The Girl with the Blood-Red Lips

She walked into Pop’s Diner like she owned the place, red heels clicking against the tile, a cigarette holder dangling between her fingers.

“Coffee. Black.”

Pop knew trouble when he saw it, and she was wearing it like perfume.

She didn’t look up, didn’t need to—every pair of eyes in the joint was already on her.

“You waiting for someone?” Pop asked.

She smirked. “Maybe.”

Twenty minutes later, a man in a cheap suit stumbled in, clutching his gut. Blood pooled on the floor, mixing with the coffee she never touched. She leaned over, whispered something in his ear, then strutted out, leaving him to die with a smile on his lips.