20. Sophie

20

SOPHIE

T he bathroom door slams behind us, the sound cutting through the chaotic bass of the club. He’s still smiling, that cocky, sure-of-himself grin, as if he knows exactly what’s about to happen. As if he already owns me. His hand brushes the edge of my dress, and I bite back the revulsion crawling up my throat.

“Thought we could have some fun, babe,” he says, his voice low and mocking. “You look like you could use it.”

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I’m not here for fun.

I let him think he’s in control, that he’s making the choices. He leans in closer, the smell of alcohol and sweat rolling off him like a cloud, his breath hot against my neck. My hand slides into my purse.

The screwdriver’s cool handle rests against my palm, cold as ice.

He moves, reaching for my panties, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress, pulling me closer. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already dead. Every part of me screams for him to back off, but I stay still. I wait for the right moment.

And then it comes .

Before he can press me into the wall, I whip the screwdriver out of my purse, my movements fast and precise. I drive the tip into the side of his neck, the metal biting through skin, muscle, and the soft tissue beneath. The force of the impact splits the carotid artery, and with a sickening lurch, the metal sinks deeper, scraping against the bone. Blood erupts in a hot, violent pulse, splattering across my hands, arms, and his face. His eyes widen in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like he’s still trying to process what’s happening.

He staggers back, gasping for air, his hand flying to his neck as if he can stop the blood, as if he can undo what I’ve just done.

But he can’t.

I twist the screwdriver, ripping through arteries and muscle, feeling the pressure give way as his body jerks violently. His mouth opens in a silent scream, but it’s useless. His airways are clogged, the blood rushing too fast. He drops to his knees, coughing, but nothing comes out except the thick, wet gurgle of his own blood.

He’s still trying to process what’s happened. He’s not smart enough to know that it’s already over.

I move, swift and merciless. His hand weakly reaches for me, but I’m done with him. Done with his arrogance, his false confidence, his predatory nature, his power plays. I crouch down, bringing the screwdriver up to his face. He stares at me, eyes wide and disbelieving, and I don’t hesitate.

I shove the tip into his right eye. Don’t worry. It’s just the tip.

The sickening crunch of the lens bursting under the pressure is almost too much to bear, but I don’t flinch. The pop of the eyeball breaking apart, the warmth of his blood dripping onto my fingers, it’s all there—too real, too visceral, as I twist the bit deeper, driving it further into his eye socket.

He chokes out a strangled cry, but it’s not words anymore. It’s just sound—animalistic, broken. His other hand comes up, trying to stop me, but I’m already moving again.

I jab the screwdriver into his other eye.

The same sickening snap, the same violent eruption of blood and tissue as I destroy him, piece by piece. His body starts to go limp now, his movements slowing. But he doesn’t die fast enough. He gurgles, drowning on his own blood, his limbs twitching, his mouth moving, trying to scream.

I drive the screwdriver down again, hard, into his throat, and that’s it. The light in his eyes dims, the blood bubbling from his lips fading into a gurgling mess. His body jerks several times, before it goes still.

I stand over him, chest rising and falling, covered in his blood, my breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. My hands are slick with it, but I don’t care. I don’t even flinch. I look at him, lying there, a mess of blood and flesh, his face ruined beyond recognition.

I wipe the screwdriver off on his clothes, careful to keep it clean. The job’s done.

But I know it doesn’t end here. This is just the beginning.

I step out of the stall, quickly wash up in the sink, scrubbing his blood off my skin like a maniac. When I’m satisfied, I slip into another stall, pull a spare dress from my bag, yank the bloodied one off, and stuff it into the Ziplock, sealing it up for later disposal.

Once I’m dressed, I exit the stall and check my reflection in the mirror. The room feels smaller now, the club’s music distant, the weight of what I just did hanging in the air. I wipe my hands on the backup dress as I move through the men’s room, past the door, into the chaos of the club. I find a side door and step out into the night. I just need a moment to breathe, and then I’ll go back for Lily. The world outside seems so much louder, so much more alive than it did before.

But in my head, it’s still.

Dead silent.