Crimson Puddle | Stray Kids

The apartment was entirely silent, not because the television was muted, but because the ticking of the clock had stopped making sense.

A silver handle still protruded from her chest, buried deep between her ribs.

The dark stain on the floorboards was beginning to pool outward, thick and heavy, defying every law of nature as it crept toward the corners of the room.

The body on the floor didn't breathe.

The eyes didn't blink.

But beneath the cold steel of the blade, the torn flesh was already trying to knit itself back around the metal, the wound tightening in the quiet of the room as if preparing for the next agonizing rise and fall of her ribs.

The universe kept resetting the clock.

Not because it was merciful.

But because her heart had just stopped for the fifth time tonight, and the crimson on the floor was already starting to disappear, waiting for the cycle to begin all over again.