I whip around arms extended; my hair swivels with my head and creates a cape-like effect when I turn. I smile when the sound of slicing skin reaches my ears. I duck out of the way and stand up, knife dripping.

The older man falls to his knees, holding his throat. He looks up at me pleadingly and reaches out with a bloody hand. I sneer and raise a foot to his chest. I kick him down and he huffs out his last breath.

I lean down and touch my lips to the side of his cheek, "You picked the wrong fight," I whisper into his ear. I straighten up, button my shirt and spit.

I grab my long, dark hair and pull it back. I reach down and wipe the bloody knife then shove it back in my boot. The pounding of the club raises a notch as I turn toward the empty street.

I reach the end of the block and grab the payphone. I quickly dial 911, a grin creeping its way to my face; the police are going to have a surprise tonight.