Finding a Yandere in Reverse World

Chapter 95: Operation Neptune Spear

[Erica’s POV]

Today is the day for Jason’s Bachelor party. The late afternoon sun bathes our expansive backyard in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows across the meticulously manicured lawn. A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves of the trees that line the property.

I stand on the back patio, my arms crossed over my chest as I watch Jason and Justine animatedly set up the tent Amelia picked out for them. It’s a far cry from the simple pop-up I had imagined. Instead, it’s a luxurious canvas tent, its cream-colored fabric gleaming in the sunlight.

Jason’s face is alight with childlike wonder as he and Justine work together to secure the tent’s ropes. His hazel eyes sparkle with excitement, and a wide grin seems permanently etched on his face. He looks so carefree, so unburdened in this moment, that it makes my heart ache with a mixture of love and protective instinct.

‘He is going to be utterly heartbroken tonight. I’m so sorry, Jason.’

“This is way better than the tent I expected!” Jason exclaims, stepping back to admire their handiwork. His voice carries across the lawn, filled with genuine enthusiasm.

Justine nods, her fiery red hair catching the light as she moves. “Yeah, it’s almost too good,” she replies, a hint of awe in her tone. She runs her hand along the smooth fabric of the tent, clearly impressed by its quality.

Jason laughs, the sound light and carefree. “Nah, nah, we’re adults now,” he says, playfully nudging Justine with his elbow. “We deserve a little luxury in our camping adventures.”

“True,” Justine concedes with a grin. She steps inside the tent, her voice slightly muffled as she calls out, “Wait until you see the inside!”

As I watch them, I feel a presence beside me. Amelia stands there, her posture perfect as always, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. She leans in slightly, her voice low as she whispers, “I’ll keep a good eye on them, Miss Knight.”

I nod and whisper back, “Yes. I’ll only be gone for an hour, though. It shouldn’t be anymore than that.”

Amelia’s brow furrows slightly, a flicker of concern passing over her usually impassive features. She hesitates for a moment before asking, “Where exactly are you going, Miss Knight?”

I shake my head, offering her a small, enigmatic smile. “Sorry, you’ll see soon enough.”

Amelia’s posture stiffens almost imperceptibly, her hands clasping tighter in front of her. “Yes, Miss Erica,” she says, her voice tinged with a hint of anxiety that she can’t quite mask.

I turn to face her fully, my voice dropping even lower. “Thank you for the supplies and teaching me a few techniques the other day.”

Amelia nods, her movements more nervous now. Her eyes dart briefly to Jason and Justine, still engrossed in setting up their campsite, before returning to me. “You’ve got to be careful when faking a murder scene,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” I reply simply.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what’s to come. With measured steps, I make my way across the lush green lawn towards Jason and Justine. The grass is soft beneath my feet, still damp from the morning dew. As I approach, I can hear their laughter, see the joy radiating from Jason’s face.

When I reach them, I wordlessly wrap my arms around Jason, pulling him into a tight embrace. My grip is perhaps a bit too firm, my arms trembling slightly with the effort of holding back the storm of emotions threatening to break free. I breathe in his scent trying to commit it to memory.

Jason lets out a small “oof” of surprise at the suddenness of my hug but quickly relaxes into it. I can feel his smile against my shoulder as he says, “It’ll be only like 18 hours until we see each other again, you know.”

I force a smile onto my face as I pull back slightly to look at him. “I know,” I say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

Before he can question my tone, I lean in and capture his lips in a deep, possessive kiss. It’s not our usual gentle affection; this is raw and intense, filled with all the love, fear, and desperation I can’t put into words. My hands come up to cup his face, holding him to me as if he might disappear at any moment.

‘This is the first time since Tessa we’ll have gone this long without seeing each other. He wont think it’s weird for me to do this to him.’

When we finally break apart, Jason looks dazed but thrilled. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright with excitement and love. “You know,” he says, a bit breathlessly, “I really think it’d be more fun if you were here tonight too.”

My heart clenches at the open invitation in his eyes. For a moment, I’m tempted to throw caution to the wind, to stay here with him where I can keep him safe. But I know what needs to be done.

I smile softly, reaching up to gently pet his head. My fingers card through his soft hair as I say, “Just this once, I want you to have fun without me. Enjoy your time with Justine.”

Jason leans into my touch, his eyes closing briefly in contentment. When he opens them again, they’re full of love and trust.

‘Once we are married, I will make sure you never cry again.’

I give him one last quick kiss before stepping back. “Have fun,” I say., forcing cheerfulness into my voice.

I nod to Amelia before heading out.

*****

I park my sleek black Audi behind the dilapidated house, the engine’s purr fading to silence as I cut the ignition. The street is deserted, with rows of abandoned homes stretching out on either side, their windows dark and lifeless.

The wind whips at my dark hoodie, tugging the hood lower over my face as I survey my surroundings. This neighborhood, once a thriving suburban dream, now stands as a ghostly reminder of nature’s power. Twenty years ago, new flooding maps revealed the area’s vulnerability, and one by one, families packed up and left, leaving behind empty shells of homes that insurance companies refused to touch.

The house before me is a perfect example of this decay. Paint peels from its weathered siding in long, curling strips. The front porch sags ominously, its wooden planks warped and rotting. Weeds push up through cracks in the concrete path, nature slowly reclaiming what was once manicured and tamed.

I make my way around to the back of the house, my eyes constantly scanning for any signs of life or movement. But there’s nothing, no curious neighbors, no passing cars.

The fence looms before me, a once-pristine white picket now stained and splintered by years of neglect. I take a running start, my muscles coiling before I spring upward. My gloved hands grasp the top of the fence, and I vault over in one fluid motion, landing silently on the other side.

The backyard is a tangle of weeds and wildflowers, nature’s beauty thriving in the absence of human interference. The back of the house looks even more decrepit from this angle, with missing shingles and a partially collapsed gutter.

I approach the back door cautiously, my footsteps silent on the overgrown grass. As I push the door, I’m struck by the unexpected sight before me.

The interior is a jarring departure from the dilapidated exterior. The walls are painted a soft, warm beige, unmarred by cracks or water stains. It’s clear that someone has restored this space, creating a cozy oasis within the crumbling shell of the house. It was a great choice to steal Brooke’s banking info and rent this place out for a couple of months for Lyra.

I move silently through what appears to be a small mudroom. The air is filled with the aroma of something savory cooking, mingled with the faint scent of baby powder.

As I step into the main living area, I’m struck by how lived-in it feels. A plush sofa sits against one wall, throw pillows arranged artfully across its surface.

Shaking off the momentary distraction, I continue my silent journey through the house. I pass through a small dining area, a wooden table set for one with a cheerful yellow placemat and a vase of fresh wildflowers.

The sound of Lyra’s voice grows clearer as I approach the kitchen. I pause at the entrance to a connecting bathroom, listening intently.

“That’s my good girl, Hope,” Lyra coos, her voice filled with warmth and affection. “Mommy’s almost done making dinner. Then we’ll have a nice bottle for you; yes, we will.”

I slip into the bathroom, my eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The counter holds an array of baby products, lotion, powder, tiny nail clippers.

Moving silently, I slip silently out of the connected bedroom into a small hallway, emerging into the kitchen. The scene before me is almost painfully domestic. Lyra stands at the counter, her back to me as she prepares a bottle. Her movements are practiced and efficient, the routine of a new mother already ingrained.

To her left, perched on the counter in a cushioned baby seat, is little Hope. My breath catches in my throat as I take in her features. Her eyes, wide and curious, are an exact replica of Jason’s. The same warm hazel I’ve grown to love with all my heart. They seem to pierce right through me, seeing more than any infant should.

Lyra begins to turn, the bottle in her hand. As she pivots, her eyes lock onto mine. For a split second, time seems to stand still. I see the recognition dawn in her eyes, quickly followed by fear. Her mouth opens, perhaps to scream, perhaps to plead.

But I don’t give her the chance.

In one fluid motion, my hand goes to the holster at my side. The knife slides free with a soft whisper of steel against leather. Three quick steps bring me within range.

The first thrust catches her just below and to the right of her ribs. The second, higher, between her breasts. The third slices across her throat, silencing any sound she might have made.

Lyra’s eyes go wide with shock and pain. The bottle slips from her grasp, as she stumbles backward.

Her back hits the refrigerator, leaving a crimson smear as she slides slowly to the floor. Blood soaks through her shirt, staining my hoodie where I stand close. I take care to keep my shoes clear of the growing puddle.

Confusion clouds Lyra’s eyes as she stares up at me. Her lips move, forming a single word: “Erica?”

As Lyra’s life ebbs away, her final breath a wet, gurgling sound, my attention turns to Hope. The baby sits there, eerily calm, her hazel eyes, so like Jason’s, fixed on me. There’s no fear in her gaze, no comprehension of the horror she’s just witnessed. Instead, a toothless smile spreads across her chubby face, her tiny hands reaching out towards me.

I furrow my brow, studying this strange, unperturbed infant. Hope yips softly, seemingly untroubled by the metallic scent of blood that now permeates the air or the lifeless form of her mother slumped nearby. Her innocence in the face of such violence is almost unsettling.

Glancing at my watch, I note the time. Ten minutes until Brooke’s expected arrival. I had texted her right before i got here from a burner. The countdown begins.

With practiced precision, I carefully remove my blood-soaked hoodie, mindful not to let a single drop fall on the clean kitchen floor. The fabric feels heavy and warm as I gently lay it on the ground.

I’m grateful for the long-sleeved shirt I wore underneath, its dark fabric hiding any stray specks of crimson that may have seeped through. My movements are deliberate and controlled as I turn my attention to Hope, still sitting placidly in her baby seat, seemingly unaware of the gruesome scene before her.

With gloved hands, I carefully lift Hope from her perch. She’s very light, a delicate bundle of warmth and softness. As I settle her into the crook of my left arm, she lets out a contented coo, her tiny fingers grasping at the fabric of my shirt. Her hazel eyes, so achingly familiar, peer up at me with an innocence that makes my heart clench.

Hope’s behavior is remarkable, almost unnervingly so. There’s no fussing, no crying, just that same toothless smile and occasional happy gurgle.

As I hold her, a wave of guilt washes over me. This tiny, helpless being, with Jason’s eyes and his trusting nature, has no idea of the fate I’ve planned for her.

I try to steel myself, to remember why I’m doing this for Jason. To protect him, to keep him safe from a world that seems determined to hurt him at every turn. I repeat it like a mantra in my head.

‘This is for Jason. This is all for Jason.’

‘I’d kill a million kids for Jason.’

As I hold Hope, her tiny form warm against my chest, I feel a surge of power coursing through me. This is all for Jason. to protect him, to keep him safe from those who would harm him. With each passing second, my resolve strengthens.

The weight of the gun at my hip is reassuring. I am in control. I am powerful. Nothing can stop me from doing what needs to be done to secure Jason’s safety and happiness.

Lost in these thoughts, in the heady rush of adrenaline and purpose, I barely notice the time slipping by. The soft knock at the door startles me out of my trance. I tense, my hand instinctively moving towards my weapon.

Another minute passes in tense silence before I hear the creak of the door opening. Soft footsteps approach, hesitant at first, then quickening.

“Lyra? Hope? Is everything okay?” Brooke’s voice calls out, tinged with worry.

I turn slowly, Hope still cradled in my left arm, as Brooke enters the kitchen. Her eyes widen in horror as she takes in the scene before her, Lyra’s crumpled form on the floor, the pool of blood, me standing amidst it all with Hope in my arms.

In one quick motion, I draw my gun with my right hand, the metal cool and familiar against my palm. I level it at Brooke, my voice steady and cold as I speak.

“Over here. Now. Or I kill the kid.”

Brooke’s face drains of color, her eyes darting between me, the gun, and Hope. She raises her hands slowly, her whole body trembling.

“Erica,” she whispers, her voice cracking with fear. “What... what have you done?”

I can see the terror in her eyes, the dawning realization of the situation she’s walked into. But there’s something else there, too, a desperation, a protective instinct flaring in life as her gaze locks onto Hope.

“Don’t hurt her,” Brooke pleads, taking a shaky step forward. “Please, Erica. She’s just a baby. She’s innocent.”

I gesture with the gun towards the counter a few feet in front of the fridge. “There. Right now,” I command, my voice low and dangerous.

Brooke hesitates, her eyes darting between me, Hope, and the spot I’ve indicated. The kitchen feels impossibly small.

I take a step closer to Lyra’s corpse, my shoes carefully avoiding the blood. Hope squirms slightly in my arm, letting out a happy little sound that seems jarringly out of place in this nightmarish scene.

“The hoodie,” I say, nodding towards the blood-soaked garment on the floor. “Put it on.”

Brooke’s brow furrows in confusion, her face a mask of terror and disbelief. “What?” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.

The sound of the hammer cocking fills the kitchen, unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Hope’s eyes widen at the noise, her tiny hands grasping at my shirt.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I growl, my finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Brooke’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice trembling. She moves slowly as if under a spell, bending to pick up the hoodie. Her hands shake as she slips it on, the fabric heavy and wet with Lyra’s blood. It clings to her, a gruesome second skin.

As soon as Brooke settles the hoodie into place, her eyes meet mine, silently pleading. But there’s no mercy to be found. I bend down to Lyra’s current height, adjust my aim to line up with her hand, and squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The first bullet tears through Brooke’s leg, just above her knee. The second finds its mark in her abdomen. The sound of the gunshots is deafening in the enclosed space, echoing off the walls and drowning out Brooke’s initial cry of pain.

Brooke crumples to the ground, her legs giving out beneath her. She lands hard, her body twisting as she falls. A choked gasp escapes her lips as she clutches at her wounds, blood already seeping through her fingers and mingling with that, soaking the hoodie.

Hope suddenly starts wailing, her piercing cries filling the kitchen. The gunshots were seemingly too loud for her. Tears stream down her chubby cheeks as she squirms in my arm, tiny fists flailing.

But I barely register the baby’s distress. The rush of adrenaline from shooting Brooke courses through my veins like liquid fire. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a thunderous roar in my ears. The scent of gunpowder mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating an intoxicating cocktail that makes my head spin.

I can’t tear my eyes away from Brooke’s crumpled form. Her blood spreads across the linoleum floor, a crimson pool that grows larger with each passing second. The sight of her pain, her fear, sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. After all this time, all the rivalry and mistrust between us, I’ve finally bested her completely.

Suddenly, Brooke’s eyes roll back in her head, the whites stark against her pale, sweat-slicked skin. Her hands fall away from her wounds, her arms going limp at her sides. For a moment, she’s utterly still, and I wonder if she’s lost consciousness from the shock and blood loss.

But then, just as abruptly, her eyes snap open. They’re wide and confused, darting around the room as if seeing it for the first time. When they land on her injuries, a fresh wave of terror washes over her face.

“What’s going on?” Brooke screams, her voice high and panicked. She presses her hands back to her wounds as if just realizing she’s been shot. “Oh god, oh god, what happened?”

Her gaze finds me, standing over her with Hope crying in my arms and the gun still pointed at her. “Who are you?” she yells, genuine confusion and fear etched across her features. “What did you do to me?”

“Shut the fuck up, Brooke,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.

Without hesitation, I squeeze the trigger once more. The gunshot cracks through the air, momentarily drowning out Hope’s cries. The bullet finds its mark, tearing through Brooke’s forehead with deadly precision. Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before the light behind them fades forever.

Brooke’s body goes slack, her head lolling forward as blood and other matter spill from the wound. A final, rattling breath escapes her lips before she falls silent, joining Lyra in death on the blood-soaked kitchen floor.

I survey the gruesome scene before me, a mixture of satisfaction and disgust churning in my gut. The once pristine kitchen is now a monument of violence, two bodies sprawled across the linoleum, blood pooling and mingling beneath them.

With practiced efficiency, I move to stage the scene. Carefully avoiding the expanding puddles of blood. Lyra’s skin is already cool to the touch as I manipulate her lifeless fingers around the grip of my gun. I position it carefully, making sure the angle looks natural.

I turn my attention to Hope, still wailing in my arms. Her tiny face is scrunched up and red, tears streaming down her chubby cheeks.

With careful steps, I navigate around the blood-soaked kitchen floor, my shoes leaving no trace as I make my way back to the baby seat on the counter. The plastic surface is cool and smooth under my gloved hands as I gently lower Hope back into place on her little seat.

As soon as she’s settled, her cries begin to subside, reducing to soft whimpers and hiccups. Her hazel eyes, still glistening with tears, lock onto mine. The resemblance to Jason is undeniable, like looking into a time capsule of the man I love.

“I really hate you,” I whisper.

But as I stare into those familiar eyes, I feel my resolve wavering. The innocence in her gaze, the utter helplessness of her tiny form, it all reminds me so much of Jason.

Tears begin to well up in my own eyes, blurring my vision. “Come on, Erica, really?” I mutter to myself, frustration evident in my tone. “We came here to kill this fucking baby.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. When I open them again, Hope is still there, still staring at me with those impossibly familiar eyes. Her tiny hand reaches out, grasping at the air between us.

A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I look down, unable to maintain eye contact with the infant any longer. The weight of what I came here to do and what I now find myself unable to do settles on my shoulders like a physical burden.

With a final glance at Hope, I turn away. My movements are swift and silent as I retrace my steps through the house, carefully avoiding the pools of blood and any other evidence of my presence. The back door creaks softly as I slip out into the overgrown yard, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy, blood-scented interior of the house.

As I vault back over the fence, landing silently on the other side, I can’t shake the image of those hazel eyes from my mind. Against all my better judgment, against every instinct that screams at me to eliminate any threat to Jason’s happiness, I’ve left Hope alive.

“I swear to god, I better not fucking regret this.”