Page 280 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The tunnel curves tighter. At the end, a door looms. A small window cut into it—just high enough to see through.

I close my eyes and swallow hard, pushing back the nightmares that flash behind my eyes.

The one I can’t stop seeing is her—dead.

With a breath, I adjust my grip and look through the small window of the door.

As soon as my eyes land on the room inside, I forget how to breathe.

Poppy.

She’s facing away, frozen.

Covered in blood.

Wearing only an oversized shirt.

I push the door open quietly.

She’s alone.

“Poppy,” I whisper—like a prayer.

She flinches, body rigid.

First thing I see: a handsaw dangling from her hand, blood dripping.

Second—she’s shaking.

I look past her.

A man lies strapped to a metal table. Chest cut open, heart resting in his lap.

Throat carved into a jack-o-lantern smile.

Above him, a cracked mirror hangs—aimed down.

A twisted design meant for torment because she pined his eyelids open. She turned it back on him.

Made him watch his own torture.

God knows how many girls had to endure that same sight.

And somehow, in the middle of all this blood and horror, it’s the most righteous thing I’ve ever seen.

“Lollipop,” I breathe.

She turns slowly, and for a second, I think she won’t recognize me.

Tears streak her blood-spattered cheeks, eyes glassy, distant.

Then—

The saw clatters to the floor.

She stumbles toward me, arms outstretched, broken sobs tearing free.

I’m already moving, pulling her into my arms like if I don’t hold tight enough, she’ll vanish.

---