Page 246 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Wrists—what’s left of them—bound to the arms.

Ankles chained to the bolts I sank into the floor myself.

Blindfolded. Gagged. Noise-canceling headphones tight over his ears. Dried blood around his mouth.

Her gaze drops—and she chokes out a gasp when she notices his hands.

Laid neatly across his chest, palms up. Like he’s praying.

The ends of his wrists are blackened and cracked. Burned shut to stop him from bleeding out. Not because I was feeling merciful.

Because I wanted him conscious and waiting.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scream.

Just stares.

And I watch her, not him.

Because he’s not the point.

She is.

She starts moving.

Just walks a slow circle around him—around us—like she’s trying to make sense of the angles. Of the ruin.

Like she’s waking up with each step she takes.

Her gaze skims down to the charred stumps at the ends of his arms. She stares long enough that I know she’s picturing how it happened.

But then she spots the cut. The small one high on his neck, just below the jaw.

She steps closer, tilts her head. “What’s that?”

I answer without hesitation. “I severed his vocal cords.”

She blinks. “Why?”

“So his begging wouldn’t interrupt you.”

Her breath hitches but she doesn’t step back.

Her voice is quiet. Careful. “Interrupt me from what?”

I say nothing, just turn and roll the tray over from the shadows behind me.

The wheels rattle over the concrete, then stop with a soft squeak.

She looks down.

Everything’s been laid out with intention.

A scalpel.

A standard six-inch combat knife.

A pair of trauma shears.

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