Marco disappeared into the swell of shoppers, a ripple swallowed by brighter colors and louder conversations.

  Seraphine did not follow.

  Did not speak.

  Did not even blink.

  She watched his back shrink into the crowd — neat shirt, confident shoulders, easy swagger — like he owned the space around him.

  Her expression stayed smooth, empty, doll-like.

  Inside her, something clawed the walls.

  She could kill him now.

  The thought wasn’t fantasy — it was blueprint:

  A scream to draw eyes, a shove over the railing, a steak knife plunged between ribs in a crowded food court.

  Blood spreading across polished tiles, Marco clutching at the wound, shock blooming in his eyes.

  Chaos would swallow the rest.

  A life ended.

  A debt paid.

  One more wolf erased from the earth.

  It would be so easy.

  Too easy.

  Seraphine pressed her lips together until the urge passed.

  Marco did not deserve quick.

  He deserved anticipation.

  He deserved dread.

  He deserved to feel every grain of sand falling through the last hourglass of his life.

  Death would come — but only after she built a stage for him to see it coming.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Her fingers curled at her thigh, nails pressing crescent moons into her skin.

  Hunger flooded her veins — not for food, not for attention — for justice, ugly and personal and pure.

  She was vibrating with it, small tremors of contained violence.

  The mall swarmed around her, oblivious to the storm cracking in one girl’s skull.

  Kids laughed.

  Parents bargained.

  Someone dropped a soda cup and cursed.

  Seraphine’s breathing went thin, shallow — as though her lungs disagreed with the slow timetable she’d just chosen.

  Her vision tunneled.

  She needed release.

  Needed someone to bleed.

  Needed a throat to crush or a wrist to snap.

  Then—

  “Hey.”

  A shadow appeared at her left.

  She blinked once, and the world snapped back into color.

  A man stood too close — maybe mid-twenties, hair gelled stiff, the faint rasp of stubble shaving by feel, not accuracy. His grin was wide, practiced, and grossly confident.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  Seraphine stepped back, instinct more than decision.

  He stepped forward.

  Cheap cologne clung to him like sweat.

  He didn’t notice her expression.

  Men never did.

  They only saw what they wanted.

  “You’re cute,” he said, dropping his voice like it was supposed to charm her.

  “Come with me. C’mon. Just a drink.”

  His fingers brushed her wrist — light, testing — then wrapped around it like they had a right to.

  Seraphine went utterly still.

  No flinch.

  No jump.

  Just stillness — deep and dangerous.

  In that frozen second, her anger startled into clarity.

  Marco was too big a meal for today.

  But the world had delivered an appetizer.

  She lifted her eyes to meet his.

  No softness.

  No panic.

  No apology.

  “Okay,” she said.

  His smile widened, triumphant, blind.

  He didn’t see the blade inside her voice.

  He led her through the crowd, into quieter corridors.

  Past arcades and shuttered kiosks.

  Toward the edge of the mall where no families wandered.

  He didn’t look back.

  He should have.

  By dawn, Calista Mall trembled with police radio static and curious whispers.

  Yellow tape sliced across the faded tiles at the back entrance.

  Security guards paced in stiff lines, radios pressed to their ears.

  Janitors gave statements with pale faces.

  Detective Elias Rivas ducked under the tape and stepped into the service hallway.

  The air smelled of bleach, damp brick, and something copper hiding beneath.

  He expected a mugging gone bad.

  He did not expect this.

  The body lay sprawled near the dumpsters — limbs twisted at angles no fall could explain, shirt ripped wide across the chest, one shoe missing.

  His eyes were open.

  Still terrified.

  Elias crouched, jaw tight.

  A mark on the man’s cheek stopped him cold.

  A lipstick kiss.

  Smudged from struggle.

  A ghost of a signature still unmistakable.

  Same curve.

  Same color.

  Elias stared at it until his vision blurred.

  “This isn’t suicide,” a rookie muttered behind him.

  Elias didn’t turn around.

  Didn’t correct him.

  Didn’t trust his voice.

  Because somewhere between his ribs and spine, a realization settled like iron:

  She was here.