Blackout

Title: “Blackout”

 

3:00 AM.

South London.

A quiet residential street, still and fog-wrapped.

 

Two women stood motionless in the garden behind a detached house.

All black. All silent.

 

Dana wore:

•Black skin-tight leggings

•Completely black sneakers

•An tight-fitting denim jacket with the collar slightly open

•Black leather gloves

•A tight black balaclava that revealed only her sharp, focused eyes

Her figure was agile, dangerous, and composed.

 

Celine wore:

•Tight blue jeans

•Black flat boots

•A tight black bomber leather jacket, zipped, collar slightly open

•Black leather gloves

•A tight black balaclava like Dana’s, pulled perfectly in place

She stood tall, professional, eyes scanning the street like a machine.

 

Dana dropped to her knee at the glass patio door. Crowbar in hand.

 

“Three seconds,” she whispered.

 

Crack.

 

The lock gave way, clean and quiet. They slipped inside like a shadow cutting through silence.

 

The house was dark. A cold kind of quiet. The smell of furniture wax and old perfume hung in the air. They moved with total control.

 

Celine knelt at the hallway wall, took a small knife from her jacket sleeve, and cut the phone cable in one swift motion. Her gloves never made a sound.

 

Dana opened the bathroom door — empty. Then the guest room — nothing. Her nod said it all.

 

Down the hallway: the bedroom door.

 

It creaked as they opened it.

Inside: A woman in her seventies, asleep. Perfect hair. Clean linens. Her room was old-fashioned, soft-lit by a bedside lamp. A jewelry box rested on the nightstand.

 

She stirred.

 

Dana lunged, one knee on the bed. Her black leather glove sealed over the old woman’s mouth like steel.

 

“Make a fucking noise,” she hissed. “I dare you.”

 

The woman’s eyes were wide with panic, her body frozen in fear.

 

Celine moved fast. At the dresser. Flipped boxes. Rummaged through drawers. Plastic pearls, fake gold, worthless junk.

 

Then she reached lower — behind the bottom drawer — and pulled out a thick bundle of cash, rubber-banded, clean notes.

 

“Got it,” she said coldly.

 

She turned, walked toward Dana, and held up the bundle like a trophy.

In the dim light, her silhouette looked like a ghost with money in her hands.

 

Dana looked down at the woman under her grip.

 

“You thought this was gonna save you, huh?” she whispered. “Old, rich, and stupid.”

 

The woman whimpered. Dana slapped her across the face — once, hard, her gloved hand leaving a print of silence and power.

 

“You’re not walking out of this.”

 

Dana pulled her mask up just enough to show her face.

 

“Take a good look.”

 

Then her hands locked around the old woman’s throat.

 

No drama. No noise. Just pressure. Leather on skin. A fight that lasted seconds.

The woman twitched, then sagged into stillness — mouth open, eyes glassy.

Blanket pulled tight. Life gone.

 

Dana stood up calmly. Adjusted the hem of her denim jacket.

 

Celine zipped her bomber jacket a little higher, tucking the cash away.

“She’s gone?”

 

Dana nodded. “No loose ends.”

 

Celine walked to the window, peeked through the curtain. Street still dead.

 

They exited the house silently. Back garden. Through the fog.

 

The black BMW sat two blocks away. No plates. Engine cold.

 

Dana lit a cigarette, the flame glowing briefly through the mist. She handed one to Celine.

 

“You know what I love about posh old women?” Dana exhaled, smoke trailing from her balaclava.

 

“They don’t fight back,” Celine said, laughing softly as she slid into the passenger seat.

 

They drove off slowly.

 

Two black silhouettes fading into the London night — cold, calm, and cruel.

Done