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Vigilante Shit

Hypothetical Question: If you had to replace your blood with a different liquid, what would you choose?

Nate

I can't stop thinking about her.

The way she moved. The justice she delivered. The way blood looked on her.

Her perfect body.

Ugh. Get a grip, Nate.

She hasn't texted me. Not surprising. A little disappointing but not shocking.

That's why I texted myself from her phone. A little insurance policy. You spend an hour with someone creating beautiful art together and tell me you wouldn't be halfway to picking out a ring. Don't judge me.

Yes, my art is… unconventional. But just because it involves a little more blood than paint doesn't make it any less valuable.

And she liked it. I could tell.

She's new to this—not well-practised, not precise enough yet. But she's got the motivation, the drive, the passion. And she does it all while looking pretty in pink.

Now, the real challenge: what to text her.

Playful? Sexy? Serious? Something that shows I'm interested but not desperate.

Attempt #1:

"So, do you always kill people on the first date, or am I just special?" No. Too flirty.

Attempt #2:

"I can't stop thinking about the way you looked at me. Like you were deciding if I was next. Kind of hot, honestly." Okay, too much. Reel it in, Nate.

Attempt #3:

"Marry me. I'll even let you have the first stab next time." That's… romantic, right? No? Ugh.

Alright. Let's keep it simple.

Daddy Death: I checked my schedule, and it looks like I'm free to kill people with you this weekend. Shall we?

Three dots appear immediately.

My heart spasms.

Pink Princess: Did you name yourself Daddy Death?

Ah, so she's seen the nickname I gave myself on her phone. It’s genius, if I do say so myself.

Daddy Death: Fitting right?

Pink Princess: You're insane.

Daddy Death: Bold thing to say to someone holding your child hostage.

Pink Princess: My child???

Daddy Death: [attached image of pink knife]

Pink Princess: I want that back.

Daddy Death: You'll have to fight me for it.

Carina

I should not feel thrilled that Nate texted me.

It should not make my stomach flip like a gymnast.

But he's… funny. Too funny.

And a psychopath.

There's no other explanation for someone who enjoyed killing the way he did. Not just tolerated it— relished it.

Yet… I can't shake the feeling that he was there for the same reasons as me.

Not for fun. For justice.

Daddy Death: Hypothetical Question: If you had to pick a theme song for your murders, what would it be?

This is exactly what I mean. Funny. But a psychopath. It's such a disarming combination.

Before answering I send a quick text to Doctor Morgan, she’s no longer my therapist but she told me to reach our if I ever need her. This feels like one of those times.

Carina: I met a guy.

I’m only waiting a couple minutes before a reply comes through.

Doc M: That sounds incredibly promising. How does that make you feel?

Carina: Excited? Nervous?

Doc M: Both of those are completely valid feelings for what you have been through, sweetheart. What is he like?

Now that’s a loaded question.

Carina: Funny

Doc M: Funny is good. Do you think he could be someone you could open up to?

I don’t even have to think about my reply and that might be the scariest thing of all.

Carina: Yes. I think he might be nice.

Doc M: Don’t let your past fears stop you moving forward.

Ah, there’s the therapist in her.

Switching back to the chat with Nate I debate his question. Do people have theme songs for their murders?

Pink Princess: I guess if I had to pick, I’d go for Vigilante Shit by Taylor Swift.

I can imagine that song playing while I stand covered in some monster’s blood. The thought has my lips tugging upwards. Maybe he has a point.

Daddy Death: Fitting. Now ask me.

I roll my eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at my lips. Why does this feel like flirting?

Pink Princess: What theme song would you pick for your murders?

Daddy Death: Murder on the Dancefloor.

Pink Princess: Of course. Is that your favourite song?

Daddy Death: No. I'm a Swiftie ;)

Pink Princess: That is… unexpected.

Maybe this isn't real. Maybe my mind has finally snapped. Maybe I never escaped the men who destroyed me. Maybe I'm stuck in a dream where men are both killers and kind.

My father's betrayal when I was thirteen wasn't the first. It's not like he was a perfect dad who suddenly woke up one day and thought, “ You know what? I'm going to sell my only child.”

No. He was harsh, cruel, and impossible to please. When I failed his expectations, I paid for it.

That, along with… everything else, makes it hard for me to believe a man would be nice to me without reason.

But I've spent the last eight years working on myself, unlearning my fear, convincing myself that not everyone is out to hurt me.

My therapist would be so proud. About opening up to trust? Sure. About the fact that the guy I'm trusting is a literal serial killer? She'd probably tell me to run.

But it's not like I listen to everything she says.

Carina: I hope you’re proud of me.

Doc M: Always, but do you want to tell me what for?

Carina: I’m following your advice. Trusting someone.

Doc M: I’m incredibly proud of you. Keep me updated.

Nate and I text every day.

At first, it’s just strange, hypothetical questions that serve no real purpose but somehow give me little pieces of his mind.

I've learned that Nate has a disturbing fondness for chaos. He likes pushing people to their breaking point to see how far they'll bend. He orchestrates tiny situations to watch them spiral. His humour? Dark—laugh-or-you'll-scream dark. But it's also sharp, calculated, and annoyingly clever.

I've also learned that while he's twisted, there's something… real underneath it all.

Something raw.

Sometimes, he says things that make me wonder if he's as far gone as he wants me to believe. Other times, he's better at hiding the truth than I'll ever be.

And yet, I keep texting him.

I should stop, but his mind is a puzzle I can't resist. And maybe… I don't even care if I'm the one tangled in it.

Tonight, though, I have real questions.

Pink Princess: I have a question.

Daddy Death: I might have an answer.

Pink Princess: Completely hypothetically speaking, of course.

Daddy Death: Go on…

Pink Princess: If I wanted to make someone die incredibly slowly… What would be the best way to do that?

A pause.

Daddy Death: Hypothetically, huh? Should I be concerned?

Pink Princess: Answer the question.

Daddy Death: Alright, princess. Do you want pain or poetry?

Pink Princess: Why not both?

Daddy Death: Someone's in a mood.

Daddy Death: Slow and painful? Start with the nerves. Fingers, toes. Small cuts, deep enough to sting but not bleed out.

Pink Princess: …Detailed.

Daddy Death: You asked for the best way.

Daddy Death: Poetry? Strip them with comfort. Slow suffocation works wonders.

Pink Princess: Comfort?

Daddy Death: Rope, tape, and a chair they can't escape. Watching time tick by does things to a man.

Pink Princess: You've put too much thought into this.

Daddy Death: And you haven't? Hypothetically, of course.

Pink Princess: Obviously.

Daddy Death: Let me guess—this is purely for research?

Pink Princess: …Sure.

Daddy Death: Right. Let me know if you need a knife, princess. Or a cleanup.

Pink Princess: Don't tempt me.

Daddy Death: Oh, I wouldn't dream of it.