The dots stopped. Then a single message arrived, gray and flat in the dark of her kitchen. The man sleeping on your couch is responsible for the disappearance of dozens of underage girls. He's wanted by police. Maybe you could do something about it. Lexi read it twice, her thumb hovering over the keyboard, the towel slipping another inch down her hip. She should have felt something—fear, anger, the cold wash of horror—but all she felt was the ache between her thighs and the weight of the old man's snore rattling through the walls. She typed back with shaking fingers. like what? I don't have my super powers or lip gloss…a-and I don't have a costume…

The reply came fast. You'll need to earn it. For now, I already have something for you to wear. It's outside your door. She stood there a long moment, the phone glowing in her hand, the city's neon bleeding through the window blinds. Then she moved on silent feet, past the couch where the old man slept with his mouth open, to the front entry. She turned the deadbolt with both hands, wincing at the click, and pulled the door open a crack. Hanging from the handle was a scrap of black fabric so small it looked like a ribbon. Below it, a pair of boots—black leather, thigh-high, with a heel that caught the hallway light. She recognized the label on the box. Steve Madden. Size six. Her size.

She brought them inside and shut the door without a sound. The thong was nothing but a triangle and two strings, and she slid it up her legs with the towel still around her waist, then stepped into the boots one at a time, zipping them to her thighs. The leather hugged her calves, her knees, the soft underside of her thighs. She stood in the dark hallway in nothing but the thong and the boots and felt the collar cold against her throat. In the bathroom she found the slime-soaked blonde wig and the replica domino mask where she'd left them on the counter, and she began to work. Foundation. Contour. Mascara. Hair spray. The mirror reflected a stranger back at her, flawless and perfect, and she kept going until four and a half hours had passed and the morning light was gray through the blinds.

She remembered her foster mother's voice, thin and tired, the way it always was when she said it. Kill your enemies with kindness, compassion and understanding. Lexi ordered groceries through Uber, and when the delivery guy knocked she opened the door in just the boots and the thong, and he stood there with his phone in his hand and his mouth half open, and she took the bags and said thank you and closed the door. She cooked. Eggs, steak, fresh fruit, avocado, shredded hash browns. The smell filled the kitchen, and she set the table for two, and when she heard the couch creak she turned to see the old man standing there, his eyes moving over her in the boots and the thong, a smile pulling at the wrinkles around his mouth.

"I had a great time last night." He came up behind her and whispered it into the back of her ear, his hands finding her hips, his fingers pressing into the soft skin above the leather. "Me too," she whispered back, and her voice didn't shake. "There's something I want to ask you." His hands slid up the sides of her body, over her ribs, and closed over her breasts, and she let out a small, soft sound she didn't have to fake. "You're prettier just like this," he said, and she watched his reflection in the window glass, his thumbs circling, her own eyes wide and green and empty. "…y-yeah?…" she whispered, and she felt so wrong, so dirty, so far from the girl who'd once believed kindness could kill anything. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the thong and pulled it down her thighs, and she stepped out of it when it pooled at her feet, and he picked it up and pressed the black fabric between her lips.

The black fabric slid past her lips, tasting of salt and leather, and she let it settle against her tongue without biting down. The old man's hands found her hips again, pulling her back against him, and she felt the cold press of the kitchen knife against her ribs before she heard his voice. "…w-where are the missing girls…" The words came out thick and muffled, the cotton stealing her consonants, and she felt his grip tighten on her throat before she finished the question.

"What did you say, slut?" His hand closed around the front of her windpipe, fingers digging into the soft hollow beneath her jaw, and she choked, her hands flying up to claw at his wrist before she stopped herself. The air cut off in a thin wheeze, her vision spotting at the edges, and she heard herself make a small, strangled sound that she couldn't control. "You wouldn't want to upset me, would you, whore?" The knife moved, the flat of the blade sliding along the curve of her breast, and she felt the cold bite of the steel against her skin, a whisper of pressure that promised more.

She squealed. It was a thin, reedy sound, high in her throat, and she hated how easily it came out, how natural it felt to let it escape. The old man made a low sound of approval behind her, the kind of sound she'd heard from men who'd just discovered something they liked. "Do something to show me how sorry you are," he said, and the knife stayed where it was, resting against the underside of her breast, waiting.

She nodded, the motion jerky and quick, and began to move. Her hips swayed, a slow, deliberate roll that pressed her ass against his crotch, and she felt the first stirring of his erection through his pants. She kept going, grinding back against him, her hands braced on the kitchen counter, the boots slick against the tile, and she let her head fall back against his shoulder, the panties still in her mouth, her eyes fixed on the window glass where her own reflection stared back at her—wide, green, and empty.

The knife didn't move. But his grip on her throat loosened, just enough for her to breathe, and she heard him exhale a long, shaky breath against her ear. "That's it," he said, his voice rough. "That's a good girl."