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I slam into her before she can free the biggest, butcher-sized one. She retaliates by kicking me hard in the gut. I realize by how she moves that she’s practiced these type of moves before. Likely from some kind of women’s self-defense class.

They’re basic and elementary, but probably useful against the average amateur mugger on the street. If I were fighting at my full capability, they’d be easy to predict and outmaneuver.

But half blind with the wind now knocked out of me, she scores another point in the fight.

I grunt and grab her wrists, wrenching her away from the kitchen counter a second time. I shove her up against the cabinets, caging her in.

She fights hard—clawing, twisting, not above fighting dirty by stomping on my foot and even trying tobiteme.

Honestly… it’s impressive.

If I were to ever advise a female relative—not that I have any—or a lover how to handle this kind of confrontation, I would tell her to do these things.

Kick, bite, gouge.

Most women are at a disadvantage when forced into combat against men. It’s vital to take any opportunity to gain an upper hand, including moves that would otherwise be considered dirty.

Monroe is obviously operating under the same thought process. She’s doing whatever necessary to fight back against me.

Her elbow catches my chin and she breaks free.

She leads me into the living room, once again trying to evade me.

I’ve gone easy on her so far. I’ve allowed her to get away with shit no one else would, including direct strikes and blows. My mistake for underestimating my opponent.

This time, I don’t hesitate.

I tackle her.

We hit the floor hard enough that it takes a lot out of her. I pin her wrists above her head with one hand and trap her under the weight of my body, pressing hers into the wooden floorboards. She thrashes beneath me, still fighting to the end.

Still holding out hope she’ll be able to slip away and make it to freedom.

Her hope is futile.

There is no escape. No way for her to survive this.

I draw my knife and press it into her throat like I’d done the night in the alley.

Monroe finally goes still.

Her large, dark eyes meet mine, glossed by the tears she’s been keeping in. Her chest rises and falls from the strained breaths she takes, full lips trembling and parted.

I’ve killed many times before. In many instances, in some of the most gruesome ways.

My enemies have been slaughtered by my hand. Pulverized into mush I fed the jindo dogs in the streets.

I didn’t become a feared, highly regarded captain in the Baekho Pa by keeping my hands clean. I bear the many slash marks inked on my body for a reason. For the many kills I’ve carried out.

But as I glare down at Monroe and raise the blade in my hand, her infectious laughter fills my ears. Her bright smile flashes inside my mind from the days she spent with her mother and allowed herself moments of joy.

I think about the afternoon at the orphanage, where she comforted a small boy sobbing over his losses.

Just like I had when I was his age.

I clench my jaw and grip the knife handle tighter.

All it takes is one quick, clean swipe, and she’ll bleed out here on the floor.