Page 104 of Beautifully Broken
I step back into the flickering gold light, blood dripping from my hands, and let the chaos ripple outward.
Tonight, the empire of monsters falls.
And I am the one who pulled it down.
I stand alone in the growing pool of blood, breathing hard. It soaks into my heels, drips from my fingers, slicks my hair against my neck. Every heartbeat slams against my ribs, loud and ragged. The room feels hollow now, emptied of all its ugliness.
That’s when I see him.
Van.
He’s leaning casually against the wall by the stage where I had hidden earlier, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Like he’s been there all along. Like he was meant to witness this.
The knife slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a dull, wet clatter. I stare at him, throat tight.
“Why are you here?” My voice is raw.
“You snuck out of our bed,” he says simply, his tone almost lazy, almost kind. “I followed you.”
My stomach twists. “Did you see everything?”
His eyes flick to the surrounding carnage, then back to me. There’s no judgment there. No shock. Just something heavier. "I saw enough.”
The silence stretches between us, sharp and trembling.
“Do I want to know what this was about?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “No. But it was for a good reason.” I swallow, the blood drying sticky on my skin. “It was deserved.”
He pushes off the wall, taking a step toward me. His boots splash softly on the crimson slick. “Are you going to arrest me?” My voice cracks on the last word.
He exhales, not a sigh, more like the release of something heavy he’s carried for too long. “No,” he says. “I’m going to turn around and pretend I don’t know anything. I will be at home. Just... just know I’ll always be here for you.”
Without another word, Van turns and disappears into the dark.
I stand there for a long moment, breathing in the smoke, the blood, the heavy finality of it all. Then I move.
I find the girls, the ones still capable of standing, of running. I push them toward the exits, bark orders when they hesitate. No one questions me. No one dares. In the changing room, I strip out of my ruined clothes and pull on the old sweats I left hidden. They smell like dust and freedom. I tie my hair back, swipe the worst of the blood from my face, and move.
As I step out the front door, I strike the match, trembling in my blood-stained fingers. I toss the lit match into the open doorway without hesitation. The gasoline and alcohol the girls poured while escaping catch instantly, flames leaping hungrily to the velvet curtains, the polished wood. The building groans, almost alive, as the fire roars upward.
I walk away, not bothering to look back until I reach my car. When I shut the door behind me, the explosion rocks the ground, a shockwave of heat, light, and righteous fury tearing the place apart at the seams.
The flames lick the sky, devouring everything.
Unholyhas been cleansed, not with forgiveness, but with fire and blood. Karma doesn’t miss. And tonight, she was paid in full.
I turn the key in the ignition, the engine growling to life beneath my hands. In the rearview mirror, the club collapses into itself, swallowed by fire, by rage, by justice sharpened into a blade.
This was never about redemption. This was about healing. It was about retribution. About balancing the scales by any means necessary.
They thought Karma was some distant force. A whispered threat. An old story to scare guilty men.
They were wrong.
Karma isn’t a myth. Karma isn’t patient. Karma is forged in blood, in fire, and into vengeance.
And tonight, I became her.
