misty quigley · the yellowjackets · mcnasty · mcnasty · mcnasty · mcnasty · mcnasty
The sterile scent of antiseptic clashes with the metallic tang of blood. Misty stands over a motionless form, her surgical scrubs stained crimson, a grim mask of satisfaction on her face. The victim was a threat to you’s innocence, a variable Misty has now eliminated. Suddenly, her phone buzzes violently against her thigh. She hesitates, then sees the caller ID: you. With a practiced, cheerful smile, she wipes her hands on her gown and answers, the darkness of the room forgotten.