Page 40 of Mine To Hunt

The blonde squeezes back. She drives off, leaving her all alone there, her slender figure standing small and isolated, that copper-red hair a stark contrast to the gray surroundings.

The adrenaline crests again, a high that's almost euphoric because this is opportunity. Her alone, vulnerable, the hunt sharpening into focus.

My pulse thunders in my ears. This is the moment. The rush is almost overwhelming. I could step forward now. I could end the distance. But I don’t. Not yet. The anticipation is too good. The waiting is part of it. I let her go, let her disappear around the corner, and the high lingers, burning under my skin.

I’ve never felt this without killing. Never.

Back at my flat, I close the door and lean against it for a second, letting the quiet settle. The space is clean. Minimal furniture, neutral walls, no clutter. Everything has a place. Order matters.

Mercy is waiting.

I cross to the terrarium in the corner, slide the glass door open. The sleek black-and-green form uncoils slowly, tongue flicking as she senses me.

Boomslang. One of the most venomous snakes in the world. Her bite delivers hemotoxic venom. It starts with bleeding under the skin, then into the muscles, then the organs. It destroys clotting factors. Blood pours from every wound, internal and external.

Victims bleed out from the inside while still conscious. It takes hours. Sometimes days. Slow. Deliberate. Beautiful in its precision.

I reach in. She slides onto my arm without hesitation, cool scales against my skin. I lift her carefully, letting her coil around my forearm like a living bracelet.

“Hello.” I murmur. “Miss me?” Her tongue darts out, tasting the air. I stroke the back of her head with one finger.

“I saw someone today.” I tell her, voice low. “She’s different. Not weak like the others. Makes me want to see how much pressure it takes to crack the seams. I’ve never wanted that without the knife already in my hand. It’s… new.”

Mercy shifts, tongue flicking again.

“She looked for me.” I continue. “Not on purpose. But she felt it. The eyes. She scanned the crowd like prey does when it knows the predator is close. That feeling… I haven’t felt that before. Not without blood already on the floor.”

I carry her to the kitchen, set her on the counter while I wash my hands. She stays still, watching.

“I followed her.” I say. “To the edge of the poor district. She didn’t flinch at the decay. Walked through it like it was nothing. That control… I want to take it apart. Piece by piece. See what’s underneath.”

Mercy coils loosely around the tap handle. I dry my hands, then pick her up again.

“I think she’s next.” I tell her. “I think she has to be. The way she moves, the way she looks… it’s like she was made for this. For me.”

I place Mercy back in the terrarium, watch her settle among the branches. “Patience.” I whisper. “We’ll wait. The wait is part of it.”

I move through the evening routine automatically. Chop vegetables. Boil rice. Sear chicken. Simple. Efficient. My mind stays on her. Copper hair catching light, light eyes scanning, slender arms carrying a small bag of produce. Every detail feeds the hunger.

I plate the food, sit on the couch, turn on the television. The news is already running.

‘…authorities are still searching for leads in the brutal murder of Ethan Scott, the 32-year-old grocery shop cashier found dead in his flat last night. Police describe the scene as one of extreme violence. Multiple cuts, signs of prolonged restraint, evidence of torture before death…’

The camera cuts to blurred crime scene photos. Restraints. Blood. The cuts on his arms and torso.

I feel irritation flare, sharp and immediate.

They focus on the violence. The gore. The suffering. They never mention the precision. The artistry. The control.

My signature, the light, blunt cut on his left bicep, just enough to mark without bleeding, isn’t even given much attention. They zoom in on the mess, the obvious wounds, but miss the one that matters. The one that says mine.

Frustration mixes with pride. They don’t understand. They never do. That’s why I keep going. Because they’re blind. Because they see only the blood, not the design.

The reporter continues.Neighbours say Scott was quiet, kept to himself. No known enemies. Police are treating this as a targeted attack, but the motive remains unclear.’

I lean back, fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Targeted. Yes. Very targeted.