Lysandra Summers' day began with the sound of the universe cackling inside her head. It felt like a cosmic joke, really.

The girl bolted upright in bed, heart racing, only to realize her alarm sat dead on her nightstand. Scrambled, she scurried over to the bathroom, but right after she was done with her quick clean, her hairdryer decided it would be funny to turn her red curls into a halo of chaos.

And when she thought an espresso could brighten her mood, the old coffee machine let out a hiss, giving one final suicidal puff before spewing its contents across the kitchen like an over-caffeinated geyser.

She had no time to salvage her morning, for goodness' sake, so she threw on the first clothes she could find—a wrinkled white blouse that, once she arrived at her job interview, bore a suspiciously red stain that even she had to admit looked like blood.

"I'm sorry," the interviewer's smile barely concealed his disdain, "but you're not a good fit."

And now, Lysandra sighed, I'm lost in a freaking alleyway with a broken heel.

As she hobbled through a dim, deserted space, she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Her one good heel clicked on the pavement, while the other dangled uselessly—snapped off somewhere along the way.

The alley felt like a forgotten corner of the world. A maze of crumbling brick walls that seemed to close in on her every step. Oh, damn. Her nose wrinkled, sniffing a foul odor of decay.

Perfect. Lysandra frowned, her fingers running through her wild and untamed hair, caught like a flame in the distant glow of a streetlamp. Just my lucky day. I could win a lottery.

With the persistent throbbing in her poor foot, the girl trudged on. She glanced around as she hugged herself—though it wasn't helping. The silence pressed in on her, wrapping around like a shroud.

But somehow, it wasn't just the chill of the night air that set her on edge.

She paused, her breath catching in her throat. No matter how lost she was, why did everything around her feel wrong? No distant sounds of whirring cars, no chatter of pedestrians. Heck, not even a stray cat rummaging through trash bins.

Then, she heard—a faint, soft, rhythmic tapping that sent shivers down her spine.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The girl whipped around, her brown eyes scanning the dark. Her heart drummed out so loud she thought it might drown out the noise. There was nothing, however. No one. She swallowed, her mouth dry.

Get a grip, Lysandra. It's just your imagination. Hell no, what if it's not my imagination?

The air around her seemed to grow heavier, while the shadows stretched, looming like a giant pit of abyss. She took a slow, shaky step forward, the knot of dread tightening in her chest.

It was then... her eyes caught movement at the far end of the alley.

Lysandra froze. A figure emerged from the darkness, hunched over something on the ground—something gruesome she couldn't quite make out. Her pulse pounded in her ears. The dim light cast an eerie shade on the man's form as he straightened.

Slowly. Deliberately. As if he had all the time in the world.

When the man turned toward her, Lysandra wanted to scream bloody murder. His face was hidden in the shadows, but as he stepped closer, she saw it—a grotesque monkey mask. The rubbery features twisted in a permanent, creepy grin.

Though the real horror was in his hand.

A long and slender knife, held with the kind of casual confidence only an expert could possessed.

Lysandra's breath hitched. It was stupid of her to not move right away, she knew. But her body was rooted to the spot, as if the ground itself had swallowed her feet. Her limbs refused to budge.

The man's head tilted. Considering something, perhaps? Then, he began the hunt. One step. Another.

The spell broke.

"Shit."

Lysandra spun on her heel and bolted. The sound of her panicked breaths, along with the pounding of her feet on the pavement, was ringing in her ears. The alley twisted ahead, but she didn't dare to stop.

If only she'd foreseen this coming, she would have snapped off her remaining good heel, so she could run faster.

Behind her, the steady, unhurried tap of his shoes grew closer with every second. He wasn't in a rush. Well, he didn't need to when the position of the prey and the predator was clear in his eyes.

Don't look back. Don't look back.

As the girl veered around a corner, nearly slipping on the slick ground, she repeated the desperate mantra over and over. The scent of decay filled her lungs, while her legs burned—every muscle screaming for her to stop.

Then, she did, since her worst fear had become reality. How cliché.

Lysandra skidded to a halt, her stomach plummeting as she stared at the solid, brick wall. She spun, eyes wide, searching for another way out. It was too late, yes. The man stood there, blocking her only hope.

No.

His knife cast long, jagged shadows.

"Stay back," Lysandra spoke through gritted teeth.

But the man said and obeyed nothing. He simply tilted his head, as though amused, before continuing his slow advance. Her body trembled, the cold seeping into her bones.

And the fear... it fueled her.

Something in her head snapped. If she was going down tonight, she wasn't going to make it easier than shooting a bird.

With a scream that tore from her very soul, Lysandra lunged at him. She fought with everything she had, didn't give a damn if she was doing it like a rabid dog. Her knees drove into his sides, her fists swung.

She landed a kick where human's kidney was located. He barely staggered. It wasn't enough, she realized, so she maneuvered her last strike—she threw her foot up, her one good heel kissed the lunatic's jaw.

A grunt left his mouth. It was a pity his ugly mask didn't fall off, though. The man's hand shot out, his grip like iron as he caught her by the hair, yanking her backward with brutal force that brought tears to her eyes.

"Feisty, aren't you?" His voice was low, almost a purr, laced with amusement. "Too bad. That won't save you."

"Go to hell!" Lysandra spat. She kicked, scratched, and clawed. Her nails dug into his arm, drawing blood, but he didn't even flinch.

With a vicious shove, he slammed her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her lungs. The girl coughed. Her ribs hurt like hell, stars bursting behind her eyes.

"I admire your spirit, truly." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "But I told you, it's futile. See you in hell, sweetheart."

And then the knife came down.

A sharp and sudden stab tore through her. The knife plunged again and again, but her screams died in her throat. Not only were they drowned out by the white-hot agony, but Lysandra herself didn't want the man to be satisfied hearing her suffer.

Is this it?

The girl swore, if they were destined to meet again in hell, she'd damn his soul into the deepest, scorching pit of fire.

Lysandra.

Her mind drifted off to her foster mother's face, to the warmth and safety of home. Ah... they would soon remain a distant memory, maybe that's why she was hearing voices in her head.

Lysandra.

Regret welled up inside her, heavy and suffocating. She hadn't even said goodbye.

I'm sorry ....

Darkness closed in, but as her body gave out, one final, desperate wish echoed in her mind.

Just one more chance.

Little did she know, the universe had heard her.