The alley was quiet, bathed in the cold glow of flickering street lights. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, swallowing the figure that lay motionless in their embrace.
A woman walked through the alley , her breath visible in the crisp night air. Emma Carter, twenty-nine, a woman with a life stitched together by quiet victories and private regrets, had thought tonight would be like any other. She was wrong.
Emma Carter had always hated the dark. It was irrational, childish even, but some fears never truly went away. Tonight, she cursed herself for parking so far from the café.
Her footsteps echoed louder than they should have in the empty alley. She glanced over her shoulder, but the street was empty.
Still, the air felt wrong—too still, too heavy.
She picked up her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Almost there. Just a few more steps to the safety of her car.
"Emma~"
The voice was calm and friendly. Too friendly even. Like the devil toying with you.
She froze. Her pulse spiked, panic clawing its way up her throat.
"Hey, don't be rude," the voice continued, closer now. "It's been so long since we've seen each other."
Emma turned slowly, her heart hammering. The man stood just a few feet away, his face hidden in the shadows. There was something disturbingly familiar in the way he smiled—too wide, too confident.
"I… I think you've got the wrong person," she said, forcing a laugh.
"No, I don't." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's you, Emma. I've been waiting for this moment for a long time."
Her instincts screamed at her to run. She spun on her heel, but he was faster. A hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and yanking her back. She stumbled, falling hard onto the pavement.
"You're not going anywhere."
Emma kicked and thrashed, her screams lost in the emptiness of the alley. He didn't just want her dead—he wanted to savor this.
"Shhh," he cooed, pressing the knife gently against her cheek. "It's more fun if you don't struggle. But… struggle a little, just for me."
The knife trailed down her skin, leaving a shallow cut. Blood welled up, and his eyes lit up with delight.
"That's beautiful," he whispered. "You're beautiful when you bleed. Beautiful in red."
Tears streamed down Emma's face, but he only laughed, watching her crumble. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.
"It's funny," he said, twirling the knife in his hand like a toy. "How people think they can walk back into someone's life without consequences. Did you really think she wouldn't be better than you?"
Emma's eyes widened. "Who—who are you talking about?"
He leaned in close, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "Her, of course. She's mine. And now... you're part of her story."
Emma was still trembling, scared of the strange man in front of her. "Pl…please let me go."
"Do you know why this is happening?" he asked. "Because you made the mistake of getting too close to her. She belongs to me. No one else."
Emma's breath hitched. Her again? Who in the world was this her? Was she going to die because of an unknown woman?
Emma was trying to understand everything but he didn't give her time to process it.
The first stab was swift, cruel, right beneath her ribs. Emma gasped, the air rushing from her lungs.
The second was slower, deliberate.
And then the third.
He watched her eyes glaze over with tears as life drained from her body, taking his time, savoring every second of her suffering.
When her body finally went limp, he sighed in satisfaction. His hand lingered on her cheek, almost tender. "Have a good night, Emma."
The man looked at Emma's lifeless body with empathy,as if pitying her. "For you, Anna," he whispered, brushing Emma's hair back as though comforting her. "You should've stayed away from her. But don't worry... she'll understand why this had to happen."
The alley was drowned in silence, thick and suffocating. Emma's body lay sprawled across the cold concrete, her blood pooling beneath her like a dark halo. The metallic smell of blood filled the already damp alley.
The man crouched beside her, his breath calm, unhurried. From his pocket, he pulled out a folded cloth. Inside was a small silver knife—not just any knife but one etched with strange symbols. He set it down carefully, his movements almost reverent.
A candle followed—slim and black, its wax worn down from use.
He struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating his face, but only for a split second. He lit the candle and placed it next to her body, its flickering glow casting strange patterns on the walls around him.
"Your story is done," he whispered softly, almost lovingly.
He opened his leather-bound book and ran a finger down the last page, feeling the slight ridges of each name before writing another line. His handwriting was sharp, angular—each letter carved into the page like it mattered more than anything else. He pressed his thumb into her blood, smearing it onto the page in a perfect fingerprint.
It wasn't enough.
He dipped two fingers into the blood, drawing a small, spiraling symbol on the ground next to her body. A spiral—twisting inward, tighter and tighter, until it disappeared into itself.
The candle flickered violently, but he didn't stop.
"It's not about you," he murmured, staring at the spiral like it held all the answers. "It never was."
He stood, blowing out the candle in one soft breath, leaving the alley in darkness once more.
The ritual was complete. Another chapter in the story.
He slipped back into the night, unseen, unheard, his book tucked safely under his arm.
The scent of copper lingered in the air, thick and cloying. The blood pooled beneath Emma's body reflected the cold, harsh light of the streetlamp, the symbols carved into her skin gleaming like a message written in crimson.