[Past] The Pixie 1

The living room was a slaughterhouse tableau, steeped in the iron stench of blood and the dim flicker of a single overhead bulb. At its center stood a woman, tall and unyielding, her straight black hair slicing down to the nape of her neck like a guillotine's edge.

She clutched a half-eaten hunk of bread in her right hand, her left encased in a black latex glove that gleamed faintly under the light. Her black suit was pristine, an anomaly amidst the carnage, its sharp creases defying the chaos she'd unleashed. She paced before the four men slumped against the wall, her steps erratic, like a predator too restless to savor its prey.

"One…" She pointed the bread at the first man, a wiry figure in his late twenties, his face slick with sweat. "Two…" The second, a stocky thug with a patchy beard, flinched as the crust swung his way. "Three…" The third, barely conscious, let out a low whimper. "And you are four." She jabbed the bread toward the bald man at the end, her voice a cold drawl laced with mockery. He quivered under her gaze, his severed ankle leaking a sluggish stream of red onto the hardwood.

The men were a pitiful sight—ages spanning late twenties to late thirties, each with one ankle hacked clean through. The wounds were fresh, the blood pooling beneath them in a glistening, viscous lake that mirrored their terror-stricken faces.

They could have crawled, dragged themselves toward the door on trembling hands, but none dared. This woman wasn't human to them—she was a specter, a reaper in tailored black, her casual air more horrifying than any scream. No sane soul could chew bread so carelessly while ankle-deep in gore, not after a thousand years of madness.

Num num num num. She tore into the bread with noisy bites, crumbs—some small, some jagged—raining into the crimson puddle at her feet. Her pacing grew frantic, her brows knitting as if wrestling with a gnawing thought. Then, abruptly, she stopped, whirling to face them with a scowl that carved shadows across her sharp features.

"Where, where, where is the fifth guy?" Her voice sliced through the room, sharp enough to draw fresh shudders from her captives. Their responses tumbled out in a chaotic symphony of fear.

"I've told you a dozen times—I don't know where he is!" the wiry one stammered, his voice cracking like thin ice.

"He was right there last I saw him, I swear—I don't know where he went!" the stocky one pleaded, jabbing a shaky finger at an empty patch of wall.

"Just kill me… please, end it…" the third rasped, his head lolling forward, eyes glassy with resignation.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—spare me, please! I'll never kill again, I'll be good, I swear!" the bald one sobbed, clasping blood-smeared hands in a desperate plea.

She tuned them out after the first "I don't know," her attention snagging on something internal. With a swift motion, she yanked a crumpled paper from her suit jacket, smoothing it with gloved fingers. Her dark eyes locked onto the single line typed in crisp Times New Roman: "They should be killed together in an explosion."

She muttered it aloud, her fifth recitation in ten minutes, each word dripping with mounting frustration. Shoving the note back into her pocket, she raked a hand through her hair, her composure fraying at the edges.

"I need a smoke," she growled, more to herself than them.

Her hand dove into her trouser pocket, fishing out an empty cigarette carton. She crushed it with a snarl, the cardboard crumpling like a skull underfoot, and flung it into the gore. Her gaze slid back to the men, predatory and expectant.

"Here," the stocky one croaked, fumbling in his pocket. He produced a lone cigarette and a scratched lighter, extending them with trembling hands as if offering tribute to a god.

She snatched them with a curt nod. "Thank you."

Tlick. The lighter sparked, casting a brief flare across her angular face—high cheekbones, a jawline like a blade, eyes that swallowed light. Puff. She exhaled a dense cloud of gray smoke, the tension in her frame unwinding just enough to hint at relief.

"Ahh…" The cigarette dangled between her lips as she turned her piercing stare on the bald man, the oldest, the one who carried the air of a leader.

"What's his fucking name?" she asked, her tone deceptively soft, ash flicking from the cigarette's tip.

"O… O… Odin—no, wait," he stuttered, his bald scalp gleaming with sweat. He frowned, grasping at a memory that wouldn't surface. He'd never used the fifth guy's name—just barked "twat" whenever he needed him. "I… uh…"

"Ogin," the stocky one cut in, voice tight but certain. "His name's Ogin."

She tilted her head, the cigarette's glowing end hovering inches from his face. A fleck of ash drifted down, sizzling against his thigh. "You sure? I'm not in the mood for games. Give me his real name." Her voice was a low growl, each word a loaded threat.

"I'm telling you the truth!" he insisted, wincing but meeting her gaze. "I thought it was odd too, but I never asked him about it—swear it!"

"Hmm." She took a long drag, smoke curling from her nostrils as she mulled it over. Then, her eyes widened, pupils dilating with sudden clarity. The cigarette slipped from her fingers, landing with a faint hiss in the blood-soaked floor. "Ogin… O-G-I-N… G-I-N-O… Gino!" The name hit her like a gunshot, reverberating in her skull. "It's him."

Gino. A shadow on the "Top 15 Most Wanted Criminals, Alive" list—a name whispered in back alleys and scribbled in dossiers, but never tied to a body count. No photos, no fingerprints, just crude sketches from fleeting glimpses by rattled cops. A ghost who danced through the underworld untouchable, until now.

She threw her head back and laughed—a jagged, maniacal sound that ricocheted off the walls like shattering glass. "Ahahahaha!" Her knees buckled, and she gripped the table behind her, cackling until her breath came in ragged gasps. "Ah… breathe… Twenty minutes wasted—mine and yours. My apologies, truly. But here's the good part: you don't need to wait for him anymore. He's probably sprawled out in some safehouse, sipping beer and laughing at the news by now."

"Wait!" "No!" "You don't have to—" "Thank You—" Their voices collided in a frantic cacophony as she reached into her jacket and withdrew a sleek, matte-black device—a time bomb, its digital display glowing an ominous red. She punched in ninety-nine seconds with a flick of her thumb, the beep of each digit a death knell. Setting it on the table with deliberate care, she stepped back, watching as the numbers began their relentless descent.

"Good night, boys," she said, her voice a venomous purr, no salute needed—her presence alone was farewell enough. She turned, her boots squelching in the blood as she strode toward the door. Their wails rose behind her, shrill and desperate, clawing at the air as she twisted the knob. She didn't look back—didn't need to.

The timer's soft tick-tick-tick was her symphony, and their screams its crescendo. She stepped into the hallway just as the count hit thirty seconds, pulling the door shut with a heavy thud. The sound muffled their cries, but not enough to spare her the satisfaction.