Disclaimer: The entirety of this story, including, but not limited to, the scenario / plot, the characters, and the writing itself, is completely original, and was written by no one other than myself (unless otherwise stated).

A/N: One guess as to what this was for, lol. Prompt was 'Cliché'.

I--I

Unbroken rays of moonlight striped the carpeted ground in front of him, making every shadow cast a haunting display. Leafless autumn trees sanctioned silhouettes of monsters to slither soundlessly into the room through the open window, their movements granted with every ethereal howl of the gloaming wind.

His patience was unwavering; his breathing, silent and steady.

His line of sight was narrowed to the thin slits of vision allowed by the shutter-like panels of the closet door, the area small enough to reawaken his long-since dormant sense of claustrophobia. The firmly gripped blade grew heavy after its owner’s countless hours of indefatigable anticipation; the routine mask worn over the revelation of his identity soon becoming equally stifling.

It was at that moment when she walked in.

There were only three characteristics which frequently profiled the victims: an exquisite figure in uniform, a band holding straight-ironed hair into place, and a skirt short enough to make any harlot snicker at its obscenity. They would always be sixteen, as well; it was against some kind of unwritten code of carnage to perform it any younger.

She’d enter home alone after an evening of late practice, closing the door and clicking its lock shut.

She glided over to her vanity desk and slowly pulled the ribbons loose from their tie, making perfect hair fall gracefully against delicate shoulders. He would always wait until they were partially undressed--such a guilty pleasure for the officers--before drawing open the closet door and slinking from the cover of the shadows to approach her while her back was turned. They’d always be doing something magnificently inane at the time, like putting the golden earrings their grandmother gave them into some jewelry box with some equally arbitrary and repulsive sentimental value.

A few minutes of dramatically prolonged hesitation later, the girl would turn sharply towards the sound of a creak that was never of his accord; she’d attribute the mysterious sound to the wind and reach to slip the window shut.

As she turned back to resume vain endeavors, her widened eyes would behold the intruder and the massive knife rising swiftly into the air; only then would she release that flawless, high-pitched, blood-curling scream.

The more tasteful scenes always cut to black.

For him, there was nothing more amusing than recounting a day in the life.

Perfectly cliché.