The thrill of killing had never tasted so intoxicating. It was wrong, painfully and unmistakably wrong, but survival did not care for morals. I did what I had to, what would keep me breathing, what would keep Elira safe. My heart tore itself in two, caught between the human who still feared guilt and the monster who no longer remembered what empathy meant.

I held him like a helpless chicken, his throat fragile beneath my fingers. The world faded at the edges, the smoke and shadow peeling away until only his grin remained. It wasn't human. Something moved behind that face, a presence buried in the dark, pulling his strings. I could almost taste it, cold and metallic in the air between us.

"Who's your master?" The words scraped out through my teeth as my hand tightened around his windpipe. He only laughed. The sound was jagged, like two blades grinding together.

He spat at me, thick and hot. The spit clung to my cheek, and disgust twisted into rage.

Fine. I smiled, and the smile didn't feel human either. My nail traced a thin red line across his throat before I pushed harder. The skin gave way. My fingers sank in, nails tearing through muscle. His body jerked, his hands clawing at my wrists. His eyes rolled, white showing through the red.

Blood filled his mouth, bubbling up as he tried to breathe. The sound he made was wet and low, a gargle that cut off too quickly. I watched the life drain from him, his gaze dulling, the color fading from his skin.

Warmth splattered my face. The scent of iron filled my lungs. I didn't look away. Watching him die felt pure. It was wrong, so wrong that it circled back and became beautiful. My pulse slowed, my grip loosened, and the hunger inside me purred in satisfaction.

It felt good. Too good.

In that moment, I remembered the first time I had felt this way, and it was not in this world, not in the book. No. It was long ago. I cannot remember how old I was, only that the day was soaked in rain and smog. The whole city cried with the sound of sirens.

Two men stood at the doorway of our apartment. They came every week. Different faces, new names, always on schedule, never missing a visit. All to see my mother. Why? Good question. I did not know back then what she really did, but I knew it was not anything the law would bless. Still, I never blamed her for it. She had to feed her little girl somehow.

She could have stayed with my father, but she did not. He was never enough for her. He would not buy the pills, and that made him worthless in her eyes. "Stupid, arrogant, two-faced fucker," she called him. Not very nice, I know. Yet I always wondered why he never wanted me. I wasn't my mother, so why did he treat me as if I carried her sins?

That day, I sat in my usual corner, my hands pressed tight over my ears to block out the sounds of my mother's cries. At least, I thought they were cries. Only later did I understand what those sounds really were. I kept glancing at the door, waiting for the evil men to leave. But something was wrong that night. Something deep inside me whispered that she was in danger. I did not know why, only that the feeling clawed at me, as if I were her guardian angel. Or maybe her demon? That part is still up for debate.

My eyes filled with tears. I begged them to leave. I begged the voices to stop. Nobody listened. My mother's cries went quiet, and usually, that silence meant it was over. But not that day. A different sound filled the air, a wet, choking noise, like someone gasping for air.

I do not know where the courage came from, but my tiny feet moved on their own, carrying me toward the kitchen. My hands reached for the long kitchen knife, fingers small and trembling as they wrapped around the handle. It was too heavy for one hand, so I held it with both. And then I ran. As fast as I could. My heart thundered like a steam engine inside my chest.

Running into the room, I saw two naked men on top of my mother's body. Their faces twisted into grins that didn't look human. They looked like demons wearing skin. Something in me broke, or maybe awoke. I remembered a scene from some action movie: run and stab. My heart felt too calm for what I was seeing. The room vanished, leaving only two shadows ahead.

My small body rushed forward. The knife met the first man's throat, sinking in deep. His eyes widened, mouth opening without sound. The second froze, disbelief painting his face. A child? A killer child? Impossible. One girl against two grown men? What a joke. That single thought flashing across his face gave me time to pull the knife free and swing again.

He lifted his arms in defense, palms out as if to beg me to stop, but I could not hear him. Only the sound of the knife cutting through flesh filled my ears. Wet. Heavy. Beautiful. Each movement came easier than the last. The world slowed around me, every heartbeat sharp and clear. It felt intoxicating, peaceful, almost natural.

Maybe I was born for this. Perhaps I always had been.

The first man I stabbed fell across my gasping mother, his body twitching as life left him. The other turned to me, our eyes locking as the shadows slipped from his face, revealing the raw fear beneath. That's right. I was a killer from a young age. Not by choice... Or at least that's what I told myself. I blamed them. I said they were the ones who hurt her.

The courts didn't see it that way. The one who went to jail for double homicide wasn't me. Corruption worked its wonders.

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