Flashback 2 Years ago
The cat was missing half an ear.
It purred like it didn't notice, rubbing against Brandon's boot as he sat cross-legged by the graffiti-tagged wall at the edge of the park. Its fur was matted in places, soot-gray with rust-colored patches, like dried blood in moonlight. It was ugly, maybe. Scarred. But it was alive.
It trusted him.
"You're a dumb little thing," Brandon muttered, scratching under its chin.
The cat leaned into his fingers, tail flicking contentedly.
He wondered if it had ever had a name.
He wondered if someone once kicked it every time it meowed for food.
And yet here it was. Still willing to love.
Animals were weird that way. They never learned better.
Or maybe they were just better than people.
Brandon exhaled and leaned back against the stone wall, feeling the cool breath of midnight settle over the empty playground.
Graduation had been two hours ago.
He hadn't gone.
No cap, no gown. Just a crumpled diploma in his backpack, handed to him like a receipt for enduring four years of quiet rage. His foster parents hadn't even remembered it was tonight. They were too busy screaming at each other over a beer he didn't drink.
Didn't matter.
High school was over.
The real world waited.
Whatever that meant.
And then—he heard it.
A sharp cry. Muffled.
His spine straightened before he even registered it consciously. The cat hissed and darted away into the bushes.
Another shout—closer now. A woman's voice.
He moved without thinking, cutting across the field behind the swings and slipping between the rusted fence posts like a shadow.
The alley behind the rec center was barely lit. One of the streetlamps flickered half-dead, casting jagged shadows like broken glass.
The woman was on the ground. Maybe mid-thirties. Kicking. Thrashing. Screaming into the hand pressed over her mouth.
The man above her was grinning.
Bald. Leather jacket. One hand yanking at her purse strap, the other holding something shiny—small, sharp.
Boxcutter.
The blade caught the light. Just a flicker.
That was all Brandon needed.
He reached for the wall. His fingers closed around something loose. A brick. Old and chipped. The mortar had crumbled around it like a loose tooth.
He didn't speak.
Didn't shout.
He just moved.
The man turned at the last second, brows furrowing.
Then the brick hit his temple.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Brandon didn't stop.
Not until the man stopped twitching.
Not until the blood soaking through his jacket stopped spreading.
Not until the echo of his own heartbeat calmed in his ears like waves pulling back from a violent shore.
The woman was gone.
He hadn't even seen her leave.
He stood there, breathing hard, his hand sticky with blood and broken skin.
The brick clattered to the pavement.
He felt… awake.
Not in the usual way—not adrenaline, not fear.
Alive.
Like something ancient had finally opened its eyes inside his chest.
Like he'd finally found something he was good at.
He looked down at the mess.
One less.
One less predator in the world.
He knew what the cops would say. "It's still murder." "Call 911." "Use restraint."
But Brandon didn't believe in that kind of math.
Someone once told him, "If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same."
He looked at the blood on his hands.
Then I'll just kill more.
He turned and walked back into the night, slow, quiet, head clear for the first time in years.
He didn't look back.
Flashback Cont. One Year Ago
The night was colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and made breath visible like smoke signals.
Brandon stood in the shadows outside a rundown bar on the edge of town, watching his target through a cracked window.
The man inside laughed too loudly, reeking of whiskey and arrogance — the kind of guy who thought the world owed him something because he'd gotten away with a dozen offenses no one cared about.
Brandon's jaw tightened.
This was no innocent. This was another predator wrapped in a human disguise.
He waited until the man stumbled outside alone, swaying under the weight of his own self-importance.
Then Brandon struck.
A single blow to the back of the head, sharp and precise with the steel of the crowbar.
The man dropped like a sack of rotten meat.
But Brandon didn't stop there.
No. He had a rule.
Killers who survived were failures.
Failures meant more pain. More victims. More injustice.
So he worked methodically, making sure every breath was squeezed out, every last chance extinguished.
When he was done, the body was still.
Finally still.
Brandon wiped the crowbar clean on his jacket, his cold eyes scanning the empty street.
He didn't smile.
He didn't feel anything.
This was justice.
Pure. Ruthless. Permanent.
And the world would be better for it.