Page 269 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The buzz of radios and murmured voices presses against me, static and meaningless.

I’m half listening, half somewhere else, until a thread of conversation catches the sharpest part of my brain.

Two traffickers, cuffed and slouched against the cracked pavement, their heads bowed together, voices low and smug.

“At least we got the Yellow Diamond,” one mutters, voice just loud enough to slice through the fog in my skull.

The other snorts. “He’ll probably keep that piece of bubblegum for himself.”

I don’t think. I don’t breathe.

Poppy’s face slams into my mind.

That blonde hair, bright as a sunbeam. That ridiculous pink parade she wears like armor.

Yellow Diamond.

Bubblegum.

It’s her.

It’s fucking her.

The crack inside me splinters wide open.

Before either of them realizes their mistake, I grab the nearest one—the one who spoke first—by the back of the neck and slam his face into the concrete.

Once.

Twice.

The crunch of cartilage and bone is a raw, ugly sound.

Blood blooms across the pavement, teeth scattering like broken promises.

His body goes slack, sagging in my grip. I let him fall, useless now.

“Blackwood!” My lieutenant’s shout cuts through the noise. Boots pounding toward me.

I don’t care.

I’m already turning to the second man, my hand fisting the front of his filthy shirt, lifting him off the ground until his toes scrape uselessly at the concrete.

His eyes bulge. He starts to stammer.

I drive the barrel of my Glock up under his chin, forcing his mouth open with the pressure.

“You’re going to talk,” I say quietly, almost gently. “And if you even think about lying?—”

I press the gun harder against the soft spot beneath his jaw, feeling the fine tremble of terror shudder through him.

“I’ll tear your fucking throat out and feed it to you while you watch.”

His mouth flaps uselessly for a second, fear strangling the words in his throat.

Good.

Let him choke on it.

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