Shallow days on memory lane
She was sick of the looks
Safely hidden, he’s free
Stupid men in suits
Softly softly, on the move
Shut out, she’d show them
Silent strike, number seven
Suits in panic, no trail
Surrounded by friends, searching
Serial killer, public panic
Satisfied, eyes set on number eight
She sees the connection
Sky is black, perfect conditions
Suits are skeptical
Standing in the shadows, he waits
She gets confirmation
She’s walking towards him
Slowly slowly, she opens the door
Smiling, he strikes
She stabs upwards
Something not right, he runs
Suits all around
Sees number eight
She's laughing.