From the origin of Lady Mirelle
It started with the sound of keys.
Always the same sound. Cold metal teeth grating against the lock to the bedroom door—the one with no handle on the inside.
Mirelle didn't cry anymore when she heard it. Crying stopped helping two years ago.
She was sixteen now, thin as wires, sharp bones sticking out from beneath bruised skin. The mattress beneath her stank of sweat and mildew, but she never noticed it anymore. All she noticed was the lock clicking, the door opening, and the creak of boots on the wooden floor.
"You been good today?"
Her stepfather's voice—sweet as curdled milk.
She didn't answer.
He liked it more when she didn't scream now. The silence gave him the illusion she was letting him. It gave him comfort. And her, a kind of power: she never gave him what he wanted.
But it didn't stop what came next.
The lightbulb flickered overhead when he was done. She lay still, staring at it, blinking only once when it buzzed.
He left like he always did—zipping up, laughing like he was the one owed thanks. He tossed a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the floor.
"For your troubles, sweetheart. Buy yourself a dress or somethin'. Gonna be a real pretty woman soon."
She stared at the bill for a long time after the door slammed shut.
That night, something in her mind broke—but not like glass. Like a dam.
The next morning, she walked into the kitchen.
Her mother wasn't there. Off at her third job. She was never there when Mirelle needed her. And when she was, she looked through her daughter like smoke. Like she was afraid of seeing something she couldn't handle.
He sat at the table, beer in hand, legs spread like he owned the sun.
She walked past him without a word and took the carving knife from the block.
"Finally helping in the kitchen?" he sneered.
She turned, met his eyes. Smiled.
"Yes."
The first stab landed in his gut.
The second, lower.
The third went into the side of his neck.
He screamed. She didn't.
Not once. Not even as his blood soaked her shirt.
She kept stabbing until he stopped looking surprised.
She didn't run.
Instead, she cleaned the knife. She dragged his body into the bathtub. She showered, burned her clothes, and took a long look at herself in the mirror.
No tears.
No flinching.
Just a girl with shadows under her eyes and the taste of freedom in her mouth.
She left home that night, with $47 in a plastic bag, a pair of boots too big for her, and the scent of bleach clinging to her fingers.
The Monster Begins
She slept in an abandoned laundromat. Got a job washing dishes under a fake name.
She met people—bad people. Some of them tried to use her. She let one or two. But the third?
The third she set on fire. Literally. He tried to sell her, so she waited until he slept and poured vodka on his sheets.
Word got around.
A girl with no mercy, no softness.
A girl who never smiled, but who never lost either.
She got a new name from the streets: "The Quiet Cut."
Years later, when she took over her first operation—drugs and debts—she chose a new name herself.
Mirelle. It meant admirable.
No one knew what it meant but her. That was enough.