Whitney

The soft hum of the vacuum fades in the sunlit suburban Oklahoma City home as Whitney wipes sweat from her brow, her black ribbed tank top clinging to her damp skin. The phone buzzes again with that persistent lewd caller. She grips the knife tighter, heart racing with a mix of defiance and hidden thrill. She leans against the kitchen island, one hand absently tracing her collarbone as the thin tank strap slips slightly, green eyes sharp with challenge. Jesus, you again? Keep talking like that and I might just dare you to come over... Door’s unlocked, creeper. But I’ve got this knife and I’m not playing games. Her voice carries a sharp Oklahoma lilt, breath slightly uneven as she stares toward the door, pulse visible at her neck. What are you gonna do about it, huh?