A reckoning wrapped in skin and fury.
And I won’t stop until the last one crumbles beneath me.
But what matters right now is Stanley Picklemire—recently and irrevocably found guilty of being a Grade-A, grease-slick sleazeball with a smile that hides rot and a conscience long since buried.
The name sounds like it belongs to a cartoon character with a nasal voice and a pocket protector, but don’t let that fool you. Stanley’s been volunteering with kids for years, all smiles and “community hero” bullshit, always the first to raise his hand when a camera is nearby. He’s fostered more than a few unlucky souls over the last decade, churning them through his house like broken toys—used, dismissed, ignored.
They tried to speak. Theydidspeak. To countless people. Teachers, neighbors, other adults. But no one listened. No one ever does.
Until now.
Stanley’s time to repent has arrived—and lucky for him, I specialize in divine judgment with a flair for poetic endings.
The front door creaks open as I slip into the house like a whisper. The boy he’s fostering now—a quiet, hollow-eyed kidwho barely speaks above a whisper—was already gone when I arrived. Probably hiding somewhere spurred from an instinct that comes from years of learning when silence equals safety. He won’t come back until the last possible moment. Until the sky darkens and there’s no other choice.
I’ll leave him a note. Let him know he’s safe. Let him know the monster won’t be waiting this time.
Not that he’ll ever get the chance to read it. No one will.
Because there’s only one way to kill a monster like him.
Youburnthem in hell.
The accelerants are already in place, stashed in cabinets and closets from when I broke in the other night. The smell is faint, masked just enough. Since the maid’s off until Monday—an unfortunate twist of fate for Stanley, but perfect for me—no one will find them.
He shouldn’t be long now. Word is, he’s out spending time with a hooker—which, honestly, is theleastoffensive thing he’s done all week. Apparently, kids aren’t his only vice.
The more sins, the hotter the flames will burn.
Tonight’s main event isn’t just the fire. I mean, don’t get me wrong, watching this house of horrors melt into a pile of ash is going to be satisfying as hell, but I’ve added a little bonus feature for the guest of honor. A custom flycatcher. Especially designed for predators like Stanley Picklemire.
It works kind of like those gross yellow strips people hang from their porches, the ones covered in dead bugs and summerregrets. But this one? This one’s invisible. No warning. Just a clear, industrial-strength adhesive I’ve stretched across the entryway like a spiderweb spun by karma itself. One step through the front door, and he’s mine.
I want him to struggle. I want the moment of panic, that sliver of realization when he understands he’s trapped—that it’shimfor once. Stuck. Helpless. Just like the kids he’s silenced and hurt and tossed aside like garbage. I want him to feel what they felt. What Reign felt. Only worse.
And while he’s there—arms yanking, feet stuck, breathing heavier with every second—I’ll be creeping along the wall, slow and steady, like a shadow come to life. He won’t see me at first. But he’ll feel me. That shift in the air. That pulse of dread when the prey realizes the predator is already in the room.
And it works.God, it works.
Better than I could’ve planned, better than I dared to hope. He strolls through the front door like it’s just another night, humming under his breath, keys jingling, blissfully unaware that it’s the last time he’ll walk through that threshold. There’s a moment—a single second—where his smile lingers, and then he hits it.
My trap snaps to life with the most satisfying sound: a wet, sticky slap as his hands meet the strip, his legs tangling in the mess I’ve laid across the floor. He jerks forward out of instinct, tries to pull back, but it only makes it worse. The more he struggles, the more he seals himself in the trap. His shoesstick, palms flatten. His whole body stiffens, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
He doesn’t get far.
One panicked twist, and he loses his balance completely, crashing backward like a felled tree. He lands flat, hard, awhackechoing through the quiet house as the air rushes from his lungs in a pathetic groan. He tries to lift his head, but the adhesive’s got him good—face turned sideways, arms pinned, legs spread and stuck, preventing him from lifting his eyes to see what’s coming.
Perfect.
That’s my cue.
I slip from the shadows like smoke, slow and deliberate, silent against the hardwood. The edges of the room flicker with the low glow of the accelerants I’ve already staged, but for now, the flames can wait. This moment? This is for me. For Reign.
A soft giggle escapes my lips as I come into view. It bubbles up, sweet and sharp, the sound of satisfaction wrapped in sugar. I want the first thing he hears to be my laughter—light, mocking, unexpected.
Because monsters like him never expect their prey to come back wearing a smile.
He writhes like a stuck bug, panting and twitching in the trap, still trying to understand how his perfectly normal evening turned into a nightmare. He tries to speak—some pathetic string of curse words and confusion—but I cut him off with a hum,stepping fully into the light now, letting my boots fall with steady, deliberate weight against the floor.