Chapter 2: The First Kill
The night smelled of sweat, rot, and cheap alcohol.
The scent clung to the walls, soaked into the filthy straw mattress where two bodies lay, tangled in sleep. Their breathing was slow, steady, unaware.
She sat in the dark, waiting.
The knife in her hands was small but sharp. She had stolen it months ago, kept it hidden beneath the floorboards, away from prying eyes.
Tonight, she would use it.
Her mother slept closest to her, mouth slightly open, one hand sprawled across the bed. Her greasy, matted hair stuck to her face, her breath reeking of stale ale and bile.
Her father lay beside her, limbs slack, chest rising and falling with deep, heavy snores.
She watched them for a long moment, expression blank.
Then, she moved.
Slowly, carefully, she climbed onto the mattress. The wood creaked beneath her weight, but they didn't stir.
They wouldn't wake up. Not until it was too late.
The knife felt heavy in her grip. Her fingers curled around the handle, small hands tightening, steady.
She started with her mother.
She hated her mother.
She was weak. A pathetic, shrieking thing that took out her anger on the only person who couldn't fight back. She could have left, could have run, could have done anything—
But she didn't.
Instead, she screamed and cursed and beat her child with hands that reeked of sour wine.
She deserved this.
They both did.
She raised the knife.
And plunged it into her mother's throat.
A wet, gurgling choke tore through the silence.
Her mother's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and wide with confusion—then pain.
Her body jerked, hands flying to her neck, fingers scrabbling at the knife embedded deep in her throat.
The blade had gone in at an angle, missing the main artery.
She was still alive.
Still struggling.
Still fighting.
Her mother twisted violently, a weak, broken attempt to push her off. Her lips parted, trying to scream—
Only blood came out.
A wet, bubbling gasp spilled from her throat as crimson gushed down her chest, soaking into the thin fabric of her clothes.
Her hands reached out, clawing at her arms, nails scraping against her skin.
She twisted the knife.
Her mother convulsed, body spasming, legs kicking against the mattress. Her mouth opened in a silent, gaping scream, her pupils blown wide with terror.
Her hands trembled.
Then—stab.
She pulled the knife out and slammed it into her stomach.
Then her ribs.
Then her side.
Over and over and over.
Her mother shuddered, her body jerking violently, her fingers twitching before falling limp.
But she wasn't dead yet.
No—she was still bleeding, her wounds refusing to close, the blood refusing to stop.
Her body twitched, her lips still parted, eyes wide and unseeing.
She watched the light fade from them.
And she smiled.
Her father groaned beside her, shifting slightly in his sleep.
She turned to him.
His face was twisted into a scowl, brow furrowing in irritation, as if her mother's dying gasps were nothing more than an annoyance.
She hated him too.
More than her mother.
He was stronger, crueler, meaner. He had enjoyed breaking her.
And now, she would break him.
She lifted the knife.
And buried it deep in his stomach.
His eyes flew open.
A horrible, wet gasp tore from his throat as his body lurched upright. His hands grabbed at her, fingers closing around her wrist, squeezing hard.
She didn't stop.
She pulled the knife out—slowly, deliberately—feeling his flesh tear, feeling the way it resisted before giving way.
Blood gushed from the wound, pouring down his side, soaking into the bed.
His mouth opened, a choked scream escaping his lips.
She stabbed him again.
And again.
And again.
His hands clawed at her, nails raking across her cheek, drawing blood—but she didn't stop.
She aimed for everything.
The soft spaces between his ribs.The meat of his arms.The tender flesh of his thighs.
Every time the blade sank in, he twitched, his breath hitching, his body spasming.
But he wasn't dying fast enough.
He was still moving, still fighting.
She needed to make it worse.
She needed to make it hurt.
A shudder ran through her.
She didn't know why, but her hands felt hot.
Not burning. Not painful.
Just—warm.
She twisted the knife deep, pressing her hand against his wound, feeling the slick, wet heat of his blood coat her fingers.
Something pulsed beneath her skin.
And her father screamed.
Louder than before.
His body convulsed violently, back arching, fingers scratching at the air as his mouth opened in a soundless, agonized cry.
His wounds should have started to clot by now. They should have slowed, should have closed.
But they didn't.
The blood kept flowing, kept seeping, even as his body shook beneath her.
And he felt it.
All of it.
The pain didn't fade.
It lingered.
His muscles twitched, his limbs spasming even as his strength left him.
He looked at her then—
And she saw it.
Not anger.Not hatred.Not rage.
Fear.
And she smiled.
He twitched one last time—
Then fell still.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
She sat there, straddling his body, the knife resting in her lap. Her small hands were covered in blood, sticky and warm, staining her pale skin a deep, dark red.
Her mother's corpse lay beside her, twisted and broken, eyes still open.
Her father's body twitched every few moments, as if even in death, he still felt it.
She watched them bleed.
Watched the blood pool around her, soaking into the floor.
Watched the way their lifeless bodies lay sprawled, helpless, ruined.
And she felt—
Nothing.
No sadness.No fear.No regret.
Only satisfaction.
Her first kill.
The first of many.
And it wouldn't be the last.
The room was silent now.
The only sound was the faint drip, drip, drip of blood pooling onto the floor.
She sat there for a long time, watching her parents' bodies grow still, their warmth fading into the chill of the night. The knife in her hands felt heavier now, no longer a simple tool but a thing of purpose—something that had changed her forever.
A part of her knew she should feel something.
Regret. Fear. Guilt.
But there was nothing.
She exhaled softly and moved.
The first step was cleaning herself up.
The wooden floor creaked under her bare feet as she made her way to the small, grimy washbasin in the corner of the room. The water inside was murky, the surface reflecting her face in jagged distortions.
She barely recognized herself.
Her golden hair was drenched in red, clumps of it sticking to her cheeks and forehead. Her skin, usually a warm shade of sun-kissed gold, was smeared with thick streaks of blood, her small hands almost blackened with it. It clung under her nails, soaked into the cuticles, staining the lines of her palms.
She had never seen so much blood before.
Slowly, she dipped her hands into the basin.
The water rippled, and as she rubbed at her skin, it darkened, turning into a deep, murky crimson.
The warmth of her father's blood had already begun to fade, turning cold and sticky against her skin. She scrubbed harder, watching as it dissolved into the water, swirling in slow, lazy curls before vanishing.
A strange thought crossed her mind.
Would she always feel this calm after killing?
Her body had been trembling with excitement before, but now it felt... steady. Grounded.
She liked it.
Not just the killing.
The control.
For the first time in her life, she was in control.
No more beatings.No more screaming.No more suffering.
Only silence.
She grabbed a thin rag and wiped the remaining blood from her arms, her face, her legs. Some of it had dried, flaking against her skin, and she had to scrape it off with her nails.
She didn't mind.
She was patient.
She could take her time.
She lifted her head, catching her reflection again.
Her red eyes glowed in the dim light, the last remnants of blood trailing down her cheek like a tear.
She tilted her head.
Then smiled.
When she was clean, she moved to the pile of ragged clothing near the corner of the room.
Most of it was torn or filthy beyond repair, but she found a slightly less ruined tunic and a pair of loose pants. They were too big for her small frame, hanging off her thin body, but they would do.
She slipped them on, rolling the sleeves up so they wouldn't get in the way.
Then, she turned to the knives.
Her father kept them in a wooden drawer near the entrance.
She had seen him use them before—cutting meat, sharpening sticks, carving wood when he wasn't drinking himself into a stupor.
She knew which ones were sharpest.
Her small fingers pulled open the drawer.
Inside, the knives were stacked haphazardly, some rusted, some chipped, but a few were perfect.
She picked up a long, slender one first, testing its weight in her palm. The handle was smooth, the blade sharp enough to cut through flesh with ease.
Then she took another.
And another.
She lined them up carefully, selecting the ones that felt right.
Two long knives.Three smaller ones.A rusted one with a serrated edge.
They weren't made for fighting, but she would make them work.
She reached for a thin piece of cloth, rolling the blades together and securing them tightly.
Something inside her thrilled at the thought of using them again.
Killing with just one knife had been messy.
But with more?
She could be better.
She could make it slower.
She could enjoy it.
Her heart beat faster at the thought.
She stood up, tightening the cloth around her knives before slinging it over her shoulder.
Her parents' bodies were still lying on the bed, their blood slowly seeping into the floor. The room stank of death now—coppery and thick, clinging to the walls like an unshakable curse.
She didn't care.
She stepped over her father's outstretched arm, not sparing him a second glance.
Then, she pushed the door open and stepped into the night.
The air was cold against her skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant smoke.
The city stretched before her—dark alleyways, flickering lanterns, the distant murmur of drunkards and merchants still awake despite the late hour.
She had nowhere to go.
No one to rely on.
But she wasn't afraid.
For the first time in her life, she was free.
And she was going to survive.
No matter what.
The slums were a filthy, rotting corpse of a place.
The streets reeked of piss and decay, the air thick with the stench of too many bodies crammed into too little space. Mud and grime covered everything, mixing with blood and filth until the ground itself felt diseased.
She moved through it like a shadow.
It had been a week since she left her parents' home.
A week since she had washed their blood from her hands.
A week since she had tasted freedom.
And yet, it was still not enough.
She needed to eat.She needed to kill.She needed to live.
So, she stole.
The first time had been easy.
A drunken man staggered into an alley, a half-eaten loaf of bread clutched in his dirty hands. His bloated belly stretched against his stained tunic, his lips smacking loudly as he chewed.
He didn't even notice her.
Not until she stabbed him in the stomach.
The blade slid in effortlessly, sinking into the soft fat of his gut. His body jerked, his eyes bulging as he let out a wet, choked gasp.
She didn't pull the knife out.
She twisted it.
His fingers spasmed, his grip loosening on the bread. She grabbed it before it could hit the ground, stepping back as he collapsed, his knees slamming against the dirt.
His mouth opened—perhaps to scream, perhaps to beg.
But only blood came out.
She watched him for a moment, watching the way he clutched his wound, the way his body trembled as the life drained from his eyes.
It took a while for him to die.
She liked that.
She left him in the alley, the warm bread still in her hands.
It tasted good.
She killed again the next night.
This time, it was a merchant—one of the greedy ones, the type that charged starving children for moldy scraps of food.
She waited until he was alone.
Then, she cut his throat.
He made a terrible gurgling sound, his hands clawing at his neck, trying to hold the blood in—as if that would save him.
She knelt beside him, watching as he twitched, his body writhing like a trapped insect.
She didn't move.
She didn't speak.
She only watched.
His eyes met hers in those final moments, wide and desperate.
She smiled.
Then he was gone.
She took his food.
The slums were lawless.
Murder was common, bodies appearing in the alleys every morning, their throats slit, their chests punctured, their faces beaten beyond recognition.
No one cared.
No one asked questions.
No one would come looking for the ones she killed.
But stealing was different.
Stealing had consequences.
And she learned that lesson the hard way.
It happened on the seventh day.
She had been too greedy, stealing too much, taking from the wrong people.
She hadn't seen them coming.
The first hit sent her sprawling.
Pain exploded through her ribs as a heavy boot slammed into her side, knocking the air from her lungs. She barely had time to react before rough hands grabbed her hair, yanking her up before throwing her back down onto the mud-soaked ground.
She tried to fight.
She clawed, bit, stabbed—but there were too many of them.
A fist slammed into her face, snapping her head to the side. Blood filled her mouth, the metallic taste sharp against her tongue.
More kicks followed.
One to her stomach.One to her ribs.One to her back.
She curled in on herself, her small body trembling, her knives ripped from her grasp.
The food she had stolen was gone—snatched away, devoured by greedy, laughing mouths.
She hated them.
She hated them.
She hated them.
But she couldn't move.
Her body was too weak.
She lay there, face pressed against the filth, listening to their laughter as they walked away.
Her vision blurred, her breaths ragged.
For the first time since she had killed her parents, she felt small again.
Helpless.
A trembling breath left her lips.
No.
She was not weak.
She was not helpless.
She would not go back to being that pathetic thing, cowering in fear, waiting for someone else to hurt her.
Never again.
She forced her arms to move, pushing herself up. Every muscle screamed in protest, pain lancing through her ribs, her limbs shaking.
But she moved anyway.
She dragged herself to the nearest wall and collapsed against it, her back hitting the rough stone with a dull thud.
Her body ached.
Her head spun.
Her stomach clenched with hunger, the gnawing emptiness twisting inside her like a beast tearing at her insides.
But she didn't cry.
She didn't sob.
She simply sat there, staring ahead, her fingers curling into the dirt.
Her mind was silent.
Calm.
But deep inside, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain, something burned.
Something red.
Something ravenous.
She would kill them.
Not today.Not tomorrow.But someday.
She would find them.
And she would make them bleed.
She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.
For now, she just needed to rest.
For now, she just needed to survive.