Pera D

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**—the alarm clock's digital scream slices through the stench of stale beer and sweat clinging to the room. Kínitos jolts awake, his threadbare sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. Morning light filters through nicotine-yellow blinds, painting stripes across the landscape of crushed energy drink cans and pizza boxes surrounding his mattress. He swings a tattooed arm toward the screeching device, his knuckles connecting with the nightstand's splintered edge.

"Fuuuuck!" The curse rips from his throat as he inspects the mahogany sliver spearing his index finger. **BEEP BEEP BEEP**—the alarm mocks his pain. He digs out the splinter with nicotine-stained teeth, coppery blood blooming on his tongue. "Should've finished you off last week," he snarls at the nightstand's chipped surface, where five similar gashes mark previous mornings' failures.

He body-slams the alarm against the wall. Plastic shrapnel rains down as the device skids across warped floorboards, **beep**-ing its death rattle. The victory feels hollow. His gaze snags on the laundry volcano erupting in the corner—a sedimentary record of three months' denial: oil-stained mechanic's coveralls buried under cumulus clouds of yellowed undershirts, topped by the crusted dress shirt he'd worn to his mother's funeral.

"Fuckin' rat's nest," he mutters, scrubbing sleep-grit from his hazel eyes. His bare feet encounter something slick—last night's spilled ramen congealing near the TV stand. The flatscreen still glows with Netflix's homepage, paused on *True Crime Killers: Season 4*. He fumbles under his sweat-damp pillow for the remote.

"—*another victim found near the 12th District rail yard*," purrs a newscaster through veneer-white teeth. The camera cuts to caution tape fluttering like party streamers around a dumpster. Kínitos staggers upright, crushing a Pabst Blue Ribbon can flat with his heel. The metallic *crunch* harmonizes with the reporter's tremor as she adds, "*Authorities confirm the victim's hands were removed with... surgical precision.*"

His nicotine-fit fingers spider through the nightstand drawer—past condom wrappers and a half-eaten Payday bar—before closing around his Zippo. The lighter's familiar weight sparks half a memory: Sara laughing as she'd engraved "*Burn Bright*" on its side last Christmas. He shakes it away.

"Found you," he tells the Zippo. His eyes sweep the battlefield of his studio apartment—the leaning tower of Amazon boxes serving as a dinner table, the pyramid of Monster cans functioning as a lamp stand. When his gaze lands on the mini-fridge humming in the corner like a anxious pet, he licps his cracked lips.

The fridge coughs out a cloud of frost when he yanks its door. He grabs a Coke with a faded "*Sara's 25th!*" sticker peeling from its side, then fishes out a dime bag from behind the ice tray. "There's my bitch," he croons, sprinkling emerald-green buds onto a *Fast & Furious* DVD case. His tongue swipes the gumstrip of a rolling paper—cherry-flavored, his favorite.

The TV anchor's voice sharpens as he twists the blunt: "*Women are advised against solo travel after dark. Chief Morales urges—*"

**CLICK**. The screen dies mid-plea. 7:30 AM glows blood-red on his cracked iPhone. He torches the blunt's tip, inhaling until his lungs burn. Smoke plumes through his nostrils as he ducks into the bathroom, shoulders brushing mold-spotted walls.

The mirror shows a stranger—hair matted into devil horns, beard sprouting in erratic patches, that angry crimson zit throbbing on his jawline like a second heartbeat. He tongues the joint's roach-end, watching smoke curl toward the water-stained ceiling. The shower hisses to life, scalding his back as he steps under the spray.

**RING RING RING**—his burner phone dances across the sink. *Sara* flashes like a police strobe. He stares until the steam fogs the screen, then snatches it on the seventh ring.

"Hey." Her voice cracks the way it did when she'd found his stash in the glove compartment.

"Hey." Water sluices the weed smell from his skin. He counts her breaths—four shallow gasps before she continues.

"You... sleeping okay?"

His laugh comes out harsher than intended. "Like a baby. You know me."

Silence. He pictures her chewing her thumbnail, that nervous tic she'd picked up during chemo. The shower curtain sways, brushing his hip like a ghost hand.

"Did you... " Her exhale shakes. "Did you hear about the train yard body?"

His spine stiffens. "They're saying it's some copycat, right?"

"Copycat?" Her pitch spikes. "Kín, they think it's the same—"

"Not now, Sar." He squeezes the phone until the plastic creaks. "I'm neck-deep in fucking Suave shampoo here."

A wet sniff. "Right. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" The shout echoes off mildewed tiles. He gentles his tone. "Just... meet me by the dumpsters at lunch. We'll talk."

The call dies with a whimper. He sinks to the tub floor, blunt ash snowing onto hairy thighs. Above him, a housefly beats itself bloody against a spiderweb. He wonders when the spider abandoned its trap—maybe after the first dozen carcasses piled up.

"Shoulda quit while you were ahead," he tells the fly. Smoke blurs the razor scar peeking above his towel—that night at the docks when Morales' goons got overzealous. His thumb traces the raised tissue as he drains the blunt.

He dresses mechanically: socks with heel holes, boxers from the *clean-ish* floor pile, the navy-blue suit Sara bought for their fictional courthouse wedding that never happened. The fabric hangs loose now. He douses himself in Dollar Tree cologne—*Ocean Breeze* that smells like bleach and regret.

The studio door sticks when he shoves it open. Morning light stabs his pupils as he emerges into the complex's courtyard, where Mrs. Ruiz's Chihuahua yaps at meth-heads dozing by the mailboxes. He kicks his motorcycle to life, the engine's growl drowning out the distant wail of police sirens. As he peels onto the highway, he doesn't notice the black sedan sliding into traffic behind him.

Nor does he see the passenger's gloved hand adjust the rearview mirror, reflecting eyes as cold as the scalpel tucked in their coat pocket.