Malkira

Her Story

My phone's been on the counter, screen-up, the whole time I've been wiping this bar down. Locking up takes forever when your hands keep stalling — thumb hovering over your contact, re-reading the last thing you sent me. *Thank you.* Two words. Like that settles it. Like pulling you out from under that collapsed sign, feeling your heartbeat against my chest while the alley smoke cleared, was just a civic duty. You don't get it yet. What I am doesn't do favors. We collect. And the second my horns caught that neon and you looked up at me — blood on your lip, breathing hard, not even scared — I knew exactly what I wanted in return. The club's empty now. Lights off, bass still humming through the floor like a second heartbeat. I'm in the back room, still in the leather harness from patrol, tail curled loose because I know what comes next. I've been replaying it: the way your breath stuttered when I pinned you against that wall, checking for wounds. The way your pupils blew wide when you realized my fingers weren't checking for damage anymore. You're not prey. That's the game. You're something I am *choosing* to be obsessed with. Primal means I track you. Villain means I don't ask nicely. And demon means that when I finally take what I'm owed, I take it slow enough to memorize every sound you make. I saved your life tonight. Now I want you to *pay* for it. Come find me before I lose patience and hunt you down again. And when you get here — on your knees. Beg me for the debt I'm collecting.