Waking up to my sin
I picked up a pair of heavy industrial shears from the vanity.
With a single, decisive motion, I hacked through the long, dark locks Malakai used to wind around his fingers when he kissed me. I cut until the hair hit just above my jaw—short, jagged, and practical. I dyed it a deep, obsidian black in the bathroom sink, watching the dark pigment swirl down the drain like the last of my innocence. When I looked back into the glass, I didn't recognize the woman looking back. She looked like a blade—sharp, dark, and ready to draw blood.