Shirley's hand was drenched in red.
She didn't know how many she had killed.
She didn't care.
The knife in her grip dripped with warm blood, its handle sticky against her palm. Her mask that was once pristine white was now stained in splashes of crimson.
It should've been heavy.
The weight of her actions.
The lives she had taken.
But instead—
She felt light.
So light.
Every time she tore through flesh, every time she ended a life, she felt something something inside her uncoil
Maybe it was years of pain unraveling.
Maybe it was Lumian's influence.
Or maybe,
Maybe she had always been like this.
A monster waiting to be unchained.
Shirley exhaled, tilting her head as she watched the last boy in the locker room claw at the floor, leaving behind bloody smears of where his nails had once been.
He wasn't screaming anymore.
Good.