Hands rubbing against the smooth clutch of the gun, my finger brushing against the trigger and every breath that crept in then was completely exuded from me. Heart racing, the place I rested would be my last, the grim, bleak room with each window barred with rusty chains to secure them and one crumbling iron door as the only entrance and exit. Every beat that rushed my blood through my veins and every microscopic capillary linked through my trembling body. I brought the gun up to the side of my head, feeling the metal graze through my hair, and all within a second I could end all of the trouble. With a quivering breath, my fingers wrapped around the trigger and squeezed tightly. I felt nothing, I heard nothing but a lone click.

Inside of me, my conscious screamed, my heart jumping. There was not even a single bullet left in the gun, and there would be no use to use it. Relief would not come to me, save me from the intense pain that would wash over me with every cut and every slash that waved through my body. Pain, more pain as all of the victims I saw, and yet no closure for any of them. No suspects had came through, only one dead witness, and not even the slightest hint of DNA left on the victims' bodies. If so much as a foot crossed through the frame of that door, I would lose my life. The killer would wait for me to think I was safe and then strike me at my most vulnerable.

I never expected any of the rumors to be true. Not a single thought crossed my mind that she was a serial killer. I saw a glance of her dark hair, caramel skin and sparkling blue eyes. A woman as the killer. None of us at the station believed it could be a woman, how brutal every inch of the slashes were. That woman.

The first knock echoed.

The second knock followed.

The third knock resonated.

The fourth knock ended it.