It was supposed to be a quiet night.
Beth sat at her desk, legs folded beneath her, a textbook open in front of her that she was actually… reading. She wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was to look normal. Maybe it was to prove to herself she could still be a student, a person, a girl who hadn't left bloody fingerprints on a broken man's spine just last week.
She highlighted a line she didn't understand, blinked slowly, and underlined it anyway.
This was her new 'normal,' she guessed. Kill a scumbag, then go over psychology notes like she wasn't broken inside.
Then came the knock.
It was soft. Too soft. Most people knocked like they were trying to get your attention. This one sounded more like someone was running out of strength.
She stood, cautious by instinct, and crossed the small dorm room to the door. She hesitated only a second—no weapon in hand, no costume, no mask—and opened it.
Brandon stumbled in like he'd been waiting for that exact moment to fall apart.
Blood. So much blood.
His shirt was soaked through with it, one hand clutching his side, the other already slipping away from control. His face was pale. His eyes found hers for only a second before he collapsed against her.
She didn't scream. She didn't freeze.
She caught him.
Her knees nearly buckled under his weight, and for a second she stood there holding him like she'd just caught a collapsing star, unsure what to do with the gravity now crushing her lungs.
Her voice wouldn't work. The questions—What happened? Who did this? Are you dying?—died in her throat.
He didn't answer anyway. He was already unconscious.
Beth gritted her teeth and dragged him inside.
Getting him onto her bed was the hardest part. Not because of the weight, though he was heavier than he looked, but because of the blood. It stuck to her fingers, her arms, smeared across her sheets. His blood. Not hers.
It made something coil and twist in her chest in a way she didn't like.
She found the kit she kept hidden—old habits die hard—and set to work patching him up. The bullet had gone through, a clean shot, but it was messy. Deep. He'd lost too much blood. She worked quickly, fingers practiced, cleaning the wound, stitching what she could. She didn't ask how she knew what to do. She just did it.
By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.
She sat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. She should be calling someone. She should be reporting this.
But she didn't move.
Instead, she just watched him. Silent. Still.
Waiting.
Minutes passed. An hour maybe. The adrenaline drained from her slowly, replaced by something she didn't want to name.
She didn't even notice Ashes jump onto the bed until the cat curled up next to Brandon's leg, purring like nothing had happened.
Beth stared at the scene, a part of her numb, the other part whispering things she didn't want to hear.
He was unconscious. Vulnerable. Bleeding and broken. He wouldn't see it coming if she slipped a knife between his ribs.
She could do it.
She should do it.
This was the perfect moment.
All the watching, the rules, the way he made her feel like someone was peeling her open with every look—it could all end here. Just a twist of her wrist and it would be over.
She wouldn't have to pretend anymore. Wouldn't have to listen to his lectures about justice and lines and boundaries. Wouldn't have to wonder if she was changing or just playing along until she snapped again.
Beth's eyes fell on the knife sitting on her desk.
Her favorite one. Still clean.
She stood.
Crossed the room.
Picked it up.
It felt natural in her hand. Like muscle memory.
Like a promise.
She turned and looked at him again.
Still out. Still breathing. Still pale and blood-soaked in her bed.
She walked back.
Stood over him.
The blade hovered above his chest.
Her heart didn't race. Her breath didn't quicken.
There was no thrill.
Just silence.
Ashes opened one eye and flicked her tail.
Beth blinked.
And lowered the knife.
Not out of mercy.
Not out of fear.
But because… she didn't want to.
She should want to. She should have done it.
She didn't.
Her mind grasped for excuses.
Because we're pretending to be a couple.
Because it would be suspicious if he disappeared now.
Because people would ask questions.
Because he's useful.
Each one felt thinner than the last.
She placed the knife on the nightstand and sat back down.
Her gaze didn't leave him.
Brandon.
The boy who watched her too closely. The boy who saved her. The boy who forced her to think about why she killed instead of just doing it.
The boy who bled out in front of her and didn't ask for help—but still came to her anyway.
Why?
She didn't know.
Maybe he trusted her.
Maybe he didn't.
Maybe he just had no one else.
And maybe… maybe she didn't either.
Beth leaned back in the chair, her body exhausted but her mind racing.
She looked at Brandon again.
And wondered—not for the first time—what would have happened if she'd met him first.