I woke up to the kind of morning where the air feels too heavy to breathe, like it's pressing down on your chest, daring you to move. My apartment smelled of stale coffee and the faint tang of metal, probably from the tools I hadn't bothered to clean. I rolled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood, and slipped on my favorite white socks—soft, slightly worn at the heels, the kind that make you feel like you're walking on something familiar, something safe. The rest of me? Naked as the day I was born. There's a freedom in that, in feeling the air on your skin, no pretense, no layers.
I lit my first cigarette of the day before I even thought about breakfast. The match flared, and I inhaled deeply, the smoke curling into my lungs like an old friend. It's not just the nicotine; it's the ritual—the way the paper crackles as it burns, the heat on my lips, the way the smoke swirls out of my mouth and dances in the sunlight streaming through the cracked blinds. I leaned back against the wall, one foot propped up, the sock's fabric catching slightly on the rough paint. Another drag, and my head felt lighter, like the world was loosening its grip on me. I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist and vanish, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Just me, the cigarette, and the soft press of cotton against my toes.
I don't know how many I smoked that morning—three, maybe four. Each one felt like a small rebellion, a way to claim the day before it could claim me. My fingers smelled of tobacco, and my throat was raw, but it was a good raw, like I'd earned it. I stubbed out the last one in a chipped ashtray and felt the itch start to build. Not for another cigarette, not yet. Something deeper, something that lived in my bones.
I sank onto the couch, still naked except for those white socks, the fabric now slightly gray from the floor. My hands moved before my mind caught up, tracing the curve of my thigh, the dip of my stomach. It wasn't about desire, not really—it was about control, about feeling my body answer to me and only me. My fingers found their rhythm, slow at first, then faster, my breath hitching as the world narrowed to the heat building inside me. The socks brushed against the couch, a soft scrape that grounded me, kept me tethered to the moment. My head tipped back, eyes half-closed, and I let myself go, let the tension unravel until I was gasping, my heart pounding like it was trying to break free. When it was over, I lay there, chest heaving, the air cool against my flushed skin. The socks were still there, soft and constant, like they were holding me together.
But the day wasn't done with me yet. I had work to do.
I pulled on a black turtleneck and jeans, the socks staying on because they felt right, like a talisman. My tools were already packed—scalpel, forceps, a small bone saw, all tucked into a nondescript duffel bag. The city was gray and damp as I stepped outside, the kind of weather that makes you feel like you're walking through someone else's bad dream. I lit another cigarette as I walked, the smoke blending with the mist, and headed to the warehouse district. My guy was waiting, some lowlife named Marco who'd crossed the wrong people. I didn't ask questions. I never do. Questions get you killed.
He was already tied up when I got there, wrists and ankles bound to a metal chair in the middle of my makeshift lab—a grimy room in an abandoned warehouse, lit by a single flickering bulb. His eyes were wide, panicked, darting around like a trapped animal. I didn't say anything. Words are wasted on the dead. I set my bag down, pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and got to work.
The scalpel was cold in my hand, its weight familiar, like an extension of myself. I started with the abdomen, a clean incision just below the ribcage. Marco screamed, but the gag muffled it to a dull moan. Blood welled up, bright and slick, pooling in the crevices of his skin before spilling onto the concrete floor. The smell hit me—coppery, sharp, with a faint sweetness that always surprises me. I worked quickly, my hands steady despite the mess. The liver came first, dark and heavy, its surface smooth under my gloved fingers. I placed it in a sterile container, the lid snapping shut with a satisfying click. Then the kidneys, smaller, tougher, their weight grounding me in the moment. The heart was last—still warm, still pulsing faintly as I cut it free. It's strange, how something so vital can feel so ordinary in your hands.
The floor was a mess by the time I was done, blood pooling in uneven patches, catching the light like spilled ink. Marco was gone, his body slumped, eyes staring at nothing. I didn't look at his face. I never do. I packed the organs in a cooler, the ice hissing as it met the warm containers, and cleaned my tools with a rag. The gloves were streaked with red, but they'd done their job—kept my hands clean, kept me separate from the chaos.
The next morning, I was at the black market by dawn. The place was a maze of stalls and shadows, tucked away in a derelict parking garage on the edge of town. The air smelled of diesel and desperation, voices low as deals were made. I found my buyer, a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek who didn't bother with small talk. He inspected the cooler, nodded, and handed me a stack of cash. No questions, no names. I pocketed the money and left, the weight of it heavy against my thigh.
Back at my apartment, I lit another cigarette, still wearing the same nitrile gloves from the night before. I don't know why I kept them on—maybe because they felt like a shield, a barrier between me and the world. The smoke curled up, and I took a deep drag, letting it burn my throat. I was careless, though, and the cigarette slipped, the cherry brushing against my wrist. The pain was sharp, a quick jolt that made me hiss, but the glove took the worst of it, the latex blistering instead of my skin. I laughed, a short, bitter sound, and stubbed out the cigarette. The gloves were ruined, singed and sticky, but I didn't care. They'd done their job.
I peeled them off and tossed them into the trash, my hands pale and clammy underneath. The socks were still on, though, soft and familiar, grounding me as I sank onto the bed. I don't know why they mattered so much, those damn socks, but they did. Maybe because they were the only thing that stayed clean, untouched by the blood and the smoke and the weight of what I'd done. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, and let my eyes drift shut. The smell of tobacco lingered on my fingers, mixing with the faint antiseptic scent of the gloves. It was comforting, in a twisted way, like a reminder that I was still here, still me.
Sleep came easily, the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only comes when you've pushed yourself past the point of caring. The socks stayed on, soft against my feet, and the world faded away. For a few hours, I was just Luna—not the killer, not the dealer, just a woman with white socks and a cigarette burn on her wrist, dreaming of nothing at all.