Did you think she was done?
Victim #1 was just the beginning—she had much more to learn. Every three weeks, she returned to that same bar. And each time, there was always another to fall prey to her predator’s patience
But now, Morana’s patience is growing thin. The one she’s been waiting for… he’s finally here. A final kill. The closure she’s craved. A beautifully brutal bow atop the carnage she’s stitched together in silence.
Retribution served. A chapter closed.
But closure isn’t real when your justice lives in shades of red.
Morana isn’t finished.
She’s evolving.
And the world has no idea what’s coming next.
She told herself this would be the last one.
She wanted to believe it.
After all the blood. The bodies. The hours wrapped in plastic and sweat and rage—this one would be it. The final stroke in a long, crimson painting. She’d finally be free. Done. A killer no more, just another girl with a senior year to finish and a shadowy past tucked in the back of her mind.
And she was grateful. Grateful it would end with him.
Because this man deserved it more than anyone.
He made her.
He was Victim #8. The one who made it all possible. The man who let her mother’s rapist vanish without consequence. The pimp who looked too good for the dirt he walked through—nice cut, lined-up beard, muscles tucked under tailored sleeves. A cocky demeanor cloaked in charm. Tonight wasn’t just another kill—tonight was retribution.
Somewhere deep down, though, even as her fingers twitched with preparation… she wasn’t sure she could stop. She liked this. Too much.
It was a Thursday night, and Morana slid into the bar with the same confidence that had become second nature. But tonight, it came with something different: anticipation.
She wore her signature black wig—long, straight, resting mid-back—and a leather jacket unzipped just enough to play with imagination. Her skirt was tight, her heels high, but her face? Detached. Distant. She didn’t have to try hard to pull attention, especially not from him.
He was at the end of the bar, glass in hand, ring glinting under low amber lights. He noticed her the moment she walked in—but let her come to him.
Morana sat three stools away. Ordered a French 75. Played aloof.
“You always drink something that fancy when you slum it down here?” he asked, smirking.
“I like to mix elegance with filth,” she said flatly, never turning her head.
He chuckled. “You always talk like that?”
“Only when I want to be heard.”
She finally glanced over, locking eyes. He raised his glass.
“You here alone?”
She nodded, slow and deliberate.
“Name’s Trent,” he offered.
She didn’t give hers. Instead, she smiled for the first time all night.
They shared two more drinks. Her distance never wavered. But she let him touch her knee under the counter. Let him talk about his ‘business’ without asking what kind. Let him think he was pulling her in.
She made sure to decline any direct propositions loud enough for the bartender to hear—carefully preserving her pattern. But when she left, she whispered over her shoulder the name of a seedy motel and a room number.
“724,” she said. “Be there in twenty.”
He was there in ten.
Trent walked into the motel room like he owned it. Morana had already stripped down to a crimson lace bra and black silk panties. She laid on the bed like a gift waiting to be unwrapped, her face blank, her thoughts calculating.
“Damn,” he muttered, closing the door behind him. “Didn’t think you’d be this ready.”
She stood, walked over, and kissed his neck—but never his lips.
“You like control, don’t you?” she whispered into his ear.
“Always.”
“Good,” she said, letting his hands roam. “Let me give it to you… just for a minute.”
They were down to their undergarments, skin against skin, his fingers skimming the curve of her thigh. He moved to peel her panties off, and that’s when she stopped him.
“Let me ride,” she murmured, flipping him back onto the bed with an effortless swing of her hips.
She reached into her coat pocket for a black blindfold.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, tying it tightly. “Can you hold still?”
He laughed, relaxed, proud of himself.
But her stomach churned. His touch made her nauseous. His breath was sour with ego. She reached behind the pillow slowly, her fingers wrapping around the syringe she’d hidden earlier. It was filled with a paralytic agent—clean, quick, effective.
Just as she leaned over him, her grip faltered. The needle slipped.
Trent heard it.
“What was that?” he asked, sitting up fast.
Shit.
He lunged, grabbing her wrist with brute strength. “You trying to rob me, bitch?”
She struggled, nearly losing her footing. But her taekwondo classes paid off. She twisted out of his grip, landed a swift knee to his ribs, and sent him sprawling.
She pounced—no hesitation this time—and drove the syringe into his neck.
His body seized, then went limp.
Breathing hard, she stood over him, sweat beading at her temples.
And then the silence.
She removed the blindfold.
His eyes—filled with horror—met hers.
Finally…
She laid plastic down like it was second nature.
Wrapped every inch of the room, turning the grimy motel into her sanctuary.
She dressed in sweats. Pulled out her tools. Sat him upright so he could watch.
“This is closure,” she said, not expecting him to understand. “You helped a rapist disappear. So now you get to disappear too.”
He couldn’t move. But his eyes? They screamed.
“I’m going to take you apart piece by piece,” she said, almost giddy. “But don’t worry—I’ll sew you back up when we get home.”
She made her first cut.
Blood spilled like ink on canvas.
And Morana smiled.
Trent’s body was too heavy to carry in her usual duffle. So she made adjustments.
Clean cuts. Arms and legs separated. Wrapped tightly. Easy to transport.
Once back in the warehouse, she sewed the limbs back onto his torso. A crude Frankenstein of justice.
This time, there would be no metallic paint. No illusion of art.
She carved #8 into the skin just beneath his left ear. Dressed him in plain tinman attire. Propped him in the same spot where the world had unknowingly praised her previous victims.
No cleanup. No reset. He would rot right there in plain sight.
And no one would know.
Every day, she returned to admire how people still smiled at him. Took selfies. Dropped cash into his can.
Until one day—a kid tugged on the arm.
The flesh gave way.
The crowd screamed.
Morana turned away and never looked back.
Summer break came fast.
Her adoptive parents’ 35th wedding anniversary was coming up, so she decided to surprise them with a weekend visit. It was supposed to be a soft reset. A little joy. A chance to remember who she was before blood stained her hands.
But while out shopping downtown, she saw her father.
Not just her father—her married father. With another woman.
Laughing. Holding hands. Tongue down her throat.
The illusion shattered. The stability she thought she had? Gone.
She ducked into the nearest bar and ordered a French 75.
“Rough day?” asked a voice beside her.
She turned. A man with a wedding ring.
Of course.
“Mind if I join you?”
She shrugged. “You already did.”
They talked. Well, he talked. Bragged. Flirted. Flashed his ring like it meant nothing.
And that’s when she knew.
Her rule—her one unbreakable law—was about to go out the window.
Morana was never just a killer.
She was a vigilante. A force of reckoning.
And this world… it just gave her a new reason to keep going.
Stay tuned, drifters. You haven’t met the real her yet.
So Drifters… How do you know when you’re truly done with something—or when you’re just afraid to admit you’re not?
Aimless Orbit 
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