It was a summer evening in 1995, the air thick with the scent of pine in their small Nevada town. Emily, fifteen and radiant, had promised to take Lila to the creek to catch fireflies. They’d snuck out after dinner, giggling as they ran through the woods, their shoes crunching on pine needles. But then Emily stopped, her smile fading. “Stay here”, she whispered, hearing something; a rustling in the trees. Lila obeyed, crouching behind a bush, her heart pounding as Emily crept forward. That’s when he appeared... a man, about thirty, with cold eyes and a crooked smirk. He grabbed Emily, his hand clamping over her mouth, and dragged her into the darkness. Lila stifled a scream, too terrified to move, watching as her sister’s sneakers left faint drag marks in the dirt.


Emily’s body was found three days later in a ditch ten miles away, her skin marred with strange puncture wounds, her wrists bound with wire. The police said the killer had used a spiked metal rod; a gruesome, signature tool. They called him the “Spike Killer”, a drifter who’d tortured and murdered at least five girls across Nevada in the early ‘90s. But he vanished after Emily, leaving the case cold.


The aftermath shattered Lila’s family. Her parents became ghosts of themselves, her mother clutching Emily’s favorite sweater every night, her father staring out the window for hours, as if Emily might walk back through the door. Lila, too young to fully grasp the loss, felt the weight of absence in every corner of their home; the empty chair at dinner, the untouched bedroom with Emily’s posters still on the walls, frozen in time.


Worst of all were the phone calls. Every few months, the police would call, their voices heavy with regret. Another girl had been found, always with the same puncture wounds, the same wire bindings. “We thought it might be related”, they’d say, and Lila’s mother would collapse, sobbing, while her father slammed the phone down, unable to bear the false hope. The calls kept coming for years, each one a reminder that the killer was still out there, still hunting.


Lila carried the pain of losing Emily, but as she grew older, she fought to build a new life, determined not to let the past define her. She found solace in animals, especially horses, their strength and grace a quiet comfort. She became a veterinarian, driven by her love for them, and she was exceptional at her job, known for her steady hands and gentle touch, whether she was treating a colt’s sprained leg or calming a nervous mare. She’d tried to leave all that pain behind, though the memory of Emily lingered like a quiet ache, softened by time. She kept a Polaroid of her sister in her wallet—Emily laughing, her blonde hair glowing in the sun—a reminder of the joy they’d shared, not the horror that followed.


That night in the bar in Vegas changed everything. Lila had stopped at a ranch on her way from Reno, called in to check on a horse with a suspected infection. She’d brought her vet bag, stocked with supplies, including a vial of tranquilizers meant for livestock, just in case the horse needed sedation. She hadn’t thought twice about it when she tossed the bag into her car and continued to Vegas. But when she saw him in the bar—the same cold eyes, the same crooked smirk—her carefully rebuilt world cracked open. Rage surged through her, hotter than she’d ever felt, a primal instinct she couldn’t ignore. She didn’t have a plan, hadn’t spent years plotting revenge, but in that moment, she knew she couldn’t let him walk away.


She flirted with him, her smile a mask, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. She lured him back to her Airbnb, her hands trembling as she poured him a drink. Her vet bag sat on the counter, the tranquilizers inside—a chance tool for an unplanned act. She slipped a dose into his glass, watching as his eyes grew heavy, his body slumping to the floor, a monster rendered helpless.


Panic set in. What now?