Turning the key to unlock the front door, Ming stepped into her dark apartment. She liked it dark, it resembled herself. Dark, mysterious, kept to herself. Shrugging off her coat, she flicked on a set of dim orange lights.
Padding into the shower, she let the cold water run down her body. The water below her turned red from the blood that collected against her skin. She let out a long breath, mind flitting back to the dark alleyway leading up to her apartment block, the tall large guys towering over the small girl.
She had a reputation. She was named as the "Killer of Good", a killer known to use a single edged knife, drove it deep into the abdomen of the victim, left him to bleed out until the cops came.
Her MO was simple, she lived in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the whole city, where anyone with a skirt who walked in would most definitely be targeted by hungry men. Only Ming would swoop in, quiet and swift, stabbing the attackers one, two, three times with her knife, before helping the girl up and leading her away.
There were thousands of heated debates of Ming's killing style. Women paraded the police in protests to plead with them not to arrest Ming, because Ming was nothing more than a saviour to countless women who walked in the territory of Trest Fort neighborhood.
But others, fearing the safety of their children who would meet such a terrifying killer anytime on the streets, would beg endlessly with the police to arrest Ming.
Either way, Ming washed the blood off her body, and threw her coat and her clothes into the washing machine. It'll take at least three washes to get the blood of her clothing, but she could live without her clothes. It was the coat that mattered.
Growing up in the neighborhood, Ming learnt well. If one does not disguise herself while walking through the dark, nasty alleys of the neighborhood, she is bound to be robbed, stabbed, or raped. Worst, she will suffer all three.
Ming's father was a gangster, and her mother was raped into having Ming. Her mother died on the day Ming was born, or to put it in other terms, her mother died giving birth to Ming. Ming's father ran his gang, the Bermuda, and was seldom home.
Her father died when she was six. She watched him die. She had turned a wrong turn in the alleys, and bumped into four drunk men. The men approached her, put their greasy hands on her and attempted to take her.
Her father had heard her cries then, swooping in to rescue her, he punched the lights out of one guy, but did not see another man coming up behind him. In a swift, a log came crashing onto his back, causing him to trip. A gunshot rang, and Ming's father stumbled.
Ming had kneeled by her father's side, as his chest oozed with blood. She cried, called for help, but no one had heard her. Ever since then, Ming lived alone. The coat saved her from being approached by anybody, it covered her womanly features and made her look like she was a man.
As she grew up, she grew less and less afraid of her neighborhood. She learnt how to fight, how to work her knife. She could let down the hood of her coat without being afraid that she would be attacked, she was confident in her abilities to fight.
The knife she used had been her father's, she accepted from his dying hand 14 years ago, and carried it with her ever since. It meant a lot to her, still being able to have a souvenir from her father. It felt like he was still there, watching her, protecting her.
As the washing machine churned, Ming felt her eyelids getting heavy, and at last, she gave in to her fatigue, and closed her eyes.
~
the next day [9pm]
Ming stalked quietly down the alley, her grocery bag swishing silently in the windy night. Her ears were on high alert for any footsteps, any certain noise she heard. Her ears pricked up, goosebumps stood on her skin, someone, someone was calling.
