That night,

I sat in my Bentley, watching a nondescript hearse exit the club's service entrance.


A fitful breeze stirred the air.

It lifted one corner of the white sheet,

revealing glimpses of a grotesquely scarred face, acid-burned beyond recognition.


The eyes remained open, forever frozen in an expression of ultimate agony.

Even in death, there was only confusion.


No understanding of why this had happened.

Only when the hearse vanished around the corner

did I finally raise my window.

"Home, madam?" my driver inquired softly.

"Yes," I whispered. "Home."

The Bentley purred to life, heading in the opposite direction from the hearse.

Neon city lights streamed past, casting shifting patterns across my serene face.