Distant screams stitched the air like a broken lullaby. The sky hung low, draped in bruised clouds, weeping rain with theatrical misery. Sirens howled somewhere far off, humanity's idea of a lullaby, I suppose.
Soliloquy
I find the idea of being pursued by a gaggle of limp, soft-handed degenerates utterly revolting. To think I'd have to sit in a fluorescent-lit police station, recounting how these pitiable washouts attempted to violate me, it's almost comical.
****
Officer Jason stepped into the interrogation room, a file clutched in his hand like a fragile shield. There she sat, draped in a long, flowing white gown that whispered like silk over the cold floor, the sort of dress that belonged in old horror films, a ghostly elegance that made the air feel thinner. Her hair fell straight and dark against her back, a sharp contrast to the pallor of her skin, which seemed almost luminous, as if untouched by the sun. Her eyes were a piercing blue, glinting like shards of ice in the single overhead light, and they held the calm certainty of someone who had seen the world unravel and found amusement in it. Her hands rested lightly on her lap, delicate, almost fragile in appearance, but there was a tension in them, like coiled steel, ready to strike. Every movement, even the faintest tilt of her head, carried a cold, magnetic authority, a quiet warning that beauty and danger had chosen to live in the same body.
meeting Dravena's gaze. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Unfazed. Her blue eyes gleamed in the harsh slice of light suspended above them, calm and lethal.
"Ms. Vale," he said as he lowered into the chair opposite her, "we meet again."
"You must be fortunate," she replied, voice even, almost bored.
"You have no idea," he murmured, leaning forward, tired. "Can you tell me what happened? We need your side of the story."
"What do you think happened?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes fixed like knives.
"Ms. Vale, if you don't tell us, you could be charged with assault," he said, his tone firm, though a tremor betrayed his unease.
"Is that a threat?" she said, still staring, still unmoved.
"Ms. Vale, you mercilessly injured four teenage boys. I don't see what more we could do," he said, voice sharpening.
"As expected," she murmured, a slow smile curling her lips, "the police are as useful as shadows in a dark room."
"Excuse me?" Officer Jason said, brow furrowed, confusion edging into offense.
"So none of you could coax the truth out of a herd of imbeciles," She rose, gliding from the chair as though gravity itself obeyed her will. The overhead light stretched her shadow across the room, long and cold, a harbinger of what she carried in her calm, deliberate gaze.
"I did you a favor," she said, voice low, smooth as polished marble. "Something you could never. Those boys… they reached for me. Thought themselves predators. Thought themselves clever. But cleverness dies in the presence of inevitability."
Her lips curved, faintly, as though savoring some private amusement. "I spared them the humiliation of their own failure. I ended it swiftly. Mercifully. For someone like you," she said, letting her eyes pierce through him, "justice is a concept you will never grasp."
Then she walked out. The door clicked softly behind her, but the chill of her words lingered, heavier than any chain, and Jason buried his face in his hands, knowing the world had just shown him exactly what he could not control — and exactly who could.
She stepped into the night, the rain slicing her pale skin like shards of glass. The police station's light receded behind her, small and pathetic, a candle trying to hold back the dark. They would never understand, never see the art in necessity. Why should she explain? Why should she bend to the incompetence of men who feared shadows more than truth?
Dravena's eyes rose to the sky, dark clouds bruising above. Storms understood her. Rain listened. Lightning, sharp as her thoughts, could cut deeper than any blade she would wield. Tonight, she felt no remorse. Tonight, she felt only the exquisite satisfaction of a world glimpsed through her clarity — and the absurdity of expecting others to see it too.
They would call her violent, merciless, unhinged. She would call it inevitable. They would call her a criminal. She would call it a kindness. In the end, the world had never cared for nuance, only spectacle. And she? She was nothing if not spectacular.