Page 137 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It sinks deep. I feel it catch.

Then the blood hits.

Warm. Sticky. Violent. It splashes across my face, soaks my shirt, spatters into my mouth.

The taste hits me—salt and iron and oh my God I think I’m going to throw up.

I gag. Spit and swallow it down.

There’s no time. He’s still upright. Still grinning.

He grabs my wrist with a grip like a steel trap and slams my arm into the door so hard my fingers go numb.

“No, we’re just getting started,” he breathes, voice hot and twisted.

My grip on the knife hardens like cement. I can’t drop this.

“You think you’ve got some fight in you? I love the fight. Love it more when you finally give in.”

Something in me rises—sharp, searing, done.

“Over,” I hiss, twisting my wrist, trying to break his grip. “My dead body.”

I kick. Hard.

His body jerks, mouth opening in a silent cry. His hold loosens—just enough.

I wrench my hand, pivot the knife, and saw upward along his forearm. It’s brutal and effective.

Blood slicks my hand, sprays across the door.

His grip falters.

And something in me snaps.

Not fear. Not survival.

Something colder. That whispers:finish it.

His face shifts—fury turning to fear. He sees it. The monster I bury. The one with blood on her hands.

And she’s wide awake.

He sees it, right before I move.

Both hands on the knife now, fingers locked. I plunge it into him with everything I’ve got.

He screams but it’s not fear. It’s shock.

The blade hits resistance but I don’t recoil. I press until it pushes through. Until I hear a crunch. A pop.

It should repulse me but it doesn’t.

It satisfies something primal.

Something that remembers the calm after Travis Gannon’s blood.

I yank the knife back and stab again.

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