The muted hum of the limousine was the only sound breaking the silence, save for the incessant droning of the man beside me. I crossed my black nylon-clad legs, the faint scent of stale bourbon and cheap cigarettes clinging to the air, making my stomach churn. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues—a vibrant contrast to the dull, predictable rhythm of my life.

My target, a portly man whose jowls quivered with every self-important word, rambled on about his marital woes. He smelled like everything I despised: weakness, indulgence, and a lack of self-awareness. I rolled my steel-gray eyes, running red-painted fingernails through my platinum blonde hair, and pulled out my phone. Skrillex. Perfect.

As the pulsing bass vibrated through me, drowning out his voice, I felt his fat fingers brush against my cheek. A primal grin touched my lips, revealing the subtle extension of my canines. This was it. In one swift, brutal motion, my taloned fingers found his jowls, twisting. The driver, caught off guard, met the sharp edge of my hand, his blood a warm spray against the windshield.

I plunged my fangs into the fleshy neck of my target, drinking deep as his heart sputtered to a halt. When I was full, I climbed over his grotesque corpse, licking my fingers clean. The back door opened with a soft click, and I stepped out, shedding my blood-soaked outerwear onto the pavement. Adjusting the skimpy mini-dress that remained, I pulled out my earbuds and dialed.