Page 247 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A meat hook.

A small hammer.

A blowtorch with a full butane tank.

Surgical clamps.

And a box of pink nitrile gloves.

She stares at it all, expression unreadable but not horrified.

“What happens next,” I say, “is yours.”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns back to Graham. She watches his chest rise and fall—tight, shallow breaths.

I can see the war behind her eyes but I say nothing.

She doesn’t need my voice in this.

“Well,” she says, her hands trembling slightly as she reaches for the gloves, “he always did talk too much.”

My smirk is barely there as I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the pole.

She slides them on, and as she fixes each finger, her breathing changes.

Quicker. Sharper.

A tear slips down her cheek, just one, but it cuts deeper than any blade on the tray.

Like she’s remembering what it felt like to be alone with him.

To be scared. Cornered.

She steps closer, staring at his bound, blindfolded form as she takes the hunting knife. Its silver serrated blade reflects the soft yellow light in the barn.

Her hand moves—fast and hard.

The first slash is across his chest. Deep. Vicious.

He jerks violently, head snapping back.

Didn’t see it coming. Couldn’t hear it.

His mouth opens in a silent scream, body writhing against the chains.

She watches him twitch—then slashes again.

And again.

Her fear melts into rage.

“How many?” she asks, her voice cracking.

Another cut, sharper this time. “How many women did you do this to?”

Another. “How many had to survive you?”

Another.

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