The alley behind the old warehouse smelled of rust and wet concrete after the rain. He always chose those-lonely, walking after midnight, with their heads down and coats too thin for October. This one was small, dark-haired, unremarkable - just his type. Easy to drag behind a dumpster, easy to press against a brick wall. Usually they started fighting right away, screaming into his palm, kicking with all their might - and it was this moment of resistance that made the ensuing silence so sweet.

He covered her mouth with his hand and lifted her skirt. She didn't scream. She didn't even flinch. She just looked at him with wide, calm eyes as he entered her sharply and roughly, as he always did. Her body swayed in time with his thrusts, but her face remained motionless - no tears, no pleas, no grimaces of pain. Only the quiet wet sound of their bodies and the squeak of his boots on the gravel. He came quickly, breathing heavily, and took a step back to admire the result. Usually, it was at this moment that they broke down - they began to beg, sob, promise everything in the world. She simply lowered her skirt, carefully smoothed the fabric with her palms, and looked at him as if he were a slightly curious insect.

He smiled nervously, got angry, and slapped her across the face with his open palm. Blood appeared on her lip. She slowly licked it, as if tasting it, and smiled - a small, polite smile, like the one you give a waiter who served your coffee wrong. This threw him off balance. He grabbed her by the hair, dragged her deeper into the shadows, pressed her against a rusty pipe, and tied her wrists with plastic ties. He took out his favorite knife-with a serrated blade-and began to cut shallow lines on her thighs, watching the scarlet drops appear. She didn't make a sound. She didn't look away. She just kept looking at him with the same soft, almost affectionate smile, even when he put the blade to her throat and whispered what he was going to do to her next.

He raised the knife to finish her off. And at that moment, her right hand - somehow already free, with the tie hanging down like a bracelet - darted forward. The knife he had left on the ground was now in her fist. With one precise, practiced movement, she thrust it upward - right into his groin.
Pain exploded like white fire. He screamed, doubled over, clutching what was left between his legs. Blood gushed through his fingers-hot, thick, unstoppable. She rose slowly, dusted off her coat, and crouched down next to him. Calmly, without haste, she cut his shirt into strips and tied his wrists behind his back - so tightly that his skin immediately turned white. Then she tied his ankles.

He cried, begged, promised to let her go if she stopped. She tilted her head to one side, looking at him with the same expression he had once used to look at his victims. Then she reached down, wrapped her fingers around what was left of his penis-swollen, bleeding, pitiful-and squeezed. He howled. She twisted her wrist sharply, like wringing out a rag. He vomited right onto the concrete.

She stood up, wiped the blade on his jeans, and shoved the knife into her coat pocket. She looked down for a long time at the writhing, bleeding body, at the eyes full of the very horror he had always given to others and never experienced himself. Then she turned and walked away. Without haste. Without a single glance back. Only the quiet click of her heels gradually faded into the night.

He lay there until the cold seeped under his skin and his blood slowed its flow. No one came. No one heard. And somewhere in the city, a small dark-haired woman with a polite smile continued walking - quiet, calm, waiting for the next person who would decide that he was a hunter here.