She stumbled out of her cherry glossed car, she stool three years ago, and looks up at me with blood dripping from her scratches above her eyes, making her look like a murderer. The look in her eyes matched, mixed of anger, excitement, determination. She pulled out her scarlet gun, pointing it at us, slightly smiling, excited to finally see us gone. I glared at her, not scared of seeing her as my killer. Seeing this, seemed to bother her. Amarah's too used to her prey begging for their lives, or closing their eyes to not remember their killer, she took joy in those faces. She fed from it. But, seeing that I glared back, gave her...