A stream of energy burst from the woman’s body at a dizzying speed and struck the left rear tire dead center. The tire exploded with a sharp bang. The car, just pulling into the street, lurched violently, swerved across the lane, and clipped a van passing at that exact moment. The van jerked sideways and slammed into a lamppost. Another car crashed into it, then another, though less forcefully than the first.

  Alice watched with quiet satisfaction.

  “There was a small child in the car that hit the lamppost,” said Not-a-Doctor, still smiling.

  “I don’t give a damn,” the witch snarled. “They’re all alive. The rest is their problem.”

  “Indeed,” he replied softly.

  Alice stepped away from the window and sank comfortably into the armchair. She tried to ignore the speakers howling beneath her floor. Not-a-Doctor observed her with amusement and with a kind of satisfaction she found deeply unsettling.

  “Are you pleased that I hurt someone?” she asked coldly.

  The black-haired man ignored the provocation. He exhaled slowly, adjusted himself in the chair, then clasped his hands before his face. He said nothing. He simply watched her. Right then, the neighbors turned the volume up again. Rage ignited inside Alice.

  “Excuse me for a moment!” she shouted, trying unsuccessfully to rise above the music. Not-a-Doctor understood anyway. He nodded once.

  Alice closed her eyes, drew several deeper breaths, and shifted slightly in the chair. Once, rituals for trivialities like this had mattered. The thought almost made her laugh. Instead, power surged.

  Energy from her reserve flared to life, then shot downward. The speakers short-circuited instantly. Sparks flashed, followed by a dull pop and a small explosion. Below, the partygoers cried out in shock, staring at the now lifeless device.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Alice released a second pulse, a scanning wave sharp and precise, like sonar. Through it, she mapped the apartment: who was inside, what they were doing, how resilient their bodies were. She had no desire to kill them accidentally. She needed cardiac rhythms, stress tolerances, neurological stability.

  The analysis took time. Nearly fifteen minutes passed before the returning signals finally aligned into something coherent. Now she knew her limits and, incidentally, their vulnerabilities. To her irritation, the neighbors quickly connected replacement speakers. Inferior equipment, weaker output, but still loud enough to send vibrations crawling unpleasantly through her skull.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Well. Still a decent start.

  She gathered energy once more. Her gaze slid toward Not-a-Doctor. He remained motionless, calmly smoking. No objection. No reaction. That was permission.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, rising from the chair and heading for the door.

  One floor down, she knocked. No response. She tried the handle. Locked. She considered the options. Destroy the door or destroy the noise. The easier solution came immediately. A violent discharge of energy tore through the speakers inside. The explosion was louder this time. Shouts followed, then silence long enough for her renewed knocking to be heard.

  Footsteps approached. The door opened.

  “What?” slurred the drunk owner. His aura radiated irritation and misplaced aggression. He was ready for conflict, eager for it.

  Alice gave him no chance. Without a word, she placed her palm flat against his chest and released a controlled blast of force. The man flew backward, crashing into the far end of the room.

  Gasps. Panic.

  She stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her. On its own. Terror spread instantly across every face. Alice felt a flicker of satisfaction. She sent another pulse of force toward the fallen man, hurling him into the wall again. Then she expanded a pressure field around herself, dense, suffocating, absolute.

  No one moved.

  No one dared.

  Looking at their flushed, drunken faces, Alice felt disgust rising like bile. We are the dominant species, she thought bitterly. And this is what we amount to? Pathetic. Energy began to pour from her body. Low-frequency, invasive, resonant. It slid into their auras, entangled with their nervous systems, and rewired impulses at the most primal level.

  Confusion.

  Disorientation.

  Then desire.

  Raw. Overwhelming. Animalistic.

  Breathing grew ragged. Pupils dilated. Hands trembled.

  “Since we refuse to be better,” Alice said aloud, her voice flat and cold, “let’s become what we truly are.”

  The transformation was immediate. Inhibitions shattered. Humanity peeled away. Clothes were torn off. Bodies collided. Instinct devoured restraint. The room dissolved into chaos, a frenzy of lust stripped of reason and dignity.

  Alice watched, her expression twisted with revulsion.

  “This,” she whispered, turning toward the exit, “is what we are. Monkeys in suits and high heels, pretending we’re something more.”

  She climbed the stairs back to her apartment, her legs unsteady. The outburst had cost her dearly. Her reserves were nearly depleted. Exhaustion dragged at every step. Inside, she barely managed to close the door before staggering into the living room.

  The armchair. Her refuge.

  She collapsed into it. Thinking about consequences required energy she no longer possessed. Besides, guilt would change nothing. The damage was done. And they had deserved it. Warnings had failed. Requests had failed. Civility had failed. Why should mercy succeed where everything else had not?

  A weak laugh escaped her lips.

  Moments later, sleep claimed her.

  Not-a-Doctor stood quietly against the wall, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He had never left. He had merely concealed himself. A childish trick. A simple distortion of perception. Something he had mastered long ago. He studied the sleeping witch carefully, replaying every detail of what she had done. Power granted authority. Authority bred detachment. Detachment invited transformation. He knew the pattern well. The question was no longer if. Only how far.

  He exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

  “An interesting name you chose for me, Alice,” he murmured softly. “Truly extraordinary.”

  He crushed the cigarette.

  And smiled.

  “How will you surprise me next?”