You slide the bag across the table. The hooded figure opposite you peers inside. You scrutinize his face, watching for the slightest hint of emotion. His face slips into sorrow. With trembling fingers, he picks up the bag. He looks back up at you. “Where the hell did you find this?” he growls. His voice shakes. You straighten your back and stretch out your fingers. You’ve done this before, and you’ll do it again. “Do you recognize that necklace, Mr. Peterson?” you say in a low voice. He lurches forward and grips your wrist. Your fingers whimper in response, but you bite down on your sharp remark as he glances around pensively. “Don’t call me by that,” he whispers, looking around. You shake yourself free of his grasp and cross your arms tight in your navy trenchcoat. You fix him with a predatory stare. He looks so pathetic now, just as he had back then. What a quiet woman she had been. Blond hair and blue eyes. A sylph-like figure. A sharp mind. But in his hands, just a bauble for the human eye to behold. “And you took her life,” you mused out loud. He hisses in panic and fixes you with a pleading gaze. He worries still about the men surrounding him, what’ll they think of him. Not the soft throat he had wrapped his hands around. “You decided that instead of committing adultery, you’d commit murder?” His fingers clench helplessly. He is beautiful here, under your foot. His pale face is cherry-red, his lips stupidly parted, his blond hair drenched from the monsoons. He is beautiful. You wonder scornfully how anyone could ever love such scum. Your lips curl into a sinister smile. “What’s stopping me from walking over to your apartment and telling your wife about this right now?” This time, his breaths are more thready. His words are choked, intermingled with the emotion brimming deep inside his throat. “Please. Please don’t. I’ll do anything. My kid…” You pause for a moment. You weren’t aware of a child in the equation. You lean forward. “Go on.” Seemingly aware he had prevented your wrath for a moment, Mr. Peterson jumped to the advantage. “She’s just turning nine. If we divorce now, it’ll ruin her. I can’t…I can’t do that to her.” “Then why’d you cheat on your wife in the first place?” You snarl, but your resolve is quickly running dry. You picture the image of a small child, holding a stuffed animal, face flushed with tears, waving her father off. You grit your teeth tighter. People in the bar are turning to look now. Mr. Peterson is shrinking in his seat. You sigh heavily, and open your backpack. He flinches. You can’t muster up the courage to be pleased. Your fingers graze against something cold and wooden and familiar. You draw your bow and his eyes widen with horror. He scrambles out of his seat, sputtering wildly. “You! No! Don’t you-” You nock an arrow, draw the string back, and fire. The feather-light fletchling grazes your cheek as the arrow flies true into his heart. He staggers backward for a second. Then, it disappears. His eyes fill with fog. The bar is suspended, like marionettes in limbo. “Mr. Peterson,” you say slowly. “Tomorrow, your wife will divorce you and it’ll be your fault. You’ll spend the rest of your life on dating apps but never find anyone who loves you. Two years from now, you’ll be charged for the murder of Bethany Short. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life,” You swallow. “Your daughter will never remember your face.” He blinks once, and the fog clears. Tears fill in his eyes as he leaves the bar. No one else dares to look at you, much less say anything. They can no longer see you, after all. You drop your bow to your thigh and gather up the bag, tracing a finger along the opal pendant of the necklace that had once hung pretty on Bethany Short’s throat. You tuck it in your coat. The Anti-Cupid, they called you. Designed to kill relationships destined to die. Made to hurt. An apathetic monster to run from with your lover. But today, you don’t feel very apathetic. Your fingers run over the stone in your hands as you leave. Today, you feel just a little human.