Seraphine sat rigid in the front seat of the taxi, hands folded over her purse, mask perfect, but her veins burned.

  Apology.

  Redemption.

  “I’ve changed.”

  The audacity.

  Marco’s words gnawed under her skin like fire ants. There was no forgiveness. No erasing. No clean slate. Not after a lifetime stolen.

  Her jaw clenched. Her eyes flickered with rage she didn’t let bleed out.

  The city neon blurred past the windows— wet pavement reflecting headlights, a calm night pretending the world wasn’t rotten.

  She barely heard the driver speak.

  “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone this late.” A casual comment at first. One she could have ignored.

  “Dangerous out tonight,” he added, voice deep, too interested.

  Seraphine’s gaze drifted his way— blank, unreadable.

  He kept talking.

  “You got a boyfriend waiting?” A laugh. “No? Shame.” His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror—too long, too hungry.

  Seraphine’s fingers twitched. Something cold slid down her spine.

  Then his hand moved. Casual. Confident. Presumed.

  It landed on her thigh. She didn’t flinch. Just looked down at the fingers—bold, oily, entitled. Like she was a vending machine button he was used to pressing.

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.” He winked. “Some guys don’t know what they got—walking alone in the dark.”

  Seraphine stared at him for a long, silent moment.

  Then— she smiled. Slow. Small. Seraphine-touching-her-own-mask kind of smile.

  Her hand glided over his—soft, almost gentle. “What do you think?” she whispered.

  That tiny spark of encouragement was all he needed. Predators don’t need doors—just cracks.

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  The driver’s grin widened. He yanked the wheel, turning off the main road with practiced ease.

  The streetlights vanished. Trees swallowed the road. Just gravel, darkness, and rustling leaves.

  “You’ll like it,” he said, voice low. “We can have some fun.”

  Seraphine leaned back, eyes empty as the night outside.

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “It is dangerous out tonight.”

  The taxi veered off the main road and slowed to a stop in a wide, empty grassland.

  Tall weeds swayed in the dark, brushing the doors like whispering things. No lights. No witnesses.

  The engine idled.

  The driver turned toward her, confidence already settled in his posture. He smiled like this was a sure thing.

  Seraphine didn’t pull away.

  She let him believe it.

  His hand moved, bold, familiar.

  Too familiar.

  She leaned in just enough to sell the lie — close enough for his breath to hitch, close enough for him to misread everything.

  Her fingers slid into his hair.

  He sighed, tilting his head, already gone.

  Then her hand clamped.

  Hard.

  She yanked his head forward and slammed his face into the steering wheel.

  The sound cracked through the night.

  She screamed — not words, not language — something animal, ripped straight from her chest. She struck again. And again. And again. Her arm moved without rhythm, without mercy, without thought.

  The car rocked. The horn blared once, then died. The grass swallowed the noise.

  She didn’t stop when he went slack.

  She didn’t stop when he stopped moving.

  Only when her throat burned raw and her body shook did she finally pull back.

  Silence rushed in like water.

  Seraphine stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling. Rage poured out of her in waves, leaving something hollow behind.

  She straightened slowly.

  Looked at herself in the dark glass of the windshield.

  Her face was blank again.

  Composed.

  As if nothing had happened.

  Detective Elias Rivas stared at the taxi slanted in a ditch, driver door hanging open, engine dead silent.

  He didn’t even bother cursing aloud anymore.

  Same lipstick. Same absence of evidence. Same absence of mercy.

  But this time? This one wasn’t clean.

  The victim was slumped over the steering wheel— face crushed against it, nose broken, blood smearing glass and plastic.

  Bruises bloomed across his forehead. Throat mottled purple. One eye swollen shut.

  Not surgical punishment. Not a staged lesson. This was impact. This was rage.

  Like whoever did it stopped caring about patience.

  Elias blew out a breath, pinching his nose.

  “She’s getting sloppy,” he muttered. Or— more chilling— “She’s getting furious.”

  Behind him, an officer called out.

  “We checked town CCTV. The cab ran the evening route and turned off Highway 6. No toll cams after that.”

  Elias flipped through the preliminary file.

  Taxi logs showed: pick-up point at a residential block, route change not on record, no evidence of another passenger after the kill, no wallet stolen, nothing but the signature smear.

  She killed him, wiped prints, and vanished.

  But the off-road detour… that wasn’t accident.

  It was improvisation. Impulse. A breaking point.

  Elias’s jaw tightened.

  Six predators. One torturer. And now— a random opportunist.

  “What pushed you, Red Lips?” he murmured, staring at the smeared mark. “What happened last night?”

  The wind rustled from the trees lining the empty road, like the world whispering a secret he wasn’t close enough to hear yet.

  He only knew one thing for certain: The killer was not slowing down.