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She’s My Perfect Match

Hypothetical Question: If you had to swap bodies with someone for a week, who would suffer the most—you or them?

Nate

Queen Carina: What would I use for research if I needed to distort my voice?

Daddy Death: Oh, I see, Your Majesty. Research. I like it.

Queen Carina: Of course. You're the expert here.

Declan's muffled sobs snap me out of the haze Carina's messages always pull me into.

She's... distracting.

Even now, I'm balancing the rush of our conversation with the task at hand—a man tied to a chair in my murder room shouldn't be this easy to ignore, but Carina has a way of making everything else seem trivial.

How she asks for advice—casual, yet deliberate—reminds me of myself when I first started. But there's something different about her. A methodical edge. A precision that mirrors my own. Every question she asks peels back another layer of who she is, another reason why we fit.

When she's not picking my brain for 'research,' she's sending me gifs.

Earlier, I sent one of a cat trying to play the piano—each paw slamming the keys like it had no idea what it was doing. She'd responded with a gif of a penguin waddling straight into a pole, looking so stunned it could've been me after my third vodka shot.

It's her duality that gets me. One second, she's clinical and detached, asking about voice modulators like she's planning a hit. Next, she sends me gifs of baby sloths in pyjamas and asks if we should get matching onesies.

She's my perfect match. Deadly, sure. But real, too.

"Would you shut up ?" I snap at Declan, whose cries have risen to a pathetic crescendo.

Was it Declan? Carina’s messages have stolen so much of my focus I’m no longer sure. Something beginning with D anyway.

"I'm trying to message my girl."

My girl.

When the hell did I start thinking of her like that?

I've met her twice. Twice. Sure, the FaceTime call has been seared into my memory for two excruciating weeks, but since then, nothing but texts and my restless imagination have kept me tethered to her.

Kai's been digging and trying to find anything on her, but she's a ghost. It’s as if she didn't exist before.

A few days ago, I cracked. I followed her.

Not online. Physically.

Stalking without intent to kill felt... unnatural. Foreign. But there I was parked outside her building, watching through the window like some lovesick idiot.

She moved like she was bracing for a fight, even in her own space. Not fragile— sharp. A blade honed to perfection, dangerous in the way only something truly beautiful can be.

When she went upstairs to change, I should've left. But I stayed.

Not to watch. ... to be near her.

When the curtains stayed open, I turned away. I'm a monster, but I won't take that from her.

If she ever gave me her consent, though? That would be a different story entirely.

I grin wickedly at the thought.

As Carina's messages pull me back in, Declan's (Dylan’s?) cries fade to white noise.

Daddy Death: [link to favourite voice modulator]

Daddy Death: If anonymity's your goal, this is a good start. And these, too.

Daddy Death: [link to pink balaclava] [link to full-body pink coverall]

I can almost see her amusement as she reads my messages. That sharp, wicked gleam in her eyes. The smirk always makes my pulse spike. It's a look that's burned into my brain, one that sends a rush of heat through me every time I imagine it.

Queen Carina: You're really into this, aren't you?

Daddy Death: I'm not the one asking for advice, Princess. I'm just giving you the tools—for your research, of course.

I should focus on Daryl (I’m really struggling here). Finish this. But Carina is like gravity—impossible to resist.

Daddy Death: Want to join me for some hands-on research?

Queen Carina: Now?

Daddy Death: No time like the present.

Queen Carina: Text me the address.

An hour later, there’s a knock at the cabin door.

I open it to find Carina standing there, dressed in all black—save for some bright pink trainers. Her sharp gaze scans the space before she steps inside.

"What is this place?" she asks, almost like she’s afraid of the answer.

The cabin is small, tucked away near Epping Forest—untraceable, unregistered. Necessary space for my… work .

"This is where the magic happens, Princess." I waggle my eyebrows at her.

She rolls her eyes, but the laugh that escapes her is real —light and unrestrained, a sound so out of place here that it almost makes the room feel less cold.

The tiled walls and floor are stark and clinical—designed for easy cleanup. A steel table lines one side, neatly arranged with my instruments. And in the centre, slumped in his chair, is… Daniel?

His eyes darted between us, the terror already taking root.

I haven't touched him yet. Not since I asked Carina to come.

I wanted him to sit with its weight. To feel the inevitability settling into his bones.

Carina's gaze flicks to him, assessing. "What did he do?"

I lean against the table, arms crossed. "Raped at least twenty women in the past year."

A flicker of something raw crosses her face. The kind of emotion people either bury or let consume them whole .

She draws in a slow breath. When she speaks again, her voice is steady and unshaken.

"So… how do we make him pay?"

A slow, dark grin spreads across my face.

This is what I do .

"We make it hurt."

I show her. The best places to cut. How to keep them alive but bleeding . How we can make it hurt without making them scream—at least, not loud enough to be a problem.

Declan (turns out I was right the first time) is a canvas, and my blade moves with practised precision. Carina watches, rapt, as I carve pain into flesh.

"This room," I say, motioning to the soundproof walls, "is built for moments like these. No one can hear him scream."

I meet her gaze, letting my words settle.

"But out there?" My voice drops lower. "Screams attract complications ."

Her head tilts, a sly smile creeping onto her blood-smeared face. "Why do I feel like that's a personal jab?"

I rub the back of my neck, smirking. "Maybe because Kai's still pissed about covering up your last little experiment."

A flicker of surprise crosses her face—brief but there. "Oh. I didn't think—damn it. I knew he was being too loud."

I shrug, dragging my blade across a cloth, wiping away the remnants of Declan's existence. "All good, Princess. We all start somewhere."

Something in her relaxes at that. Just a little. Then, softer, almost hesitant, she asks, "Why did you start?"

The question lingers, cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

I keep my hands moving, methodical—cleaning, prepping for the next step—but my mind churns. Finally, I glance at her, my voice quieter, raw.

"It wasn't a choice at first. It just… happened. And once I got a taste for it, there was no going back. Justice is necessary, but destruction?" I meet her gaze, letting her see the truth. Letting her see me. "That's what makes it sweet."

Her lips part like she wants to ask more, to pry deeper, but instead, she picks up a blade. And just like that, we fall into a rhythm—cutting, slicing, bleeding the last remnants of life from Declan's useless body.

A grim sort of harmony.

Blood streaks Carina's face, dark and glistening against her skin. It mats her hair, stains her clothes, and drips from her fingers. The room is silent except for the faint, rhythmic splatter of blood hitting the floor.

She stands over Declan's lifeless body, her breath ragged, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

She's magnificent.

Her eyes find mine, wild and unrestrained, and the pull between us snaps tight—something dark and electric and inevitable.

"Do you enjoy watching me work, Nate?" she asks, voice low, teasing.

The corner of my mouth tugs upward. "I think I'm falling in love."

Her breath hitches. For a fleeting second, I see it—the cracks in her armour, the vulnerability hidden beneath the chaos.

She steps closer, the scent of blood thick in the air between us, her lips barely an inch from mine.

"You're playing a dangerous game," she murmurs, a tremor to the words.

I lift a hand, my thumb grazing her bottom lip, tugging it gently. Testing the boundary between restraint and ruin.

"Good thing I'm not afraid of danger."

The world fades—the blood, the body, the chaos. It's just us, standing on the edge of something that could destroy us both.

And neither of us has any intention of turning back.