believed. He was her coach. Her mentor. Her monster.

I showed him the file. Printed photos. Screenshots. Messages. A flash drive. His face when he sees what I’ve collected — delicious. His muffled pleas mean nothing. Regret doesn’t undo trauma.

“I’m not like you,” I murmur as I take the blade to his inner thigh first. “I don’t hide behind authority. I don’t manipulate trust. I take justice.”

He screams into the gag, his body jerking. But no one will hear him out here. It’s just me. Him. And the silence that follows judgment.

Each cut is controlled. I avoid the arteries at first. I want him to feel. I want him to bleed slow. I learned that from the foxes. They play with their prey. Not for cruelty. For certainty.

Hours pass like minutes. Eventually, the chair is empty. I bury what's left in the woods nearby, same as the others. Deep. Layered with lime. Nature does the rest.

Back home, I soak in the bath. The blood is gone, but the satisfaction lingers. My phone buzzes on the sink — a new message from an unknown number.

Unknown: You’re good. Too good. Ever consider we’re not the only ones watching?

I stare at the screen, heart slowing.

Who sent this?