The neon sign of the "Drip & Bean" flickered, casting a sickly yellow light over the wet pavement. Laura Violetta adjusted the strap of her backpack, her shoulders aching from a double shift. Her fingers still smelled like roasted coffee and cleaning chemicals.
She was seventeen, but tonight, she felt eighty.
She walked past the newsstand in the plaza. The digital screen was glowing with the face of a local college student—another girl with dark hair, just like Laura’s. The headline read: "THE BARBER STRIKES AGAIN: THIRD CASE THIS MONTH."
Laura shivered and pulled her hoodie up. She thought about the rumors at school. People said the girls weren't just being mugged; they were being changed.
As she turned the corner into the residential district, the streetlights grew thinner. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing against her lungs. That’s when she saw it.
In the mouth of an alleyway, a figure stood. He was draped in a coat so dark it seemed to swallow the light. On his face was a featureless, bone-white mask.
But he wasn't alone.
A young woman stood in front of him. She wasn't fighting. She wasn't screaming. She was standing perfectly still, her chin tilted up as if she were offering her neck to a blade.
Laura froze behind a parked car, her breath hitching. As the masked man leaned in, his hand moved with the grace of a conductor. He wasn't holding a knife—he was holding a small, silver tuning fork. He struck it against a brick, and a low, humming vibration filled the alley.
The woman’s head lolled back. Laura’s heart nearly stopped. The woman’s eyes didn't just close; they rolled upward with a slow, agonizing fluidity until only the stark, milky whites were visible.
“Yes...” the woman whispered, her voice a hollow shell of a person. “I... obey.”
The man reached out, his fingers threading through her long, dark hair. He pulled a pair of heavy shears from his coat. Snip. A long, thick braid fell into his gloved hand. He didn't run. He didn't panic. He tucked the trophy into his pocket as if he were picking a flower.
Laura stumbled back, her sneaker squeaking on the wet asphalt.
The white mask turned toward her.
She didn't wait to see if he would follow. She ran. She ran until her lungs burned, the sound of that silver tuning fork ringing in her ears like a death knell.
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