Pain. That's the first thing Beth feels.
A deep, gnawing throb in her ribs, a hot sting across her jaw, a pressure in her head that makes everything feel like it's underwater. Her eyelids twitch before they flutter open. The ceiling above her is unfamiliar, painted a dull beige, cracked slightly near one corner like a lazy vein crawling toward the edge of a light fixture.
She tries to sit up and immediately regrets it. Her entire body protests with angry, pulsing bruises. She lets out a dry groan and turns her head slightly, only to see a cat—gray with small flecks of rusty orange, bright, too-intelligent eyes—curled up beside her. It lets out a soft purr when it notices her looking.
"What the hell…" she whispers hoarsely.
"You're awake."
The voice snaps her attention to the other side of the room. Brandon. Slouched in a chair in the corner, elbows on knees, eyes bloodshot and underscored with sleepless hollows. His clothes are wrinkled, hair messy, but his expression—stoic, unreadable—doesn't match the tiredness he carries.
Beth stares at him, then glances around the room. Dorm layout. Posters of abstract art and old indie bands. A couple of canvases leaned against the far wall, one with brush strokes that look unfinished, like someone had quit halfway through. On the desk beside his bed: her knives. Cleaned. Aligned.
"What… the fuck happened?"
Brandon exhales. It's not a sigh. It's just breath leaving him.
"You got jumped," he says. "Drunk frat assholes. Five of them."
Memories come back in flashes. The group surrounding her. The laughter. The fists. The pain. Then—
"You?" she asks.
He doesn't nod. Doesn't confirm. He just stands, walks over, and gently hands her a glass of water. She takes it, more out of instinct than gratitude.
"Why'd you help me?" she asks, voice rough.
"Why not just… let them finish what they started?"
He looks at her, eyes steady. "Because I'm not like them."
A beat passes. Her heart races—not from fear.
From something else. Confusion. Annoyance.
Recognition.
"You should've let me die."
"No," he replies. "Not like that."
She drinks the water slowly. The cat—Ashes, she vaguely recalls hearing him say before—nuzzles into her leg. Comforting. A stupid gesture, but oddly grounding.
"I'm guessing you took my knives so I wouldn't gut you in your sleep?"
"No," Brandon says. "I took them so you wouldn't gut anyone in your sleep."
Her eyes narrow. The air in the room changes—sharp, charged.
"So, you know."
"I've known," he says simply.
Beth doesn't flinch. She doesn't lie either.
There's no point now.
"What now?" she asks, eyes not leaving his. "You turning me in?"
Brandon shakes his head once.
"No."
She stares at him, waiting. When he doesn't elaborate, she speaks first.
"Then what do you want?"
He leans against the desk. Folds his arms. His eyes, dark and quiet, scan her like he's looking for something buried beneath layers she's long since forgotten how to name.
"I want to know why," he says.
"Why I kill people?"
"Yeah."
Beth leans her head back, winces as a sore spot on her skull makes contact with the pillow. She stares at the ceiling again. The crack looks deeper now, like it might split the entire room in two.
"I don't know anymore," she says truthfully. "It started with pain. Anger. Revenge, maybe. But after a while… it wasn't about that."
She closes her eyes for a moment.
"It was about feeling something. Anything. Like if I couldn't feel love or joy or whatever the hell normal people chase after, at least I could feel this. The blood. The rush. The fear in their eyes. It made me feel real."
Brandon doesn't interrupt.
"I know what I am," she continues. "I've always known. And I don't need saving."
"I'm not here to save you," he says. "I just needed to understand."
Beth scoffs lightly. "Well congrats, detective. You cracked the case."
He doesn't react. Doesn't judge. That's what makes it worse.
She turns her head toward him, blue eyes sharp beneath messy bangs. "So what about you, huh? You gonna tell me why you saved me? What kind of moral code lets you beat five guys to a pulp but keeps you from dealing with a killer like me?"
He doesn't blink. "You weren't killing anyone last night."
Beth lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Is that the line? Only when I'm holding the knife?"
He shrugs. "It's the one I can live with."
Beth sits up slowly, biting back a groan. "That's bullshit."
"Maybe," Brandon concedes. "But it's the truth."
The two of them sit in silence. The cat purrs louder now, like it's trying to stitch something broken in the air.
After a long pause, Beth asks, "So what happens if I do it again?"
Brandon's voice is quiet, but there's no uncertainty in it.
"Then I stop you."
She doesn't react immediately. Then nods, as if the answer was expected all along.
"You're gonna regret not killing me when you had the chance."
Brandon lets out a small exhale—almost a laugh.
"I already do."
They sit like that for a while, staring at each other. Two ghosts in the same haunted room. Neither moving. Neither blinking.
Just waiting.