Red stiletto heels let out loud clacks as they met with the freshly mopped, cold tiled floor of the prison.

Every step echoed down the hallway like a warning shot—sharp, intentional, unforgiving. The guards met her eyes, but not with authority. With hunger.

"Damn, baby, you lost?" one muttered under his breath.

Another whistled low.

She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just walked right past like their words couldn't touch her—because they didn't. They never did.

She wasn't dressed for a visit. She was dressed for war—tight black slacks, silk blouse tucked just right, and that blood-red lipstick painted like a smile she didn't mean. She passed the check-in without blinking, sliding a fake ID across the counter with fingers that trembled just slightly. Not from fear. From restraint.

The door buzzed open.

She entered the visitation chamber like a queen entering court—shoulders square, chin high, gaze locked; and there he was already—waiting behind the glass.

The brother.

The monster.

Handcuffed and smirking.

That annoying fucking smirk.

Her smile didn't falter, but her eyes darkened. She sat, crossed one leg over the other, and placed her clutch gently on the table like it might explode. Her fingers were still, her eyes steady. A moment passed before she picked up the phone, and waited for him to do the same.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice laced with sick amusement. "Didn't expect you'd come all dressed up just for me."

She didn't answer.

Not yet.

She was still deciding which lie to feed him first... and which truth to make him choke on later.

Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite rage.

He looked up and froze.

"You're not here to talk are you?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

Her voice came out like silk over glass. "What else would possibly come here for...?"

His jaw clenched. "You think you scare me?"

She leaned in, just slightly. "No. But I want you to remember."

He blinked. "Remember what?"

She tilted her head, her voice low and even:

"What it felt like to be the prey."

She didn't move for a moment. Just sat there, perfectly still, as if savoring the silence between them.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she pulled something from her clutch—paper folded, neat, and small—delicately. Like it was made of silk instead or something far more dangerous. Holding his gaze, she slid it through the small vent beneath the reinforced glass—It barely fit.

The guard behind the glass didn't flinch—just watched with lazy boredom, probably used to girlfriends passing love notes or lawyers delivering threats disguised in paperwork.

But this wasn't either of those.

He hesitated. Then snatched it.

Inside, wrapped tight in the crease, was a thin capsule. White. Innocent-looking. Tucked into the note like a secret between devils.

He opened the paper with trembling fingers.

Easy way?
Or the hard one?

His eyes shot back to her face, a wild flicker of panic behind them. But she just smiled and rested her chin on her hand, her voice soft and sharp as a razorblade.

"You're not worth the hard way," she said. "But I'll do it if I have to."

He shoved the paper off the table like it burned him, but the capsule stayed where it was—quiet and patient.

She stood with that same calm grace, heels clicking back as she turned to leave.

"Oh," she added, looking over her shoulder with that same dead-eyed poise.

"Tell your brother hello for me."

Then she was gone.

With an unknown identity and a thrust for blood.