Page 200 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She nods, and without another word, we slip back into the hallway.

We move quickly, navigating the shadows without getting caught.

She stays close, steps light, hand in mine until we’re back in the van.

But she doesn’t look at me.

Not once.

Every glance avoids mine—fixing on the walls, the floor, anything but me.

And I start to wonder if I crossed a line.

If it wasn’t just adrenaline or timing.

If I read her wrong.

If she regrets every second in that closet.

But some feral, ugly part of me refuses to believe it.

I know what I saw in her eyes.

I know how her body fit against mine, like something instinctive.

Like she needed me in the same savage, breathless way I need her.

I’m fucking crazy for her. More every goddamn day.

And there’s no cure in sight but taking more. Touching more. Having her in ways I know I shouldn’t even dream about.

I shove it all down when the mayor shows up.

The van goes silent, and no one moves.

We just watch as the city’s smiling, self-righteous, camera-loving leader strolls into a basement full of girls young enough to still believe in fairy tales. Cash burning a hole in his pocket.

A fucking monster in a tailored suit.

My stomach twists with something colder, meaner than anger.

It’s betrayal.

Disgust.

Hate so sharp it scrapes bone.

I thumb a message to Rourke, fingers clumsy with rage.

DECLAN: Incoming. Shit’s about to hit the fan.

ROURKE: Team's already staged. Waiting on your call.

Good.

Because once I get the green light, we’re kicking this whole house of cards down.

I glance at the feed, jaw tight.

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