“Having a hard time getting settled in, Stanley?” I tilt my head, voice light, almost amused. “You’ve always had control issues.”
He stares hard, squinting up at me, blinking sweat from his eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
I crouch beside him, just out of reach. “I thought maybe I’d give you a chance. Seems fair, right? You find the solution; you get out of the trap. Easy.” I slide a single finger along the baseboard where a knife glints against the wall, taped just out of reach. “There’s your salvation. But it’ll only work if you figure out who I am.”
He freezes. His eyes flit to the knife, then to me. I see the gears turning, slow and rusted.
“I—I don’t…” He stammers, squirming harder. “I’ve helped a lot of kids. Fostered. Volunteered. Maybe you—maybe I let you down, but I didn’t mean to. I have a problem. I’ve tried to get help.”
My smile fades. “Help?” I echo, almost choking on the word. “That’s what you call hiding behind your ‘good guy’ image while kids were sobbing into pillows you provided and praying someone,anyone, would come save them?”
He pales. That gets under his skin. I lean closer, the light casting shadows over my eyes. “You hurt so many, Stanley.That’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t remember which one I was.”
He’s shaking now. It’s subtle, but I see it. “Please,” he whispers. “I’m trying to change.”
I laugh, cold and sharp. “You can’t even name me. But I’ll help you.” I let the words drip like venom, slow and calculated. “There was a girl. Blonde. Always quiet. You liked that about her. It made it easier to threaten her. You said no one would believe her anyway. Her dad and uncle run a powerful, deeply corrupt empire—one that hides its filth behind influence, money, and polished smiles.”
His eyes widen. Lips part. There it is—that flicker of recognition. I see it.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he breathes.
I grin. “Funny. That’s exactly what the judge said… right before I blew his ass into tiny pieces.”
Something in him snaps. The false remorse slips off like a mask melting in heat. “You fucking little bitch!” he screams, jerking against the trap. “You got what you deserved! You think you were special? None of you were even good lays!”
There it is. The real him. The monster hiding behind Sunday smiles and charity drives.
I rise slowly, straightening to my full height as flames begin flickering in the corners of the room—low, eager, and licking their way toward the trail I laid, just waiting for thecandles to burn down far enough to ignite the rest. I take one last look at him, twisted and raging, then let out a slow breath.
“You almost fooled me for a second, Stanley. But see, I’ve gotten good at spotting bullshit. That’s one lesson you taught me.”
Then I turn and walk away, leaving him to scream as the smoke thickens and flames come alive—licking up the walls like hungry tongues, casting streaks of molten orange and deep crimson across the room, the colors of a dying sunset swirling in the heat.
Tonight, justice wears a smile and smells like gasoline.
I like to imagine that by the time I step out the front door and make my way down the cracked sidewalk, the house behind me is already going up in flames—big, dramatic, cinematic. The kind of explosion that lights up the night sky in shades of orange and red, windows blowing out in a violent burst like the place itself is screaming. Just like in the movies.
And honestly? That’s part of the fun.
If there’s one thing I insist on adding to my little killing spree, it’sflair. A personal touch. Some style to go with the justice. Because men like Stanley Picklemire—they don’t just deserve to die. That would be too simple. Too clean. They deserve to behumiliated, even if the only eyes that ever witness it are mine.
There’s something beautiful in that ruin. In knowing that their carefully constructed world—built on lies, cruelty, andmanipulation—ends not in silence, but in a blaze of heat and consequence.
I keep walking, slow and steady, my hood pulled up and the scent of gasoline clinging faintly to my clothes. I don’t look back.
I already know it’s burning.
Tonight’s retribution comes in two parts—because one death just isn’t enough for a man like Stanley. Killing him is justice. Butdismantlinghim? That’s where satisfaction lives.
Stanley doesn’t just destroy lives inside his home. He profits from misery, cloaks it in legitimacy, and launders it through his empire of sleaze. His three-car vending machine lots are supposed to be “innovative,” “customer-first,” and “community-oriented.” Yeah, right. They’re just shiny boxes propped up over rot; paper masks stretched over the faces of backroom deals and laundered cash.
I’ve already got two of them wired. I slipped in under the cover of darkness last night, dressed like any other midnight wanderer. The hidden det cord runs like veins through each structure—buried in walls, coiled beneath counters, tucked neatly behind digital screens where no one will look. Precise. Silent. Lethal.
Now I’m heading to the third location, the final one. The last piece of this night’s celebration. A tribute, really. A funeral pyre for Stanley’s legacy. The flames that swallow his house willmirror across town in synchronized bursts of fire and twisted metal.
Because tonight isn’t just about justice. It’s amessage. And I plan on delivering it loud enough for their whole rotten empire to hear.
Chapter Eight