Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery.
Back in my detective days, I needed more than just a paparazzo's sharp eye—I had to move like a damn parkour runner. One wrong step, and I'd be dead before I hit the ground.
Even after years away from the job, my reflexes hadn’t dulled. I stayed sharp, coiled tight, ready to snap into action at any second.
And tonight? That instinct saved us.
Emily was small—if she fell, she’d just crash into the guy’s chest. No real danger there.
The knife? Pure theater. A bluff to rattle him.
"Go!" My voice tore through the air as I grabbed Emily’s wrist. I drove my heel into the director’s spine—just as he was pushing himself up—then kicked the door wide open.
This time, we didn’t hesitate.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
We didn’t stop until we hit the main street, swallowed by the noise and lights of the crowd. Only then did I finally exhale.
I let go of Emily’s hand—just in time to catch her as she collapsed against me, unconscious.
Students swarmed around us. "Call the police!" I shouted, over and over. "There’s been a murder!"
At the edge of the crowd, Victoria Roland stood frozen, tears glinting in her eyes.
Maybe she’d stayed silent about her assault not just from shame—but because she knew exactly who that man was. And how untouchable he’d always been.
Someone must’ve seen Emily’s injuries. Soon, sirens wailed as cops and an ambulance screeched to a stop.
I pointed them toward the Faculty Residence, told them about the basement, about the monsters waiting inside.
Emily was rushed to the hospital. I gave my statement at the precinct—to the same two cops from before.
They pressed me: Why scream murder if you didn’t see a body?
I told them the truth: I was terrified. Terrified that in that lawless hellhole, anything short of murder would vanish like smoke. Terrified the cops would come too late. Terrified I’d end up just another ghost in that basement.
My colleague frowned, not getting it.
I didn’t bother explaining.
The police found the basement easily. Inside—strands of hair from at least seven different people. Proof we weren’t the first.
Public records later revealed Lucas Melville—a part-time art theory lecturer who barely showed up to his two classes a week. His father, Richard Melville, the school’s director, had handed him the job like a silver spoon.
To most, Lucas was just another spoiled trust-fund brat.
But long before that? He was the kid who tortured cats. Who gutted dogs. Who smiled while doing it.
Even after years away from the job, my reflexes hadn’t dulled. I stayed sharp, coiled tight, ready to snap into action at any second.
And tonight? That instinct saved us.
Emily was small—if she fell, she’d just crash into the guy’s chest. No real danger there.
The knife? Pure theater. A bluff to rattle him.
"Go!" My voice tore through the air as I grabbed Emily’s wrist. I drove my heel into the director’s spine—just as he was pushing himself up—then kicked the door wide open.
This time, we didn’t hesitate.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
We didn’t stop until we hit the main street, swallowed by the noise and lights of the crowd. Only then did I finally exhale.
I let go of Emily’s hand—just in time to catch her as she collapsed against me, unconscious.
Students swarmed around us. "Call the police!" I shouted, over and over. "There’s been a murder!"
At the edge of the crowd, Victoria Roland stood frozen, tears glinting in her eyes.
Maybe she’d stayed silent about her assault not just from shame—but because she knew exactly who that man was. And how untouchable he’d always been.
Someone must’ve seen Emily’s injuries. Soon, sirens wailed as cops and an ambulance screeched to a stop.
I pointed them toward the Faculty Residence, told them about the basement, about the monsters waiting inside.
Emily was rushed to the hospital. I gave my statement at the precinct—to the same two cops from before.
They pressed me: Why scream murder if you didn’t see a body?
I told them the truth: I was terrified. Terrified that in that lawless hellhole, anything short of murder would vanish like smoke. Terrified the cops would come too late. Terrified I’d end up just another ghost in that basement.
My colleague frowned, not getting it.
I didn’t bother explaining.
The police found the basement easily. Inside—strands of hair from at least seven different people. Proof we weren’t the first.
Public records later revealed Lucas Melville—a part-time art theory lecturer who barely showed up to his two classes a week. His father, Richard Melville, the school’s director, had handed him the job like a silver spoon.
To most, Lucas was just another spoiled trust-fund brat.
But long before that? He was the kid who tortured cats. Who gutted dogs. Who smiled while doing it.
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