The scream echoed down the beach, sharp and sudden.
The cop didn't move.
Still in the cruiser, still staring at his phone, like the sound hadn't even registered.
Odeya tilted her head. Slowly.
She stood in front of the squad car, hips cocked, arms folded, one brow arched in amused disbelief.
The red-and-blue lights painted her skin in flickering waves of color, like a nightclub light show trying too hard.
She waited.
Nothing.
Odeya tilted her head, watching him.
Amusement bloomed across her face like a flower opening in moonlight.
Her hand found her hip.
She sighed dramatically, then—
Her lips curled into a grin.
"Seriously?"
No response.
His face was still bathed in blue, mouth slightly parted, like he was watching the beginning of a horror movie and hadn't realized he was in it.
Odeya took a single step forward, then another.
Raised her hand — delicate, manicured — slowly, balled it into a fist.
With one swift motion, she punched the windshield.
CRACK.
Glass spiderwebbed in an instant.
A second later, it shattered inward.
That got him.
The rookie flinched, eyes snapping up, mouth parted in shock.
He stared at her, truly seeing her now — the girl standing so casually outside his busted cruiser like she'd just knocked on a door instead of demolished state property.
Odeya beamed at him.
"I've been a bad girl, officer."
He blinked, then scrambled.
Grabbing the radio, his voice wavered as he called it in.
"Dispatch, this is Unit 6, I've got a case of vandalism, possible 10-55 — female suspect. Requesting backup."
She smiled wider.
Poor thing.
She was laughing before he'd even opened the door.
The rookie stepped out stiffly, like he was trying to remember every page of the manual at once.
He was young — Odeya could see that now.
Fresh.
New uniform.
Clean boots.
Still had that naive, righteous glint in his eye.
She could smell the nerves.
She felt the smallest pang of affection.
He was trying so hard.
He cleared his throat and did his best impression of confidence.
"Step away from the vehicle and put your hands behind your back," he ordered, voice tight, wavering at the edges.
Odeya raised her brows, mock-surprised.
"Oh. So serious."
She said, voice like silk over a blade.
"Bad girl behavior, officer. Guess you'll have to punish me."
Then slowly — very slowly — stepped back, turning with exaggerated grace.
Her black leather coat flared behind her like a cloak.
She placed her hands behind her back.
The cop hesitated.
His fingers fumbled slightly as he unhooked the handcuffs from his belt.
She could hear the clink of metal, the way his breath hitched when he got close.
"You're nervous," she murmured, without looking at him.
"First patrol?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer.
Just kept following protocol.
He approached cautiously, cuffs ready.
His fingers trembled as he reached for her wrists.
She felt the cold metal snap into place.
Got one cuff on her left wrist.
Reached for the other.
And then — click — both were on.
She waited a beat.
"Nice touch," she murmured.
"Kinky."
He flushed.
"Ma'am, you have the right to remain—"
CRACK.
The cuffs snapped like cheap jewelry, links falling to the pavement with a faint metallic chime.
The cop stumbled back, stunned.
She turned slowly to face him, still smiling, holding the broken cuffs up like a magician revealing the punchline of a trick.
"Oops."
He reached for his radio again, but froze as she knelt — crouching with inhuman ease — and slid one hand under the front of the squad car.
In one smooth, impossible motion, she lifted it.
The front wheels came clean off the ground.
Headlights tilted toward the sky.
The vehicle hung there, balanced in her grasp like a toy.
The rookie's mouth fell open.
"What the hell—"
He stumbled back, eyes wide.
Her face changed.
Not grotesque — not monstrous.
But wrong and inhuman.
Like something crawling just under the surface of beauty.
Her cheekbones cut sharper.
Eyes sank slightly, glowing like foxfire in the dark.
Her teeth — when she grinned again — were white, elegant, and very, very pointed.
The rookie stepped back, hand trembling as it went for his holster.
The gun came out shakily, held two-handed, like the academy taught him.
Then raised his weapon, both hands shaking.
"D-Don't move!"
Odeya didn't.
She just smiled, serene and terrible, holding the squad car in her grip like it weighed nothing at all.
"Ooooh," she cooed.
"He's got a gun, now. Scary."
The pistol shook in his grip.
His stance was textbook — knees bent, arms out — but the fear was in his breath, his clenched jaw, his too-wide eyes.
She smiled again — but this time, it was softer.
Not gloating.
Almost... proud.
"There you are," she said gently.
"Found your courage."
She tilted her head, the car still hovering in her grip.
"Sweetheart," she said, voice low and velvet-smooth,
"if I wanted to hurt you… you'd already be bleeding."
She lowered the car gently, letting it settle back into the sand with a soft thump.
Then stood to full height,
One long, deliberate motion, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt.
Her eyes never leaving his.
Her hands slid into her jacket pockets like she was about to ask if he had a light.
He tracked her with the gun, two-handed grip clenched tight, but she could see the sweat starting to slip down his temple.
His lip twitched.
"Back up!" he ordered.
"Don't come any closer!"
She didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked a slow half-circle, boots crunching on gravel, just enough to make him shift with her, adjusting his stance to keep her centerline.
"Cute," she whispered.
"The way you're trying to stay in control.
Like maybe you don't feel how the rules are already broken."
His throat worked in a swallow.
"What are you?"
Odeya grinned, sharp and dazzling.
Her eyes narrowed with something like delight.
"Oh," she said softly.
"You're getting there."
She took one step closer.
He didn't fire.
She didn't push further.
Just stood there, moonlight turning her hair to ink, her pale face calm and unreadable — a perfect contradiction.
Not some ancient wraith.
Not some brooding gothic nightmare.
Just a girl.
Just... wrong in all the right ways.
She raised one hand, slowly, fingers curling inward like she was about to wave — or beckon.
And waited.
The cop didn't move at first — not when she broke the cuffs, not when she lifted the car like a toy, not even when her face shifted into something that should have shattered his mind.
But he didn't shoot.
Even with her face changed — lips curled with sharp delight, her eyes rimmed in darkness, pale skin glowing faintly under the streetlights — he stood there.
Gun raised.
Shaking.
Frozen.
Odeya tilted her head, amused.
"Well?" she whispered, stepping closer, her boots crunching glass on the pavement.
"What's the next move, officer?"
He didn't answer.
So she reached out— fast as a blink — and plucked the pistol from his hands.
He gasped, took a stumbling step back.
Without looking at him, she turned the gun in her hands, tested the weight like a toy, then pointed it at her own chest.
She winked.
Bang.
The shot echoed sharp and violent into the night.
He flinched so hard he dropped his radio.
Odeya barely staggered.
She looked down at the black bloom soaking through her shirt, then up at him with mock surprise.
"Oh no," she said dryly.
"I've been shot."
That broke him.
He ran.
Panic burst like a dam.
He turned and bolted down the dark edge of the beach, breath ragged, boots kicking up sand as he tripped over driftwood and his own fear.
Odeya followed, not fast, not hunting — just gliding, boots skimming the sand, her laugh light and playful as windchimes.
"Oh come on," she called after him.
"You can't leave your scene of the crime. That's illegal, officer…"
He didn't answer — just kept running, until his foot caught something and he hit the sand hard, sprawling.
His breath came in gasps now.
One hand clawed in the sand, the other clutching his side.
A piece of paper fluttered loose from his jacket pocket.
Odeya slowed, crouching beside it.
The chase, it seemed, was over.
She picked it up gently.
It was a photo.
A little bent.
A little sandy.
But clear.
The young officer, smiling — his arms around a dark-haired woman, her head resting against his shoulder.
In her arms, a baby, swaddled in soft blue.
Odeya blinked.
Her grin faded.
She looked at the photo for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her pale face.
Then she looked down at him.
He was on his knees now, not from duty — just exhaustion.
His lip trembled.
Eyes wide, wet.
The poor thing looked like he was barely keeping from crying.
She stepped closer, towering over him in the moonlight.
Her boots sank into the sand beside him.
The gun dangled from her fingers.
And then—
She dropped the gun.
It landed with a soft thump beside his knee.
Odeya knelt in front of him, gun forgotten in the sand between them, the photo still resting lightly in her pale hand.
She studied his face — young, flushed with fear, lip trembling, jaw clenched like he was trying to remember everything they taught him at the academy.
Poor thing.
He probably still smelled like laundry detergent and new leather.
Still had creases on his uniform.
"You're a dad," she said softly, almost like it surprised her.
He nodded once.
Swallowed hard.
"I didn't mean to scare you that bad," she added, voice quieter now.
"I just wanted you to look at me."
She looked down at the photo again.
"She's pretty," she murmured.
"Your wife?"
He hesitated.
"Yeah."
Odeya's smile returned — small and strange, a little crooked.
"That baby got your eyes."
He blinked, stunned at the normalcy of her tone, the warmth hidden beneath the game.
"H-he's three months."
"First patrol?"
He nodded again, breath still shaking.
"Thought so."
Her eyes flicked up to his.
"You're doing alright."
"I…"
He looked down, ashamed.
"I didn't shoot."
"You didn't," she said gently, like it mattered more than he realized.
"Even when I looked like that."
A small smirk tugged at her lips.
"I… didn't know what I was looking at."
"No one ever does," she said, almost to herself.
"You'll get used to that part."
He looked up at her, uncertain, still panting.
"W-what are you?"
Odeya tilted her head.
"What do you think?"
He didn't answer.
She reached forward — slowly — and tucked the photo back into his chest pocket with a touch that was almost reverent.
Then her palm hovered over his heart, not touching.
"I can hear it," she said.
"Your heartbeat. Loud like a drum."
A pause.
"It's a beautiful sound."
He didn't dare breathe.
She rose to her full height, towering over him once more — all inky shadow and wild black hair, like a ghost from a dream he didn't want to remember.
Her expression softened, just enough.
"Go home," she said at last, voice low but firm.
And then she turned, her long coat brushing sand behind her, and walked into the night.
Leaving behind a gun,
a broken cruiser window,
and a young cop with a family —
still alive.
Still shaking.
But alive.