Page 302 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A thud.

He’s jumped the railing.

I burst through the door, cool air slapping me across the face.

A hand nearly grabs my shoulder but I slam the door behind me and smile at the deep cry of pain.

Ha. Take that.

The door dumps me into the hospital’s under-construction wing—a maze of skeletal walls and unfinished corridors.

Plastic sheets sway from the ceiling like specters.

My foot catches on a loose cable—I stumble. One flat slips off. I kick the other away, choosing speed over protection.

I duck behind a stack of crates, pressing to the cold surface, steadying my breathing.

Every sound is louder now—the rustle of plastic, the creak of beams—then I hear him.

A low chuckle slithers through the air, chilling my spine.

“You’re fast, baby. But I still have two minutes to catch you and fuck you the way I want.”

A pause.

“Two minutes is such a long time, don’t you think?”

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

Two more minutes. I just need to reach another floor and hide.

I can do it.

Spotting a partially open door, I make a plan: reach it, barricade it, buy time.

I inch forward, my muscles taut, nerves on fire.

Peeking around the corner, I see nothing and exhale.

Turning back toward the doorway, I scream.

He’s there.

A black balaclava.

The white Punisher skull.

His fist tangles in my hair and slams me into a beam. Breath leaves me in a rush, but instinct kicks in. I jab his throat, knocking him back.

I bolt again, barefoot, heart pounding.

But he’s faster.

He catches me like I weigh nothing, slamming me to the ground so hard stars burst behind my eyes.

Pain flares up my spine, but rage burns hotter.

I fight like a woman possessed—writhing, clawing, landing an elbow to his jaw. Blood soaks the white threads of the skill design.