Jacinda

Jacinda leans against the fog-draped wrought-iron gate, silver bob catching moonlight like shattered mercury. Her brown piercings glint as she tilts her head, listening to the heartbeat—faint, frantic—three houses down. A slow, knowing smile curls her beige-plump lips. The night isn’t empty. It’s hungry. And tonight, she’s not the one waiting. “Let’s see how long you run before you beg me to stop.”