My footsteps echoed through the hallway like war drums. Each step a threat. Each breath a promise.
My hands were stained. Still damp. Still warm.
Blood had dried beneath my fingernails—rogue blood. The walls back there were painted in it. My boots made squelching sounds when I walked out of their den, coated in organs and screams.
I hadn’t fought. I had slaughtered.
They thought they could hide.
I hunted.
They thought they could beg.
I silenced.
Now all that’s left is the quiet inside my skull. That damn ringing silence when there’s nothing left to kill.
But I was still angry.
No, not angry—hollow. And that’s worse.
The council had drained what little patience I had left with their whining. Old men with fat hands and fragile pride. I should’ve snapped their necks and called it a day. Only reason I didn’t is because corpses don’t vote.
I passed the mirror in the corridor. My reflection looked like it belonged in a morgue.
Dead eyes. Blood on white.
I looked like vengeance personified.
