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Predator

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The twilight was dark and ominous as the hooded figure stalked down the street towards his prey. The girl was about sixteen paces in front of him; she looked around nervously as the man made a sound behind him, his foot splashing quietly into a puddle of the dark alley. The man hid in the shadow of the old bar, as the girl’s blue eyes were wide, searching for the source of the disturbance. A door opened and club music erupted from it suddenly, vibrating the pipes running down the side of the wall of crumbling crimson brick. At last satisfied that she had seen no one, the girl continued on, ignorant that her stalker continued to follow her. The network of allies continued and the girl turned sharply towards the left; her pace quickened now.

There was no one in sight besides the two of them. No one to stop this man from what he was about to do. He slipped a small dagger out of his pocket. The blade caught the soft flickering of orange light from an antique oil street lamp for a moment, the sole object offering illumination in the darkness. This was her, the girl with the tribal tiger tattoo on her left wrist, the black ink contrasting with the soft glow of her pale skin. He’d been keeping tabs on her for a fortnight. He had been foolish, allowing her to see him once, and since then she had been wary and suspicious, but less so tonight.

The remnants of the afternoon rain dripped off the gutter, echoing eerily as each splash fell to the pavement, just as rhythmically as the clicking of the black suede ankle boots belonging to the victim. She could sense a presence behind her now, but there was no way out but forward. They were far from the public eye now, lost in a labyrinth of back alleyways and empty street corners. At the same moment, both the girl and her pursuer began to run.

The knife was held aloft, glinting dangerously now though not even the moon could be seen.

There was barely a fight as he overtook her. Her body was limp within a matter of seconds. She drew her last breath and lay still, shattered on the ground and covered in her own scarlet blood. The man wiped his knife on the brick wall which she was slumped against, cleaning it off and stowing it away under his coat. Then her murderer pressed a number on his speed dial, holding a small mobile phone to his ear. A voice answered on the first ring.

“You better only be calling to tell me good news,” the voice said darkly.

“She’s dead,” came the answer.

“Well done,” said the voice with approval. “Send me proof. A picture of her left wrist.”

The man obliged, bending down over the corpse, and snapping a picture of her pride’s tattoo. He sent it. There was a pause.

“You idiot!” screamed the man over the phone. “This is not the girl with the lion tattoo!”

The phone conversation was over with a swift click. The man in the alleyway kicked the corpse with disgust, and turned around to find his way back the way he’d come. This errand, this error, had been a waste of precious time, something he was running short of with his impatient employer. The body was to rot there in the darkness, to be found the next day. The man’s search continued as the moon waned, hoping to find the girl with the lion tattoo tonight.





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