Ashes perched quietly on the windowsill, her eyes fixed on Brandon as he stood in the shadows of his dorm room, watching the girl he'd been hunting now hunt him back.
Beth.
She was getting bolder.
Every glance lingered a little longer. Every hallway brush, every dead-eyed smile she gave him. She was onto him now, or at least suspicious. He had crossed some invisible line in her mind, moved from background scenery to possible threat.
He knew the signs.
It was what he did—observe. Stalk. Wait.
She was trying to mirror him.
He almost admired it.
Almost.
Brandon's eyes flicked from the window to the sidewalk below. Beth was there, standing across the street from his building, hood drawn up, fingers twitching slightly against her jacket. There was a feral sort of calm to her posture.
The same kind of calm a wolf wore before it pounced.
She was here to kill him.
And she wasn't even pretending to hide it.
Bold, he thought. Desperate.
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched.
Then came the frat boys.
Loud. Swaggering. A pack of beer-fueled jackals who didn't know they'd wandered into a battlefield. Brandon's jaw tensed. He recognized a couple of them. Typical campus parasites—loud, smug, untouchable thanks to daddies in boardrooms and country clubs.
He saw them corner Beth.
Saw her tense.
Here we go… he thought. This was it. The moment she'd slip. If she struck back—truly struck back—with lethal intent, he'd have his proof.
She'd show her teeth.
One of them reached for her arm.
Brandon held his breath.
But she didn't go for her knife. Didn't lash out.
She just… glared.
Another one grabbed her wrist.
Still no blade.
Then the punch came.
Beth crumpled like a puppet cut from its strings, and something cold crawled up Brandon's spine.
She didn't fight back. Not like that.
He saw her try—scratching, twisting—but not once did she draw her weapon.
Not once did she go for the kill.
Something inside Brandon snapped.
And before he could justify it—before he could remind himself that letting them finish her would make his job easier—he was moving.
Fast.
Silent.
Precise.
By the time the first frat boy realized someone else was there, Brandon was already on him.
His elbow shattered the guy's nose in a single, wet crunch. He didn't wait to watch him fall—he spun into the second one, driving his knee into the side of his head with enough force to make teeth spray the sidewalk like loose gravel.
Another reached for his waistband—maybe a knife, maybe just dumb instinct.
Brandon caught the arm mid-motion, twisted until he felt the elbow snap, and then kicked him square in the throat. The guy went down gargling on his own breath.
The fourth tried to run.
He didn't make it far.
Brandon caught him by the collar, dragged him back, and slammed his head into the nearest metal bike rack—once, twice—until his eyes rolled back and he stopped twitching.
The last one—Blondie—was crawling toward Beth, still dazed from the initial chaos.
Brandon reached him just as he was trying to pull himself up using her limp form.
He grabbed the back of Blondie's head and smashed it into the pavement.
"Don't," he whispered, voice flat and shaking with something he didn't want to name, "touch her."
Again. And again. Until Blondie wasn't moving.
Silence.
His hands were wet.
Ashes would hate that.
Beth lay sprawled on the ground like a broken doll, blood seeping from her temple, lip split, one eye already swelling shut. She looked so small now. So human.
Brandon knelt beside her.
She tried to speak. Her eyes fluttered.
But nothing came out.
He didn't say a word. Just lifted her carefully—cradling her the way someone might carry something fragile—and walked back toward his dorm.
Ashes greeted them with a soft meow as he nudged the door open with his boot.
He laid Beth down on his bed, then rummaged silently through his first aid kit.
Cleaned the cuts.
Disinfected them after.
Wrapped her ribs.
By the time he was done, his hands were trembling—not from exhaustion, but from rage.
Not at the frat boys.
Not at Beth.
At himself.
He wasn't supposed to save her.
She was supposed to be a target. A name on his list. A killer like him—but without his reasons. Without his rules.
Beth killed for pleasure.
He killed for balance.
This wasn't balance.
This was… something else.
Something stupid.
Something painfully human.
Ashes jumped onto the edge of the bed, tail flicking.
Brandon looked at her and shook his head.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, pulling off his bloodied hoodie. "I know what I'm doing."
Ashes blinked slowly.
"No, I do." He turned to her like she'd spoken. "She was outnumbered. Cornered. You saw them. It wasn't right."
Ashes tilted her head.
Brandon scowled and tossed his hoodie toward the hamper, missing on purpose.
"She didn't fight back. Not the way I thought she would. She didn't even go for her knife." He paused, staring down at Beth's sleeping form.
"Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe…"
He cut himself off.
No.
He wasn't wrong.
He couldn't be wrong.
But for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel sure.
Ashes padded across the blanket and curled up beside Beth's arm.
Brandon watched for a moment longer, then exhaled sharply and crossed the room.
Then sat back down at the window, watching the darkened campus beyond.
Tomorrow, he promised himself.