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??Death's Favorite Girl

Ember

I’d always been good at two things… Surviving and sniffing out death.

The first was forced on me. The second? That came after.

I was ten when I watched my mother die.

He came in through the back door. Calm. Confident. Like he belonged. She screamed. I remembered that much.

The sound of her skull cracking against the marble counter still played in my head

when I brushed my teeth. The gruesome tearing of her flesh as she was ripped open.

I remembered the blood. It was so red. Too red. Like it was alive. He turned on me next. I ran. Fought. Bit down on his thumb until I tasted the salt of his sweat.

He slit my cheek open for that.

I still had the scar. Sometimes I traced it when I was thinking, like now.

They said there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him. That he vanished after he won his case. That “sometimes people fall through the cracks.”

No.

He knew how to disappear.

And now… so did I.

"Welcome back, freaks and ghouls. You’re tuned in to Dead Wrong , the podcast where death isn’t the end, it’s just the start of the story."

Cue intro music, low, industrial, eerie.

"Tonight, we’re digging into the murders no one wants to talk about. The ones that don’t fit . The ones that leave cops scratching their heads and families pretending justice was served."

I glanced at my board, photos of crime scenes, victim names, trial transcripts pinned like evidence.

"I call them The Scales. Several victims. All either acquitted or had their case dismissed in court. All mutilated beyond recognition shortly after walking free. And not just killed, displayed . Symbolic. Intentional."

I adjusted the mic, leaning in.

"Someone’s out there balancing the books… in blood." I pressed a button. Phone line opened. "First caller, you’re live on Dead Wrong . Talk to me."

Caller #1 (Male, shaky voice)

“Uh… yeah. Okay. I used to work for Malcolm Deen. You know, the Newark butcher guy? Dude was slime. Real sick fuck. But here’s the thing, I saw him after the trial, like, right before he vanished.

Said something weird. Said he felt like someone was following him.

A tall man in black. Never saw his face.

But he said the guy smelled like… burnt metal? ”

I began to write fast, scribbling what he had to say. "Burnt metal… interesting. You didn’t think to call the cops?"

“Would you call the cops after they let Deen go free?”

Fair point.

Caller #2 (Woman, sharp)

“I think it’s a cult. Look at the body poses. The way they’re found. This is some vigilante religious shit, like death worship. Maybe even Satanic.”

She had a point, but so do I. "Possibly. But whoever’s doing this isn’t sloppy. They’re surgical. Precise. Either ex-military, or… something else."

“Or something not human.”

A chill licked down my spine. I smirked, because, "You sound like my kind of crazy."

Caller #3 (Deep voice, distorted)

“What if you’re next, Miss Carr?”

The line cut.

I ripped off my headphones, pulse hammering.

I checked the phone logs. No number . My eyes darted to the window. Nothing but black rain and shadows.

I breathed.

I steadied myself, fingers trembling as I reached for the headphones. With a slow breath, I slipped them back over my ears, sealing myself inside the storm.

My voice was low when I said, "There’s something here. A pattern. A plan. And someone who thinks they’re above the law."

I pinned a new note to the center of the board: ‘The Executioner?’

I drew a red circle around the names. Left space for more. Because I knew this wouldn’t stop. Not until someone made them.

Leaning into the mic, I whispered the final words of tonight’s episode. "Justice is blind… but someone out there is wide awake. And I intend to find them before they find me."

Click.