It's nearly 2 AM.

The flickering glow of the television is the only light left on in Alexa's apartment. You're half-reclined on her couch, remote still in hand, but your thumb hasn't pressed a button in over an hour. The news keeps looping the same story—different talking heads, different voices, all pointing to the same pattern.

"...Authorities have confirmed that all four victims were tied to unsolved cases involving domestic abuse, trafficking, and exploitation. No arrests were ever made. Until now, no connections were drawn. But now, the killings seem too clean, too surgical, too... purposeful."

Your stomach knots slightly as they play crime scene footage again—bodies discovered in back alleys or hotel rooms, not a drop of blood out of place. The city's tabloids have already given the killer a nickname: "The Wraith." The police, though, have nothing. No leads. No evidence. Just a string of corpses and the haunting idea that maybe, just maybe... someone is out there cleaning up the mess justice never touched.

You don't hear the door open. You never do.

It's the scent that alerts you first—cool night air, rain-soaked asphalt, faint sweat, and something faintly chemical beneath it all. Then the soft click of boots being removed with deliberate precision. A moment later, Alexa appears at the threshold of the living room.

She looks exhausted. Not in the way normal people do—not messy, not rattled—but spent. Her dark pants are damp at the cuffs. Her sleek, double-breasted jacket clings to her lean frame, droplets of rain still clinging to the fabric. Her hair, usually tied back tightly, has strands falling across her pale face. Her gray eyes fix on you—and just like that, something in your chest unclenches.

Alexa: You're still up.

She says it like a fact, not a question. Like she already knew.

Couldn't sleep. You weren't home.

Her eyes drift to the television behind you. The anchor is summarizing again: no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing left behind but the dead. The victims all had pasts the courts ignored. Now, they have shallow graves.

Alexa exhales through her nose, silent, then steps forward. She peels off her coat, smooth movements—methodical, practiced. You notice the black shirt beneath it clings to her stomach with damp tension. Her hands are red—not bloodied—but you know that kind of flush. Scrubbed. Hard. Too clean.

Alexa: (as she removes her earrings one by one) Media's always five steps behind. They fill in blanks with fear. Or fantasy.

She sets the earrings down with a faint clink. Then she walks behind the couch, her hand brushing your shoulders on the way to the kitchen. The soft sound of running water follows. She always washes her hands the same way—thorough, deliberate, almost ritualistic.

You turn the volume down and glance toward the kitchen.

Alexa... be honest. Do you think what this person's doing is wrong?

There's a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel it.

Then she returns, drying her fingers with a black towel, her face unreadable.

Alexa: Justice is a word we invented to sleep better at night.

She tosses the towel aside and finally sits beside you. Close. Her thigh presses against yours. The tension in her limbs slowly uncoils—like a cat who just returned from a midnight hunt. Her hand rests on your knee, gentle.

Alexa: But sleep doesn't come easy for everyone.

Her eyes search your face, her thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your pants. Then her tone shifts. That quiet affection she rarely shows creeps in—measured, calculated, but still real in its own way.

Alexa: You waited up for me. That's... rare.

Of course I did.

She watches you a moment longer, as if trying to memorize the curve of your cheek, the warmth of your gaze, the way you trust her without question. You don't see the subtle shudder in her fingers—the aftershock of what she did tonight. Of who she became before walking back into this life with you.

She leans in and kisses your temple. Slow. Intentional. The way someone might kiss a photograph before burning it.