jordan had always known the difference between justice and revenge—he just stopped caring about it somewhere around his twelfth birthday, when he found his father face-down in a puddle of vomit and his mother trading pills for favors behind a gas station. Now, years later, the city knew him only through whispers and blood trails: a faceless shadow that hunted the predators who slipped through the cracks of a broken system. By day, he was invisible. At night, he became the reckoning he never received. They called him a monster. He called it balance.

  Jordan’s childhood was a slow-motion collapse, the kind you don’t notice until the roof caves in. His earliest memories were a haze of cigarette smoke, shouting matches, and the metallic clink of a lighter being flicked more often than a light switch. School was never a refuge—just another battleground. By the time he was ten, he had already broken a kid’s nose for calling his mother a junkie, and the fights never stopped after that. Teachers gave up on him early; cops knew him by name by thirteen. While other kids had bedtimes and birthday parties, Jordan had nights spent hiding under the kitchen table while his parents screamed and shot up. Their deaths came just before his sixteenth birthday—wrapped around a telephone pole at 3 a.m., veins still full of heroin. There were no tears. No funeral. Just silence, and a cold, hard shift inside Jordan that never quite let go.

  Jordan’s first kill wasn’t planned—it was inevitable. He was eighteen, fresh out of juvenile probation and already tired of pretending to be anything other than what the world had made him. The victim was Marcus “Slug” Devane, a mid-level dealer who roamed the high school parking lot in a beat-up Cadillac, selling poison to anyone with twenty bucks and a death wish. One of Jordan’s few real friends, Tommy, had bought from him—just two pills to take the edge off finals week. The autopsy later found fentanyl. Jordan found Slug two nights later, alone behind a liquor store, counting cash under the yellow flicker of a busted streetlamp. There were no last words, no grand speech. Just a rusted crowbar Jordan found in a dumpster and all the rage he’d stored since childhood. It was fast, brutal, and final. When it was over, Jordan didn’t feel guilt. He felt clarity. For the first time in his life, he felt clean.

  Jordan knew from the start that getting caught wasn’t an option—he had nothing left to lose, but everything to prove. Slug's death barely made the news: a half-hearted segment buried between sports scores and weather, with reporters casually mentioning his criminal record and the likelihood of “gang-related activity.” The cops took one look at the body, the busted cameras behind the liquor store, and the junkie history of the victim, and moved on without much effort. Jordan had done his homework. He wore gloves, covered his face, and took the long way home through alleyways and backroads, changing direction every few blocks like he'd seen in crime thrillers. The crowbar, slick with blood and fingerprints, was dumped off a bridge into a deep, murky lake where no one would ever think to look. By the time he got back to his apartment, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, the city was already forgetting Slug. Jordan didn’t just get away with murder—he realized that in a place where no one cares about the victims, justice was his to deliver.

  From that night on, something clicked deep inside Jordan—something cold, focused, and unshakably certain. He didn’t feel guilt or fear; he felt purpose. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t drifting—he was driven. Slug’s death wasn’t just revenge; it was a message to the kind of people who ruined lives like his parents', who killed kids like Tommy with a careless hand and a dirty needle. Jordan knew then that this was why he was still alive—not to survive, but to clean up. If he was going to do this, it couldn’t be sloppy. He started devouring everything he could: true crime documentaries, forensics textbooks, police procedures, street psychology, even old FBI profiling manuals he found online. He studied cold cases and unsolved murders, not to admire the killers, but to understand what they did wrong. He learned how to hide footprints, beat security systems, scrub DNA, and vanish into shadows. Every night he trained his body like a soldier, his mind like a machine. If this was going to be his life, he wouldn’t just do it—he’d master it.

  By day, Jordan lived a life so ordinary it was almost invisible. He worked as a commercial painter, spending long hours coating office walls and apartment exteriors with his two best—and only—friends, Liam and Brenden. They’d known each other since high school, bonded over detentions and shared smokes behind the gym, and now they spent their weekdays trading jokes on scaffolding and blasting classic rock from battered Bluetooth speakers. To them, Jordan was quiet but loyal, the kind of guy who never talked much but always showed up. No one ever asked about his weekends, and he never volunteered. He lived alone in a small, one-bedroom apartment with plain walls and bolted locks, kept his routines tight, and avoided anything that drew attention. He didn’t date, didn’t party, didn’t post on social media. Jordan was a ghost in plain sight—a homebody with a clean record and paint-stained hands. It was the perfect cover. After all, monsters don’t always lurk in the dark. Sometimes, they punch a clock at 7 a.m. and eat lunch out of a cooler.

  It was a blistering afternoon on the roof of a half-finished office complex when Liam wiped sweat from his brow and said, almost casually, “You see that thing on the news? That scumbag Slug got smoked behind a liquor store.” Jordan didn’t flinch. He kept rolling a fresh coat of primer along the edge of a ventilation shaft, careful and steady. “Yeah, I saw,” he said, voice low, neutral. Liam shook his head with a dry laugh. “Good. Guy sold death for a living. Heard some kid OD’d off his pills last week. Whoever did it? Probably saved a few lives.” Jordan gave a slight nod, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to pass for agreement. “Sometimes people get what’s coming.” Liam didn’t press. Just took a sip of water and went back to work. But inside, Jordan’s thoughts burned. Thank you, he whispered silently, for saying it out loud—for proving that it mattered, even if no one knows it was me. There was no medal, no headline, no applause. Just quiet validation from the only people he trusted. And that was more than enough.

  The bus groaned to a stop, brakes hissing like it was exhaling after a long, miserable day, and Jordan stepped aboard, slipping into a seat near the back where the flickering overhead light gave just enough glow to keep the shadows alive. The air smelled like sweat, cheap liquor, and something sour that clung to the plastic seats. A cracked-out couple slumped across from him, heads lolling, skin pale and twitchy—one of them drooling onto a stained hoodie. A few rows up, a guy in a grimy tank top kept glancing around like he was deciding who to rob first, his hand buried deep in his coat pocket. Jordan sat still, unbothered, hood up, eyes scanning but empty. St. Louis never changes, he thought. The rot is everywhere. Out here, you can feel the weight of everything that’s broken—like the whole damn city’s just waiting to collapse. Lately, the numbness was heavier. The satisfaction he used to feel after a job—after the cleanup, the quiet walk home—was fading, replaced with something colder. Not doubt. Just... fatigue. How long can you carry justice alone before it starts feeling like a curse? He watched the city blur by through a grime-smeared window, his reflection barely visible in the glass, like even it was trying to look away.

  Jordan got off the bus three blocks from his apartment, his boots echoing down the cracked sidewalk as streetlights buzzed dimly overhead. The neighborhood was quiet in that tense, waiting way—like the calm before a gunshot. He climbed the steps to his building, unlocked three separate locks on his front door, and stepped inside to silence. No music. No TV. Just the low hum of the fridge and the comfort of solitude. He microwaved a frozen dinner—some forgettable mix of chicken and rice—ate it straight from the tray while leaning against the kitchen counter, then stripped down and stepped into a scalding shower, letting the heat burn the filth of the city off his skin. Afterward, wrapped in a towel, he settled into his desk chair, the glow of his computer screen cutting through the dark room. He opened a private browser, typed slowly, methodically: “unsolved violent crimes in St. Louis,” then narrowed the search. He wasn’t looking for victims. He was looking for patterns. Dealers, traffickers, abusers—the kinds of people who slipped through cracks the size of alleyways. This was his ritual. His hunting ground. He told himself he was doing this to save people. To keep someone else from ending up like Tommy. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.

  Jordan leaned closer to the screen, the pale light casting sharp angles across his face as he scrolled deeper into the corners of the dark web—places where law enforcement rarely bothered to look, or if they did, it was already too late. He wasn't just searching for another name to cross off. This time, he wanted to send a message. A string of takedowns—louder, bolder, undeniable. He wanted the city to know someone was out there tipping the scales. He found the forum buried under layers of encryption, a quiet link embedded in a seemingly innocent post about prescription pills. When he clicked it, a login screen appeared for a private text chat room labeled simply: “Local Trades.” He created an account using one of his many burner identities, routed through a maze of VPNs and spoofed IPs that would have made a hacker nod in respect. As the chat loaded, the screen filled with filth—posts from users offering drugs, weapons, fake IDs. But then it got darker. Threads from people selling things no human being should even think about—explicit offers involving children, traded like currency in cold, coded language. Jordan’s jaw clenched, his blood boiling in that quiet, familiar way. This was it. These people weren’t just criminals—they were predators. He picked a thread and started messaging one of the users, keeping it vague, careful, acting curious. His fingers moved calmly across the keys, but his pulse had already shifted into hunter’s rhythm. This wasn’t just a hit. This was a purge in the making.Jordan moved with precision, every motion practiced, his body slipping into the cold ritual like muscle memory. In his bedroom closet, behind a false panel, hung the gear he reserved for nights like this—when justice demanded something more than patience. He stripped out of his casual clothes and pulled on a black compression long-sleeve shirt, tight to the skin to minimize snags, followed by reinforced tactical cargo pants with deep, silent pockets. Over his hands went Kevlar gloves—cut-resistant, tight-fitting. Next came his combat boots, broken in but silent, and then the black gator mask he pulled over the lower half of his face, paired with a plain black ball cap pulled low to shadow his eyes. No skin. No prints. No identifiers. He opened a lockbox beneath the bed and pulled out the essentials: two fixed-blade knives, balanced for grip and precision—one for the front pocket, the other strapped to his boot. His Glock 19 came next, cleaned and fully loaded, a round already chambered, safety off. Finally, the most important piece: a coil of chicken wire, thin and strong, enough to strangle or bind depending on the need, looped and secured in a pouch on his belt. This wasn’t revenge. This was a mission. A necessary purge. As he zipped his gear bag and slung on a lightweight tactical jacket, Jordan looked into the mirror—not at his face, but at the absence of it. What stared back was no longer a man. It was purpose wrapped in darkness.

  The motel was even filthier in person than it looked on the satellite map—half the lights in the lot were dead, the other half flickering like a dying pulse. Jordan parked three buildings over and approached on foot, keeping to the shadows, the soft crunch of gravel under his boots masked by a passing train in the distance. The room—#208—sat at the far end, just below a busted security camera that hadn’t blinked in years. Through a gap in the flimsy curtain, Jordan spotted him: Eric Downs, sitting on the bed, scrolling through his phone, expression calm, casual, like he was waiting on a pizza delivery. Arrogant bastard. Jordan crouched below the window and sent the text: “Parked behind the building. Come out back. Got her waiting.”

  Barely a minute passed before the door creaked open, and Eric stepped out, eyes darting, oblivious. Jordan moved fast, sliding into the room just as the door eased shut behind the predator. Inside, it smelled like mildew and regret. He crossed the stained carpet silently and entered the bathroom, turning the sink faucet on just enough to create a steady, noticeable trickle—the kind of sound you can’t ignore. Then he waited in the darkness, pressed to the wall beside the doorway, chicken wire in hand, loop already formed. He heard the door creak open again, heard Eric muttering as he stepped inside. "Hello? The hell is that sound?" The footsteps came closer, hesitation in every step. Then the bathroom light flicked on. The second Eric crossed the threshold, Jordan lunged, slipped the wire over his neck, and pulled back with brutal force. The struggle was short—frantic, breathless—ending in a gurgling wheeze before Eric slumped to the tile, unconscious. Jordan moved fast, binding his wrists and ankles with the same wire, propping him in the motel chair like a puppet on display. He sat across from him, patient and still, waiting for the monster to wake up. When he did, they’d have a very different kind of conversation—one where only one of them would walk out alive.

  Eric’s eyes fluttered open again, blinking through the haze of pain and fear, only to find himself in the same nightmare—still tied, still trapped, still face-to-face with something far worse than the law. Jordan stood over him, silent at first, arms crossed, a silhouette of cold judgment. Without warning, he struck again—open palm, across the face—drawing a sharp yelp of pain from Eric’s cracked lips. “Wake up,” Jordan snapped. “This is happening. You earned every second of it.” Eric squirmed in the chair, voice rising into a panicked scream, but Jordan stepped forward and jammed the rag back into his mouth, cutting it off like flipping a switch.

  “You don’t get to scream,” Jordan said, voice razor-sharp and quiet. “You don’t get to beg. You’re not a victim here. You’re filth. And by the time the sun’s up, what’s left of you will be in garbage bags, drifting downriver with the rest of the city’s waste. The world will be lighter without you in it.” He walked behind the chair, pacing slowly. “Tell me,” he said, leaning down close to Eric’s ear, his voice almost a growl. “What else have you done? This can’t be your first time. Guys like you don’t just wake up one day and decide to buy a kid.”

  Jordan stepped forward and, with a sudden roar of force, kicked the chair hard, toppling it to the filthy tile floor. Eric hit with a thud, groaning, the wire biting into his skin. Jordan crouched beside him, pulled the rag from his mouth, and stared. “Speak.”

  Eric gasped, chest heaving. “Please—please—I’ve never hurt anyone—I swear! I just looked—I didn’t do anything! I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry—I need help—I need—”

  “You need to disappear,” Jordan said flatly, eyes dead calm. “And I’m going to make sure you do.”

  Jordan listened in silence as Eric’s sobs broke down into wet, panicked gasps—nothing more than instinctual pleading from a man who finally understood he wasn’t walking away. “Please… please don’t do this,” Eric whimpered, voice shaking, tears mixing with blood. “I—I can change… I swear, I can… just don’t kill me…” Those were his last words. Jordan didn't respond. He didn’t flinch. He simply slipped the wire back around Eric’s neck, pulled tight, and held it—cold, methodical, unmoving—until the man’s twitching stopped, until the last pitiful breath rattled out of him and silence filled the room like smoke.

  There was no hesitation after that. No ceremony. Just the steps. The cleanup. The body was wrapped tight in plastic sheeting Jordan had brought in his bag, duct-taped to seal in the mess. He hauled it, heavy and limp, to the back of his truck, parked in an alley behind the motel where no one was watching. An hour later, headlights cut through the woods outside a remote cabin Jordan had purchased under a fake name a year earlier—a place originally meant to escape the noise of the city, now repurposed as something darker.

  Inside, the cabin smelled of pine and bleach. The tools were already laid out on a thick rubber tarp—bone saw, heavy-duty knives, industrial garbage bags, lye, gloves, plastic aprons. It was a system now. A ritual. Clean. Efficient. He turned on the radio in the background, low and steady, a distraction from the meat-grinding reality of the work. By dawn, Eric Downs would be in pieces—bagged, weighed down with cinder blocks, and fed to the murky undercurrent of the river that had swallowed others like him. Justice, in Jordan’s world, wasn’t a courtroom. It was a blade. And tonight, it was served. The drive back into the city was long and quiet, the kind of silence that sat heavy but familiar. Jordan kept the radio off, his thoughts as still as the dark two-lane highway winding back toward St. Louis. His hands gripped the wheel, steady, no adrenaline left—just a deep, cold calm. The job was done. Another predator erased, another name that would quietly disappear from the filth-ridden corners of the internet without a trace. When he finally reached his neighborhood, the streets were still empty, bathed in the dim orange haze of early morning streetlights. He parked, climbed the stairs to his apartment, and locked the door behind him with practiced care. No lights, no noise. He peeled off his clothes, tossed them into a sealed bin for burning later, then stepped into the shower. The water was hot, but it didn’t relax him—it just cleansed. He dried off, laid on top of the covers in nothing but his boxers, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound.

  By 7:00 a.m., his alarm buzzed, soft but firm. Jordan rose without hesitation. No groaning, no stretching, no dragging himself into the day. Just silence and motion. He dressed in worn jeans and his work boots, pulled a hoodie over his head, and grabbed his lunch from the fridge like it was any other Monday. Another shift, another building to paint. No one would suspect a thing. To the world, he was just Jordan—another man with a trade and a quiet life. But deep beneath that still surface, the river was always moving, always hungry—and he was the one who chose who fed it.

  The job site was already buzzing when Jordan pulled up, the sharp scent of fresh paint and sawdust hanging in the morning air. Liam and Brenden were leaning against the work van, coffee in hand, mid-conversation and grinning like idiots. As Jordan approached, Brenden lit up. “Okay, settle this, bro,” he said, already animated. “Would Vader beat Kylo Ren in a straight-up duel? No Force tricks, just lightsabers.” Jordan blinked. “Who the hell is Kylo Ren?” he said flatly. Liam burst out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee. “Goddamn, man, do you live under a rock?” Brenden groaned, “He’s like the new Vader, dude—how do you not know this?” Jordan shrugged, deadpan. “I don’t watch space wizards with daddy issues.” That made both of them laugh so hard Brenden had to set his cup down.

  As the laughter died down, Liam elbowed him. “What’d you get into last night? You vanished like usual.” Jordan smirked just enough to pass. “Not much. Just stayed in. Slept like a rock.” Brenden rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. You’re like 80 years old in a 30-year-old’s body.” Jordan gave a lazy shrug, and that was enough. No suspicion. No deeper questions. Just three guys clocking in. Moments later, they were geared up and dragging ladders toward the scaffolding, the air filled with the buzz of drills and the scrape of metal. Another normal morning. Another job. As far as anyone knew, Jordan was just a quiet guy with paint-stained hands—not a shadow who made monsters disappear.

  The sports bar was loud, full of clinking glasses and the scent of greasy burgers and fried everything. Jordan sat in a booth across from Liam and Brenden, the three of them crowded around a basket of wings and nursing sodas like it was a Friday instead of just lunch. The waitress—young, sharp-featured, and clearly used to being ogled—walked by again, and Brenden couldn’t help himself. “If she brings me one more refill, I’m proposing,” he whispered. Liam snorted. “You’d just scare her off talking about lightsaber forms.” Jordan smirked slightly, but his mind had already started drifting. His eyes wandered, unfocused, thoughts slipping back to last night—the weight of the body, the drag of the bags, the cold rush of the river. It should’ve been far enough. Deep enough.

  Then the TV hanging above the bar caught his attention. The words “BREAKING NEWS” flashed across the screen, cutting through the noise of the room like a blade. He blinked up just in time to hear the anchor say: “Three plastic bags containing human remains were discovered this morning by a family fishing on the east side of Horseshoe Lake. Authorities have not identified the victim, but they are calling it a possible homicide…” Jordan froze, hand gripping his glass a little too tight. He didn’t need to hear more. He already knew who it was. Liam nudged him, laughing. “Yo, Earth to Jordan—don’t tell me she hypnotized you too.” Jordan looked back down, face unreadable, nodded once. “Yeah,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “Something like that.”

  Liam let out a low whistle as the news segment continued, showing a blurred shot of police tape near the lake. “Damn, that’s wild,” he said, leaning back in the booth. “Bet you anything it’s another creep. Maybe the same dude who took out Slug.” Brenden chuckled, half in disbelief. “Yeah, what is this, some vigilante Dexter-type out here? Saint Louis turning into Gotham?” Jordan gave a small, forced laugh, but didn’t say a word. His jaw had tightened, and his eyes had gone distant again, locked on the flickering TV screen without really seeing it. Liam noticed first. “Hey, man—you good?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Jordan blinked, then quickly shook his head, waving a hand. “Nah, just didn’t sleep great last night. Headache’s creeping in.” He forced a half-smile and stood up. “Gonna hit the bathroom real quick.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed through the bar crowd and slipped into the restroom. Inside, it was quiet, dim, the hum of the overhead fan the only sound. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face, gripping the edges of the sink to steady himself. They weren’t supposed to find it. Not this soon. Not at all. He stared into the mirror, water dripping from his chin, eyes locked onto his own reflection—hard, empty, calculating. For a moment, his breathing stuttered, but then he forced it down, steadying himself again. This couldn’t shake him. Not here. Not now. He had to stay invisible. Calm. Ordinary.

  Jordan emerged from the bathroom with his face dried, expression reset into something neutral, but his mind was still racing. He returned to the table, forcing a faint smile as he slid back into the booth. “I think I’m gonna call it a day after lunch,” he said, reaching for his drink but barely touching it. “Feel like crap—migraine, nausea, the whole deal.” Liam frowned. “Damn, for real? You sure it’s not the wings?” Brenden leaned in, mock-suspicious. “Or maybe it’s heartbreak from that waitress walking past without looking at you?” Jordan chuckled lightly, just enough to keep the mood light. “Yeah, that’s probably it,” he muttered, then stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Let the boss know I’ll finish up the trim tomorrow. I just need to sleep this off.”

  They both gave him a quick wave and a casual “Feel better, bro,” before diving back into the news and their plates. Jordan walked out of the bar into the bright afternoon sun, but there was no fog in his head, no headache, no illness. His body felt fine—it was his mind that was wired, pulsing with one thought: They found the body. He couldn’t afford even the smallest mistake. He climbed into his truck, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb with a plan already forming. Before anything else, he had to get back to that motel. One last sweep. One last walk-through. If there was even the slightest piece of evidence left behind—hair, blood, a fiber—it had to be gone. He wasn’t going to be a headline. Not yet. Not ever.

  Jordan pulled into the back lot of the motel just before dusk, parking in the same shadowed corner as the night before. The place looked the same—run-down, quiet, and barely alive. He moved quickly but carefully, hoodie up, gloves on, eyes scanning every angle as he approached Room 208. He’d brought the spare key card he'd snagged from the front desk drawer that night, just in case. The room was exactly as he left it—musty, untouched, dead quiet. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and began his sweep.

  Every surface was checked: baseboards, under the bed, between the mattress and frame, the sink drain, the floor corners, the vent grates. Not a drop of blood, not a single hair. He’d cleaned it perfectly. The plastic sheeting had caught everything, and the chair—the one he'd used to restrain Eric—had been wiped twice and repositioned exactly as it had been before. No cameras on the property, no guests nearby that night, and the front desk clerk barely conscious half the time. Everything was just as he'd planned. So how the hell did the bags end up on shore?

  Jordan stood still in the middle of the room, jaw clenched, running through the logistics again. He was sure the current should’ve pulled the body farther downriver—deeper, lost. But something had gone off-course. Maybe a shift in the water level, debris, or maybe the bags weren’t weighed down enough. Either way, it was a risk. A mistake. Not one he’d make again. He exhaled slowly, then gave the room one final look before slipping back out the door like he was never there.

  As Jordan approached his truck, the weight of the night’s events still heavy on his mind, he spotted something odd in the distance—just a flash of movement. A figure, standing near the edge of the parking lot, watching him. Jordan’s instincts kicked in immediately. He couldn’t tell if it was just someone passing through or if the man was staring at him on purpose, but something about the way the figure stood still, just a little too far to make out any details, set off alarms in Jordan’s head. His heart rate quickened, and before he could stop himself, he started moving toward the figure, his feet carrying him forward without thought.

  But as he neared the spot where the man had stood, the figure was gone. No sign of him, just empty space between parked cars and the quiet shadows of the lot. Jordan stopped, eyes scanning the area, every muscle tense, feeling a spike of unease creeping up his spine. He took a few cautious steps forward, searching for any sign—movement, a shadow, a sound. His breath came steady, but his mind was racing, replaying the image of the man’s silhouette, trying to piece together what had just happened. No footsteps. No noise. It was like the man had vanished.

  Jordan stood still for a moment longer, his back straight, senses on high alert. His hand rested near his belt, close to the hidden knife he always carried. He’d learned the hard way to never assume anyone wasn’t a threat, but even with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, there was nothing. The lot was empty. Quiet. Just his breathing and the hum of distant traffic. With a heavy sigh, Jordan reluctantly turned back to his truck, a gnawing feeling still tugging at him. Someone had been watching him, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, that thought alone unsettled him more than anything.

  When Jordan finally made it home, the feeling of being watched still gnawing at the edges of his mind, he locked the door behind him and slumped onto the couch. His body ached from the tension of the day, but his mind was still buzzing. That figure, the one who had been staring at him—it was like a lingering shadow, refusing to fade. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not now. He had work to do. The vanishing man could wait.

  He set his keys down on the coffee table and powered up his computer, fingers drumming absently on the desk as the machine hummed to life. Once it was on, he opened his browser and navigated quickly to the dark web. His heart still raced as he logged into the chat site he had stumbled upon earlier, the one where he’d been lurking in the shadows, searching for others like the predator he’d taken care of. He clicked through the familiar interface, the anonymity of it all comforting in a strange way.

  His eyes scanned the posts. People advertising, selling, bartering, and discussing all manner of illegal activity. It felt sickening, like crawling through the lowest gutter of humanity, but Jordan wasn’t there for any of that. He was hunting for the people who needed to be hunted—predators, filth. People who didn’t deserve to live, just like the man he’d disposed of. He scrolled, his eyes narrowing as he read through the cryptic conversations. He knew how this worked now, how to manipulate the darkness, how to pull the right strings. Every message, every post was a breadcrumb leading to someone who would be next. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to dive back in—he had more work to do, and this time, he was going to make sure no one would even know they were gone. As Jordan scrolled deeper through the threads, his eyes narrowed on a link buried in one of the posts—a private chat room, specifically for people looking to supply drugs for parties. But it wasn’t just any drugs. The post mentioned laced substances—heavy hitters, the kind of thing that could knock out a crowd, the kind of drugs that had consequences. This wasn’t some casual exchange; it was dark, deep in the underground, and exactly what he needed. His heart skipped a beat as he clicked on the link, quickly entering the chat.

  The man in the chat was offering “work” for those who could help distribute—laced drugs for the right price. Jordan’s fingers flew over the keyboard, typing out a quick message, pretending to be someone else. “I’m looking to get in. I’ve got connections and need a way to move product fast. Please, I need the job.” The words felt hollow, like a calculated performance, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting his foot in the door.

  He sat back in his chair, staring at the screen, watching the cursor blink in silence. Minutes passed, and then the dreaded anxiety crept in—What if no one replies? What if this was all a waste of time? But then, after ten long minutes, he clicked the power button, shutting off his computer with a soft click. His heart was still pounding, but his face remained cold, unreadable. He rose from the desk and moved to the living room, sinking into the couch. He turned on the TV, trying to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. The flickering light from the screen provided a dull, comforting glow, but his eyes kept drifting back to the quiet hum of his phone on the coffee table. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to change—and maybe, just maybe, he was finally stepping into a darker world than he’d ever imagined.

  Jordan sat back on the couch, a sense of unease still lingering as he switched the TV on. He started flipping through the channels, his mind not fully engaged, when his finger froze over the remote. A press conference was airing live. The screen cut to the chief of police standing at a podium, flanked by a couple of detectives, as reporters bombarded him with questions. Jordan leaned forward, his attention sharpening, his eyes narrowing. The chief’s voice rang out, cold and deliberate.

  "We have confirmed that the body discovered near the lake is that of a known offender with a long history of criminal activity," the chief said, his expression stone-cold. "We are treating this as a potential serial killing. While we have no concrete evidence at this moment, we're working tirelessly to gather more information. If another body is found, we’ll be prepared to act swiftly."

  Jordan’s blood went cold. He recognized the name of the man they were talking about—the one he had taken out. The predator. The officer's words struck a chord deep in him, and before he realized it, a surge of anger twisted in his gut. Serial killer? That’s what they were calling him? He wasn’t some monster out of a crime story—he was doing the world a favor. His fingers gripped the remote tightly, the veins in his neck pulsing with frustration. To them, he was just a killer. But to Jordan, he was doing what the cops couldn’t. He was cleaning up the mess they refused to touch.

  His jaw clenched as the chief continued speaking about gathering evidence and being ready if it happened again. Jordan’s mind raced. Let them try. He wasn’t worried about being caught. They’re the ones who don’t see what’s really happening. They’ll never be ready for me. The challenge in the officer's words only fueled his determination further. He was already steps ahead, and that gave him a sense of cold satisfaction. He felt like he was doing their job—and doing it better.

  Jordan leaned back against the couch, his eyes fixed on the flickering television screen as the press conference wrapped up. The reporters shouted more questions at the police chief, but the words blurred together into meaningless noise. Jordan's jaw tightened, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  "Serial killer," he muttered under his breath, the words bitter and metallic on his tongue. "They don’t get it. They never will."

  He clicked the TV off, plunging the room into silence. For a moment, he just sat there, his mind buzzing like static. The label they’d given him wasn’t just wrong—it was insulting. What he did wasn’t random violence. It wasn’t madness. It was precision. Purpose. Justice.

  He exhaled slowly and stood, the weight of the day pressing heavy on his shoulders. Moving to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing the tightness in his throat. He drank it in slow, deliberate sips, grounding himself in the small, mundane action.

  After setting the empty glass in the sink, he made his way to the bedroom. His one-bedroom apartment was simple and unadorned—no photos, no decorations, just the essentials. It was a space that revealed nothing about its occupant. Exactly how he liked it.

  Jordan peeled off his hoodie, jeans, and boots, tossing them into the corner for tomorrow. His body ached, not from physical exhaustion but from the mental strain of always being on edge. He climbed into bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from his skin.

  Lying there in the darkness, he stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. His mind replayed the police chief’s words, the image of the silhouette in the parking lot, and the gnawing unease that someone might be watching him.

  But beneath it all, deeper than the anger and the anxiety, was something colder. Determination. The kind of resolve that didn’t waver, no matter the risk.

  Jordan closed his eyes, his breathing steadying as he let the day's events settle into a part of him that didn’t feel, didn’t hesitate, didn’t regret. Sleep came slowly, and when it finally did, it was dreamless—just darkness, calm and heavy, like the waters he used to hide his work.

  Jordan woke to the soft buzz of his alarm, the sound slicing through the quiet like a whisper in the dark. He reached out, silencing it with a practiced motion, and lay still for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle over him. The faint traces of unease from the night before lingered, but he pushed them aside. Routine was his armor, and the world didn’t wait for hesitation.

  After a quick shower and a breakfast that barely registered—toast, black coffee, and the occasional glance at the window—Jordan was out the door. His boots struck the pavement in rhythm with his thoughts, his expression neutral as he made his way to work. The city around him felt heavier than usual, like the air was charged with something just beyond his grasp. He told himself it was nothing. Just noise. Just static.

  But across town, in a cramped office bathed in stale coffee fumes and fluorescent light, Detective Abigail Kane was anything but still.

  She stared at the crime scene photos spread across her desk: blurred shots of the bags fished out of Horseshoe Lake, close-ups of the mutilated remains, and a grainy photo of the liquor store where Marcus "Slug" Devane had met his end months earlier. The cases were unconnected on paper, but in her gut, Kane felt the thread tying them together.

  Her colleagues dismissed it as overthinking, but she knew better. The city wasn’t just losing its predators—it was being hunted.

  Kane leaned back in her chair, rubbing a hand over her face as she scanned her notes again. A pattern was emerging, faint but undeniable. The victims weren’t random—they were scum. Dealers, traffickers, predators. People the system should’ve handled but didn’t. Someone out there was filling the gaps, taking out the trash, and leaving nothing behind but whispers and bloodstains.

  She hated it.

  It wasn’t that she had sympathy for the victims—she didn’t. Kane had spent years staring into the rot of humanity, and she knew better than most that some people didn’t deserve a second chance. But vigilantism? That was different. It wasn’t justice. It was chaos. It was arrogance. And whoever this shadow was, they weren’t a hero. They were a time bomb, waiting to blow back on the city and take innocents with them.

  Kane sat up, pulling her chair closer to the desk. Her eyes narrowed on the timeline she’d sketched across the whiteboard. Each name marked an escalation: Slug’s death had been quiet, barely a blip on the radar, but Eric Downs? That was loud. Messy. Visible.

  This vigilante was getting bolder, and that made them sloppy.

  She stood, the creak of her chair cutting through the silence of the office. Kane grabbed her jacket, her badge flashing as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. Her jaw was set, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her eyes burned with a quiet, relentless fire.

  "Time to meet the monster," she muttered, stepping out into the cold morning air.

  Back at the job site, Jordan worked in silence, the scrape of rollers against brick filling the air as Liam and Brenden traded jokes. He didn’t mind the noise—it gave him space to think. But even as he moved through the motions, the weight of the news segment and the figure in the parking lot stayed with him.

  Across the city, Kane arrived at the motel where Eric Downs had been staying. The place reeked of mildew and neglect, but she didn’t flinch. As she stepped inside Room 208, her sharp eyes scanned the space, taking in every detail—the scuffed carpet, the faint scent of bleach, the chair by the window that didn’t quite sit right.

  She crouched, running a hand lightly over the chair’s arms. The surface was clean. Too clean. Kane’s lips pressed into a thin line. Whoever this vigilante was, they were careful. But no one was perfect.

  Standing, she turned toward the bathroom, flipping the light on and letting her gaze roam over the tiled floor, the sink, the drain. Her instincts hummed. This wasn’t just a murder scene—it was a message.

  And Kane wasn’t going to let it go unanswered.

  As the day stretched on, Jordan felt the faint tingle of unease growing stronger, like a shadow creeping closer. He didn’t know it yet, but someone was watching his work—someone who wouldn’t stop until they brought him into the light.

  Jordan spent the rest of the morning painting in silence, his movements automatic but precise. The scrape of rollers and the smell of fresh paint were familiar comforts, even as his mind churned over the events of the last few days. Liam and Brenden chatted on the scaffolding above, their laughter and banter a dull hum in the background. Jordan didn’t join in. He rarely did.

  By the time their lunch break rolled around, Jordan had wiped down his tools and leaned against the work van, chewing slowly on a sandwich as he watched the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where nothing unusual happened. But something felt off. He couldn’t shake the memory of the figure in the parking lot last night, watching him.

  The unease followed him into the afternoon, his senses sharpened, every small sound pulling at his attention. He scanned the street as they packed up for the day, his eyes catching every passerby, every car that rolled too slowly by the site.

  It wasn’t until he was walking back to his truck that it happened.

  The man passed by in a blur—quick, head down, shoulders hunched like he was avoiding notice. Jordan barely registered him until he felt the brush of paper against his hand. A note, slipped so seamlessly into his grasp that it took him a moment to react.

  "Hey," Jordan said, turning sharply, but the man was already gone, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease. Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the street, but there was no sign of him—just strangers moving in the late afternoon bustle, none of them sparing him a second glance.

  He looked down at the note, his pulse quickening as he unfolded it. The handwriting was clean, precise, and to the point:

  Coordinates.

  Tonight. 1 a.m.

  Or I expose you.

  Jordan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking back to the crowd one last time. The man was gone, but the implications of the note lingered, heavy and sharp.

  Someone knew.

  Jordan climbed into his truck, gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The coordinates were etched into his mind, already forming a map of the city’s edges. He’d memorized every back alley and forgotten stretch of road long ago. This wasn’t a random meeting spot—it was deliberate. Remote. The kind of place people disappeared from.

  But whoever this was, they weren’t just threatening him. They wanted something, and Jordan had a sickening feeling he already knew what it was.

  The pieces began to fall into place as he drove. Eric Downs wasn’t working alone. No one in that kind of filth ever did. Someone had supplied him, enabled him, and when Jordan took Eric off the board, he disrupted their operation. That someone wasn’t happy.

  And now it was personal.

  By the time Jordan got home, the note was still clenched in his hand. He locked the door behind him, pulling the blinds shut and pacing the living room. His mind raced, running through scenarios, weighing risks. This wasn’t just about him anymore—it was about control. Whoever left that note thought they could manipulate him, use his actions against him.

  But they didn’t understand.

  Jordan sat down at his desk, pulling up his computer and typing the coordinates into a map. The location popped up instantly—a secluded industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, long abandoned and half-forgotten. Perfect for a confrontation.

  He leaned back, his fingers tapping against the desk as a slow, cold resolve settled over him.

  "If you want a meeting," he muttered under his breath, "you’ll get one."

  But it wouldn’t be on their terms.

  Jordan stared at the coordinates on the screen, the faint glow casting sharp angles across his face. His mind was calm now, the earlier rush of anger and unease distilled into cold, calculated focus. He closed the browser, stood up, and moved to his bedroom. If this man thought he could control Jordan, he was about to learn otherwise.

  Jordan opened his closet and slid the false panel aside, revealing the gear he reserved for nights like this. One by one, he laid out each piece with precision, the familiar ritual grounding him in the task ahead.

  He started with the basics: the black compression shirt, tactical cargo pants, and reinforced gloves. Over his face went the black gator mask, and then the ball cap, pulled low enough to obscure his features. Every detail was designed for stealth and efficiency—no loose fabric, no identifiers, nothing to leave behind.

  From the lockbox under his bed, he retrieved his tools. Two fixed-blade knives, sharpened to a deadly edge, slipped into their designated spots—one in his front pocket, the other strapped to his boot. His Glock 19 came next, cleaned and loaded, with an extra magazine tucked into his belt pouch. Finally, he added the coil of chicken wire to his bag, lightweight but strong, capable of silencing or binding in an instant.

  This time, he added something extra: a small recording device. If this man thought he could turn Jordan’s actions against him, Jordan planned to flip the script. Whatever this criminal said, whatever leverage he thought he had, Jordan would capture it.

  With everything packed and ready, Jordan zipped his bag and threw on a lightweight tactical jacket. He glanced at the mirror, but not for long. The reflection staring back wasn’t a person—it was a shadow. Purpose made flesh.

  The drive to the location was silent, the city’s neon lights fading into darkness as he moved toward the industrial outskirts. Jordan parked several blocks away, slipping his truck into an alley between two derelict buildings. He stepped out, bag slung over his shoulder, and began his approach on foot.

  The lot was exactly as he’d expected—vast, crumbling, and abandoned. Rusted machinery and gutted warehouses loomed like skeletons in the dim moonlight. Jordan moved carefully, his boots silent against the cracked asphalt as he scoped the area.

  He found a spot with a clear view of the meeting point—a small, open clearing near the center of the lot—and melted into the shadows. Crouched behind a stack of old shipping pallets, he adjusted his mask and scanned his surroundings. The lot was still, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind through weeds.

  He checked his watch. Midnight. An hour until the meeting.

  Jordan settled in, his breathing steady as he let the darkness envelop him. The anticipation thrummed in his veins, but his mind remained calm. This wasn’t about fear or doubt. This was control.

  Whoever this man was, whatever he wanted, Jordan would make sure tonight ended on his terms.

  And he wouldn’t be walking away empty-handed.

  The hours of waiting melted away as the man’s arrival broke the stillness. Jordan’s eyes narrowed as headlights cut through the darkness, a sleek, black luxury car pulling into the lot with an effortless hum. It was a vehicle that didn’t belong here, its polished surface a stark contrast to the crumbling surroundings.

  Jordan stayed still, watching as the car came to a stop near the clearing. The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He was dressed in a tailored coat and expensive shoes, his every move exuding an air of calculated confidence.

  The man looked around, his voice cutting through the silence. “I know you’re here, Jordan.”

  Jordan’s heart didn’t skip a beat. He rose slowly from his hiding spot, stepping out of the shadows. His boots crunched softly against the gravel as he moved closer, stopping about twenty feet from the man.

  “I’m here,” Jordan said, his voice low and even, his masked face unreadable.

  The man smiled—a thin, sharp expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Saves us both some time.” He spread his arms, gesturing to the desolate lot. “Quite the place for a meeting. Fitting, don’t you think?”

  Jordan didn’t respond, his stance rigid, his gaze locked on the man.

  “You know who I am?” the man asked, his voice carrying an edge of arrogance.

  “No,” Jordan replied flatly, “and I don’t care.”

  The man laughed softly, shaking his head. “You should care. My name is Victor Carlisle. Eric Downs was one of my suppliers—a small piece of a much larger operation. But thanks to you, that piece is gone. And now, I’m left cleaning up your mess.”

  Victor took a step closer, his hands slipping into his coat pockets. “You’ve cost me money, time, and reputation. I don’t take that lightly.”

  Jordan’s voice was ice. “And I don’t take kindly to people like you. So let’s cut the pretense. You didn’t bring me here to talk.”

  Victor’s smile tightened. “You’re sharp. I’ll give you that. But I did bring you here to talk—about solutions. See, you’ve got a choice, Jordan. You can pay me back what you owe. Work for me to make things even. Or...” He paused, his smile fading as his voice hardened. “You can die here tonight.”

  Jordan didn’t flinch. “Not happening.”

  Victor tilted his head. “You sure about that? Because the way I see it, you don’t have many options.”

  Jordan took a step forward, his presence cutting through the space like a blade. “Here’s the thing, Victor. You don’t scare me. You think you’re in control, but you’re wrong. You’re just another predator who thinks he’s untouchable. And tonight, you’re going to learn otherwise.”

  Victor raised an eyebrow, his smile returning, faint but mocking. “Big talk. You really think you can take me down? You don’t even know who you’re dealing with.”

  Jordan’s voice was calm, deliberate. “I know enough. I know what you’ve done. What you’ve enabled. And I know you’re not leaving this lot tonight unless it’s in pieces.”

  Victor’s hand hovered near his pocket, his expression hardening. “You’re making a mistake, Jordan. You don’t want to do this.”

  Jordan’s gaze didn’t waver. “The mistake was thinking I’d ever let you walk away.”

  The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the space shrinking as the moment stretched taut. Jordan’s body coiled like a spring, ready to act. Victor’s smug confidence faltered, just for a second, replaced by something sharper—something closer to fear.

  Victor’s hand darted into his coat, and in one smooth motion, he drew a sleek black handgun. The barrel glinted under the faint moonlight as he raised it toward Jordan, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  But Jordan was faster.

  Before Victor could take aim, Jordan surged forward, closing the distance in a blur. His hand shot out, slamming into Victor’s wrist with brutal precision. The gun clattered to the ground, its sharp metallic sound echoing through the lot.

  Victor snarled, throwing a punch toward Jordan’s head, but Jordan sidestepped, his movements fluid and controlled. He retaliated with a sharp elbow to Victor’s ribs, forcing the man back with a grunt of pain.

  “You’re out of your league,” Jordan growled, his voice low and steady.

  Victor didn’t respond. Instead, he lunged, his fists flying with surprising speed and force. He wasn’t just another suit—he’d clearly been in fights before. Jordan blocked the first punch, then the second, but the third grazed his jaw, the impact sharp and jarring.

  Jordan staggered slightly but recovered instantly, his focus narrowing like a predator zeroing in on prey. He countered with a swift kick to Victor’s knee, sending the man stumbling.

  Victor regained his balance and swung wildly, his desperation showing in every move. Jordan ducked under the punch and drove his shoulder into Victor’s chest, knocking him backward into a rusted metal post.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The fight turned brutal, raw. Fists collided with flesh, grunts and sharp breaths filling the air as the two men struggled for dominance. Victor fought with the fury of someone who had always been in control, always on top. But Jordan fought with purpose, every strike calculated, every move designed to break his opponent.

  Victor managed to land a few solid hits—a jab to Jordan’s ribs, a glancing punch to his temple—but each one only fueled Jordan’s determination. He grabbed Victor’s arm mid-swing, twisting it sharply and forcing the man to his knees with a pained shout.

  Jordan didn’t hesitate. He brought his knee up into Victor’s chest, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Victor crumpled, gasping for breath, but still trying to fight.

  “You don’t know when to quit,” Jordan muttered, his voice cold.

  Victor swung again, but his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. Jordan sidestepped and delivered a final, devastating punch to the side of Victor’s head. The man’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

  Jordan stood over him, chest heaving, his fists clenched and bloodied. His mind was steady, clear, despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He crouched down, checking Victor’s pulse to confirm he was still alive.

  "Good," Jordan muttered to himself, his voice devoid of emotion.

  He glanced around the lot, ensuring they were still alone, before grabbing Victor’s discarded gun and tucking it into his waistband. This wasn’t over—not yet.

  Jordan had questions, and when Victor woke up, he was going to get answers. Jordan wasted no time. The fight had drained him, but his mind remained sharp, calculating his next moves. The sleek black car sitting in the lot was a liability—a glaring piece of evidence that could link back to Victor, and by extension, to him. It had to go.

  Jordan rifled through Victor’s pockets, pulling out the man’s keys before dragging him toward the back of the lot, where the shadows swallowed them both. He dumped Victor’s unconscious body onto the ground, tying his wrists and ankles with the coil of chicken wire he always carried. Once the man was securely bound, Jordan turned his attention to the car.

  He climbed inside, scanning for anything incriminating. The interior was spotless, but Jordan wasn’t taking chances. He wiped down the steering wheel and door handles with a clean rag, then popped the trunk. Inside, he found a duffel bag stuffed with cash and a small leather notebook. Jordan grabbed both, tucking them into his bag for later.

  Stepping back, he took a small fuel canister from his gear bag—the kind he kept for emergencies. The liquid splashed onto the car’s glossy surface, its acrid scent filling the air as Jordan worked quickly, dousing the interior and exterior in an even coat.

  Standing a safe distance away, Jordan pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The small flame danced in the dark, reflected in his cold eyes. Without hesitation, he tossed it onto the car.

  The flames erupted instantly, consuming the vehicle in a roar of heat and light. Jordan watched for a moment, the fire licking at the night sky as black smoke billowed upward. The car would be reduced to nothing but a smoldering husk, untraceable and forgotten in the ruins of the lot.

  Satisfied, Jordan turned back to Victor. He hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulder with a grunt of effort, his muscles straining but steady. The walk to his truck was long and silent, the weight of the man a grim reminder of the work still ahead.

  Jordan reached the truck, opening the bed and laying Victor inside, concealed beneath a heavy tarp. He secured it tightly, double-checking the knots before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  The drive to the cabin was uneventful, the city fading into the distance as Jordan navigated the winding backroads. The cabin loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the dense woods that surrounded it. Jordan parked in the gravel driveway and stepped out, moving to the back of the truck to retrieve Victor.

  Inside the cabin, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of pine and bleach. Jordan dragged Victor to the center of the room, tying him to a sturdy wooden chair bolted to the floor—a setup he’d designed for situations exactly like this.

  Victor’s head lolled forward, his breaths shallow but steady. Jordan crouched, checking the bindings to ensure they were secure. He stepped back, crossing his arms as he studied the man.

  The duffel bag and notebook sat on the table nearby, waiting to be examined. But first, Jordan needed Victor awake.

  He moved to the kitchen, filling a small bucket with cold water. Standing over the unconscious man, Jordan tilted the bucket slightly, letting the icy water splash onto Victor’s face.

  The man sputtered awake with a gasp, his eyes wide and panicked as he took in his surroundings. He strained against the bindings, but they didn’t budge.

  “Good,” Jordan said, his voice low and calm. “You’re awake.”

  Victor’s gaze snapped to Jordan, a mix of fear and anger flashing in his eyes. “You’re making a big mistake,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

  Jordan stepped closer, his shadow falling over Victor like a storm. “The only mistake,” he said coldly, “was thinking you could control me.”

  Victor’s breathing quickened, but Jordan didn’t flinch. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was justice. “You’re going to tell me everything,” Jordan said, his voice low but razor-sharp.

  Victor swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he spat, trying to muster some semblance of control.

  Jordan stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Victor whole. “I know exactly who you are,” he said, his tone unyielding. “A parasite. Feeding on the broken. Now start talking.”

  Victor hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he weighed his options. But the cold fire in Jordan’s eyes left no room for negotiation. Finally, he relented.

  “Fine,” Victor muttered, his voice trembling. “I run distribution. Pills, powders, anything people are stupid enough to pay for. Eric was one of my runners—he moved product, kept the cash flowing. When you took him out, you cut off one of my pipelines.”

  Jordan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Who else works for you?”

  Victor hesitated again, but Jordan stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on the arm of the chair. The subtle pressure was enough to send a jolt of fear through Victor’s already-frayed nerves.

  “Names,” Jordan demanded, his voice like steel.

  Victor broke. “Two guys,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Nico Raines and Ezra Locke. They’re small-time, but they know the routes, the stash spots. You want them, you’ve got them.”

  Jordan’s expression didn’t change as he filed the names away. Nico Raines and Ezra Locke. The next steps in a long, necessary purge.

  Victor’s breath came in shallow gasps as he stared up at Jordan, hope flickering faintly in his eyes. “There. You’ve got what you want. Now let me go.”

  Jordan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’m not done.”

  He stepped back, picking up the leather notebook and the duffel bag from the table. “Found these in your car,” he said casually. “Cleaned it out before I burned it to the ground.”

  Victor’s face twisted in fury, his composure crumbling as he erupted. “You what?!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “You burned it?! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

  He laughed bitterly, his voice rising into near-hysteria. “You idiot! That car had everything—contacts, routes, codes. You’ve screwed up everything!”

  Jordan tilted his head, watching the man unravel. Victor’s laugh turned to a sob, then back to laughter, his emotions spiraling out of control.

  “You think you’re so righteous,” Victor sneered, tears streaming down his face. “You think you’re making a difference? You’re nothing but a ghost. They’ll never thank you. They’ll never know your name.”

  Jordan stared at him, his expression cold and unreadable. “Good,” he said simply.

  Victor’s rant trailed off, his breathing ragged as he realized there was no getting through to Jordan. No bargaining. No mercy.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Jordan said, his tone final.

  The room fell into silence, broken only by the scrape of the chair as Jordan dragged it toward the center of the tarp-lined floor. He moved with practiced precision, every action deliberate, efficient. Victor’s protests quickly turned to panicked screams, but they didn’t last long.

  By the time the deed was done, the cabin was quiet again, the air heavy with the weight of finality. Jordan worked quickly, wrapping the remains in plastic before loading them into the back of his truck.

  The drive to the river was long and silent, the headlights cutting through the dense woods as the city faded further into the distance. When he reached the water’s edge, Jordan didn’t hesitate. He unloaded the body, removing the plastic before letting it slide into the dark, murky depths.

  But this time, he didn’t weigh it down.

  He stood at the water’s edge, watching as the current carried the body away, the faint outline disappearing into the night. This wasn’t about hiding his work anymore. It was about sending a message.

  The world needed to know. The predators needed to know.

  As he turned back to his truck, his thoughts were calm, his resolve unwavering. If the police wanted him, they’d have to come for him. But it wouldn’t matter.

  Jordan wasn’t going to stop. Not until the city was clean—or until he was dead.

  Jordan’s boots echoed faintly against the worn hardwood floors as he stepped into his apartment, the familiar silence swallowing him whole. He locked the door behind him, bolting it securely before dropping his bag on the small kitchen table. The duffel bag and leather notebook sat like relics of the night’s work, waiting to be uncovered.

  Jordan grabbed the bag first, unzipping it and spreading the contents across the table. The cash spilled out in thick bundles, the sheer volume confirming just how deep Victor’s operations ran. Jordan didn’t bother counting it—money wasn’t his goal. Still, it had its uses.

  He grabbed a metal lockbox from under his bed, one he rarely used but kept for emergencies. Inside, he added the cash, layering it carefully before securing the lid and sliding it back into place. The weight of the money didn’t faze him—it was just another tool.

  Next, Jordan turned his attention to the leather notebook. Its cover was smooth but worn, the pages inside filled with Victor’s meticulous handwriting. Jordan flipped through them slowly, his sharp eyes scanning each line.

  Names, addresses, phone numbers. Stash locations and schedules. Codes for transactions. The notebook was a goldmine of information, a blueprint for dismantling Victor’s network. Jordan’s lips pressed into a thin line as he worked through the pages, his focus narrowing on two names written in bold: Nico Raines and Ezra Locke.

  Jordan moved to his desk, powering up his computer as the faint hum of the machine filled the room. He opened a private browser, routing through his usual maze of VPNs and encrypted servers before beginning his search.

  First, Nico Raines. The name led him to a series of public records—a driver’s license, utility bills, even a LinkedIn profile. Nico worked at a freight company, the kind that paid just enough to keep people desperate. His address was in a rundown part of the city, the kind of neighborhood where no one asked questions.

  Next, Ezra Locke. This one was trickier, his digital footprint smaller, but Jordan pieced it together. Ezra worked at a nightclub downtown, listed as a manager but likely using the job as a front for distribution. His address was an upscale apartment complex, a sharp contrast to Nico’s situation.

  Jordan jotted down the information in a ciphered notebook he kept for himself, ensuring nothing could be traced back to him if it were ever found. As he wrote, his mind turned over the possibilities—how to approach, how to confirm their involvement, how to end them if it came to that.

  Satisfied with his findings, Jordan closed the browser and shut off the computer. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he let the weight of the night settle into his bones. The work wasn’t done, but the first steps had been taken.

  He stood, moving to the small bathroom to wash his hands and face, scrubbing away the faint traces of the night. The cool water grounded him, and by the time he stepped out, he felt calmer, more centered.

  In the bedroom, Jordan stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed, the sheets cool against his skin. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts already reaching toward tomorrow—toward Nico and Ezra, toward the next pieces of the puzzle.

  The city wasn’t clean yet, but Jordan wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

  His breathing slowed, his body settling into the stillness of the night. Sleep came gradually, dreamless and heavy, pulling him into the dark where he belonged.

  Jordan woke to the soft buzz of his alarm, the faint morning light filtering through the blinds. He reached out, silencing the sound before sitting up slowly. His body felt heavy, not from exhaustion but from the weight of the choices he knew he had to make today.

  Sliding out of bed, he moved through the motions of his morning routine with precision: a scalding shower, a quick breakfast, and a cup of black coffee that he drank standing by the kitchen counter. His eyes kept drifting toward the notebook on the table, its leather cover gleaming faintly in the light.

  He had a plan now, and it wasn’t one he could afford distractions for.

  Grabbing his phone, Jordan scrolled through his contacts and dialed the number for work. Liam answered after the third ring, his voice chipper and slightly teasing as usual.

  “Yo, man, don’t tell me you’re calling out again. You’re getting soft.”

  Jordan smirked faintly but kept his tone neutral. “Not feeling great. Got a migraine that won’t quit. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  Liam sighed but didn’t push. “All right, take it easy. Just don’t make it a habit, old man.”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said, hanging up before Liam could press further.

  With work out of the way, Jordan turned his attention to the notebook. He flipped it open to the pages with Nico Raines’ name and address, reading through the details Victor had scrawled in his sharp, methodical handwriting.

  Nico worked at a freight company—Horizon Freight—and lived in a small apartment on the city’s east side. Jordan had mapped the address last night, memorizing the route and the layout of the surrounding area.

  He grabbed his gear bag, checking its contents: gloves, a knife, his Glock, and a small pair of binoculars. He didn’t plan on confrontation, not yet. This was about observation, about understanding Nico’s routines and vulnerabilities.

  Jordan slipped on a dark hoodie and jeans—ordinary enough to blend in—and headed out the door.

  The drive to Horizon Freight was uneventful, the city’s noise fading into the background as Jordan focused on the road ahead. He parked a few blocks away from the warehouse, tucking his truck into a narrow alley where it wouldn’t draw attention.

  The area was industrial, rows of squat concrete buildings interspersed with stacks of shipping containers and loading docks. Jordan moved carefully, staying in the shadows as he approached the freight company’s yard.

  From his vantage point near a stack of old pallets, he watched the workers move back and forth, unloading trucks and shouting to one another over the hum of machinery. It didn’t take long to spot Nico.

  The man stood out immediately—mid-thirties, wiry build, his movements quick and sharp as he barked orders to the workers around him. He wore a reflective vest over a stained hoodie, his face pale and drawn, eyes constantly scanning like he was looking for trouble.

  Jordan stayed still, observing as Nico moved through the yard. He noted the way the man interacted with the workers—bossy but not respected—and the way he disappeared into the office every half hour, likely checking on shipments or supplies.

  When the yard began to quiet down for a lunch break, Nico slipped away, heading toward a beat-up sedan parked near the back of the lot. Jordan followed at a distance, keeping low and out of sight.

  Nico drove to a small diner a few blocks away, parking in the corner of the lot. Jordan waited, watching as the man stepped inside and took a seat at the counter. The interaction seemed routine—coffee, a sandwich, idle conversation with the waitress.

  But Jordan wasn’t looking for routine. He was looking for cracks.

  By the time Nico returned to the freight yard, Jordan had gathered enough for the day. He knew where Nico worked, where he ate, and how he moved.

  As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Jordan retreated to his truck, his mind already working through the next steps. Nico Raines wasn’t just another name in a notebook anymore.

  He was a target.

  And soon, he’d learn that there was nowhere to hide.

  The hum of Detective Abigail Kane’s phone snapped her from her thoughts. She reached across her cluttered desk, glancing at the caller ID before answering. It was the precinct.

  “Detective Kane,” she said, her voice sharp and focused.

  “Abby, you’re not going to like this,” the officer on the other end said, his tone grim. “Another body. Same MO. Bags found along the river. We need you here.”

  Abigail’s jaw tightened, her suspicion immediately confirmed. “I’m on my way,” she said, grabbing her coat and badge before heading out the door.

  The scene was chaotic when Abigail arrived—blue and red lights flashing, uniformed officers milling around, and the faint hum of a coroner’s van in the background. The smell of the river hung heavy in the air, damp and earthy, as Abigail ducked under the police tape.

  “What do we have?” she asked, approaching the lead officer on site.

  Sergeant Harlan, a gruff man with a perpetually tired expression, gestured toward the water’s edge. “Three bags, same as before. No weights this time. They surfaced not far from the shoreline.”

  Abigail frowned, stepping closer to the scene. The evidence team was already at work, carefully photographing the remains before beginning the process of extraction. The sight didn’t faze her—she’d seen worse—but the details gnawed at her.

  “No weights,” she muttered to herself, crouching near the edge of the water. The bags were partially torn, the contents visible enough to confirm her worst fears.

  The killer wanted these to be found.

  She stood, crossing her arms as her eyes scanned the scene. The pattern was undeniable now. This wasn’t someone trying to cover their tracks. This was a message.

  Abigail turned to Harlan. “This isn’t just another vigilante cleanup. They’re making it known. They want us—and everyone else—to see what they’re doing.”

  Harlan sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, the press is already sniffing around. We’ve kept it contained so far, but it’s only a matter of time before this hits the airwaves.”

  Abigail’s mind was racing, the pieces falling into place with chilling clarity. This was deliberate, a bold escalation from someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

  Back at the precinct, Abigail stormed into her captain’s office without knocking. Captain Irons looked up from his desk, his brow furrowed.

  “This better be good, Kane,” he said, setting down a stack of paperwork.

  “It’s the same killer,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “And they’re getting bolder. They left the body to be found—on purpose. This isn’t just about taking out criminals anymore. They’re trying to send a message.”

  Irons leaned back in his chair, his expression skeptical. “You’re sure about this?”

  Abigail nodded firmly. “I’ve been tracking the pattern for weeks. They’re escalating. We need to get ahead of this before it spirals.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “A press conference,” she said. “We need to address this head-on. Acknowledge the killings, confirm the pattern, and call this person out. If we wait, we lose control of the narrative.”

  Irons sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But if this backfires, it’s on you.”

  The press conference was held later that afternoon, reporters crowded outside the precinct as cameras clicked and microphones buzzed. Abigail stood at the podium, flanked by officers and detectives, her expression steely as she addressed the crowd.

  “We can now confirm that the recent discovery along the river is connected to a series of killings targeting known criminals in our city,” she began. “While some may see these actions as justice, let me be clear: This is not justice. This is murder.”

  Her voice hardened, her eyes locking onto the cameras. “To the person responsible: You think you’re above the law. You think you’re untouchable. But I promise you this—you’re not. We will find you, and you will face the consequences.”

  Abigail paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “The internet has already given you a name. The Night Stalker. Let me tell you what that name means to us: a coward who hides in the shadows, preying on the broken system. You will not be a hero. You will not be celebrated. You will be caught.”

  The conference ended with a flurry of questions, but Abigail didn’t stay to answer. Her message was delivered. Now it was a waiting game.

  Across the city, Jordan sat on his couch, his phone propped against a coffee mug as he watched the live stream of the press conference. Abigail’s words rang through his small apartment, sharp and fiery.

  When she said the name—The Night Stalker—Jordan felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn’t the name he’d have chosen, but it fit. The world had noticed, and now, so had the police.

  He leaned back, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Good,” he muttered to himself. “Let them know I’m here.”

  For the first time in years, Jordan felt something akin to pride. He wasn’t invisible anymore. And that was exactly how he wanted it.

  The next morning, Jordan woke with a strange sense of lightness. The heaviness that usually settled in his chest upon waking was absent, replaced by a subtle undercurrent of satisfaction. Last night’s events—the press conference, the name “The Night Stalker,” and the knowledge that his work had struck a chord—had left him feeling… accomplished.

  After his usual routine of a hot shower and a quick breakfast, Jordan grabbed his lunch and headed to work. The job site was already buzzing when he arrived, the air alive with chatter and energy. It didn’t take long for him to realize what everyone was talking about.

  “Man, did you see the news last night?” a guy called out from the scaffolding. “This Night Stalker dude is cleaning house!”

  “I heard there’s gonna be a protest downtown later,” someone else chimed in. “People are calling him a hero!”

  Jordan walked toward the van where Liam and Brenden were unloading paint cans. They both looked up as he approached, their faces lit with excitement.

  “Dude, you missed it!” Liam said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “The Night Stalker’s all anyone’s talking about. Did you see the press conference? They gave him a freaking name!”

  Jordan gave a noncommittal shrug, keeping his expression neutral. “Yeah, I caught it,” he said, pulling on his gloves.

  Brenden leaned against the van, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you believe it? People are already planning a protest in his honor. They’re saying it’s time to let people like him do what the system can’t.”

  Liam nodded. “I mean, think about it. The guy’s taking out scumbags who’ve been ruining lives for years. He’s doing what the cops won’t—or can’t. I respect that.”

  Jordan picked up a roller tray, glancing at Liam. “You respect someone who kills people?”

  Liam shrugged. “Look, I’m not saying I’d do it, but… yeah, I respect it. You’ve seen how broken this city is. Sometimes it feels like the only way to fix things is to start over.”

  Brenden smirked, nudging Jordan with his elbow. “Come on, man. You can’t tell me you don’t think this guy’s a badass.”

  Jordan chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I think he’s making a lot of noise,” he said cryptically, turning toward the building they were working on.

  As the three of them climbed the scaffolding and started painting, the conversation continued.

  “So, about that protest,” Liam said, balancing a can of paint on the ledge. “It’s happening this afternoon downtown. A bunch of people from the site are going.”

  Brenden nodded. “Yeah, we should all go. Show some support for the guy. I mean, this is history in the making.”

  Jordan paused, his roller hovering over the wall. “You’re actually thinking about going?”

  “Why not?” Brenden said with a grin. “It’s not every day you get to support someone sticking it to the system.”

  Liam laughed. “Come on, man. It’ll be fun. We finish this section, grab lunch, and head over. What do you say?”

  Jordan hesitated, glancing at the wall he was painting. On the surface, it seemed like a bad idea. But deep down, the thought of seeing the protest—of witnessing people rallying for his actions—lit a spark inside him.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice calm but resolute. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them shared a quick laugh, the camaraderie palpable as they returned to work. For the first time in years, Jordan felt like he belonged—not just with Liam and Brenden, but in the broader sense of the world around him.

  He wasn’t just a shadow anymore. He was The Night Stalker. And people were starting to see.

  The day passed quickly as Jordan, Liam, and Brenden powered through the rest of their work. By late afternoon, the three piled into Liam’s old truck, laughing and cracking jokes as they headed toward the protest. They stopped at a fast-food drive-thru on the way, grabbing burgers and fries to eat during the drive.

  “Man, this is gonna be wild,” Liam said through a mouthful of fries, steering the truck toward downtown. “I’ve never seen the city this fired up about anything.”

  “Yeah,” Brenden added, unwrapping his burger. “People are ready for change. The Night Stalker’s giving them hope.”

  Jordan stayed quiet, his thoughts turning inward. He could feel the energy growing as they got closer to the protest site, the air buzzing with tension.

  When they arrived downtown, the scene was electric. A massive crowd filled the street in front of the police station, their chants echoing off the surrounding buildings. “Night Stalker! Night Stalker!” Signs waved in the air, scrawled with phrases like “Justice Over Law” and “Protect the Stalker!” Many in the crowd wore masks—some theatrical, others practical—and carried makeshift weapons like bats and pipes.

  The three climbed out of the truck, weaving their way through the throng.

  “This is insane,” Brenden said, his voice almost drowned out by the noise.

  “Hell yeah,” Liam replied, a wide grin on his face. “This is what revolution looks like.”

  Jordan’s eyes scanned the crowd as they pushed closer to the front, where the police had formed a barricade around the station. Officers in riot gear stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields raised, trying to hold back the crowd. Tear gas canisters and batons were at the ready, and the tension in the air was palpable.

  That’s when Jordan saw her.

  Detective Abigail Kane stood on the steps of the station, a megaphone in hand as she addressed the roaring crowd. Her voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos.

  “This isn’t justice!” she shouted. “The Night Stalker is no hero! He’s a criminal, a murderer hiding behind the illusion of morality! You think he’s fighting for you, but he’s no different than the scum he kills!”

  Jordan’s blood boiled as he heard her words, his fists clenching at his sides. Before he could stop himself, the words erupted from his mouth.

  “Fuck you, bitch!” he screamed, his voice cutting through the crowd like a knife.

  The crowd nearest him quieted for a split second, heads turning toward the source of the outburst. Abigail’s gaze snapped in his direction, locking eyes with Jordan.

  For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The chants, the shouting, the chaos—all of it faded into the background as the two stared at each other. Jordan felt the weight of her gaze, sharp and unyielding, while something inside him stirred. It was as if she knew.

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the megaphone tightening as she stared him down. For five seconds, it felt like the world had frozen, the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills.

  Then, just as suddenly, she looked away, her voice rising again as she continued addressing the crowd.

  The moment shattered as the police moved to disperse the crowd. Tear gas canisters were launched into the air, releasing thick plumes of smoke that sent people scattering in every direction. Officers surged forward, shields raised and batons swinging.

  “Go, go!” Liam shouted, grabbing Brenden by the arm.

  Jordan felt the chaos closing in, the crush of bodies and the acrid burn of the gas stinging his eyes. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing, but Brenden’s strong hand grabbed his jacket, yanking him upright.

  “Not today, bro!” Brenden yelled, grinning despite the chaos.

  The three of them ran, weaving through the panicked crowd as fists flew and shouts turned to screams. The adrenaline coursed through Jordan’s veins, and despite the danger, he couldn’t help but laugh.

  When they finally reached the edge of the protest, the three collapsed against a wall, gasping for breath.

  “Holy shit,” Brenden said, still laughing. “That was insane!”

  “Did you see her face?” Liam asked, clutching his side as he laughed. “She was pissed, man!”

  Jordan leaned back, his chest heaving, a rare smile breaking across his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the image of Abigail’s piercing stare still fresh in his mind. “She knew.”

  The three exchanged wild grins, the rush of the night filling them with exhilaration. For Jordan, the chaos wasn’t just a protest—it was proof. The city was paying attention. The world was watching.

  And Abigail Kane wasn’t just chasing shadows anymore. She was chasing him.

  The next morning, Jordan woke to the faint buzz of his alarm, his mind already racing as he silenced the sound. Yesterday’s chaos at the protest still echoed in his thoughts—Abigail’s piercing gaze, the chants of the crowd, and the exhilarating chaos that followed.

  He moved through his routine quickly, the usual weight of the day replaced by a sharpened focus. Today wasn’t just about planning. Today was about action.

  After a quick breakfast, Jordan retrieved the ciphered notebook where he’d written down everything about Nico Raines and Ezra Locke. His gaze lingered on Nico’s name for a moment before flipping the page to Ezra. Ezra managed a nightclub downtown—a front for moving product under the guise of nightlife.

  If Victor’s notebook was accurate, Ezra was a key player in the network, handling distribution and overseeing deals. If Jordan wanted to dismantle the operation, this was where he needed to start.

  By mid-afternoon, Jordan was parked in a lot across the street from Ezra’s nightclub. The building was sleek and modern, its glass facade catching the sunlight, but Jordan knew better than to be fooled by appearances.

  He spent the next few hours observing, noting the rhythm of activity around the club. Delivery trucks came and went at irregular intervals, some unloading liquor, others lingering longer than necessary. Employees filtered in and out, their interactions curt and professional.

  Then, just after sunset, a black SUV pulled up to the side entrance. The man who stepped out was tall and muscular, dressed in a sharp suit that did little to hide his intimidating presence. Jordan recognized him immediately from the photo in Victor’s notebook: Ezra Locke.

  Ezra spoke briefly with a group of men standing near the entrance before disappearing inside the club. Jordan waited, his patience unshakable, as the hours ticked by and the club came to life.

  Around midnight, the last of the delivery trucks left, and the flow of customers slowed to a trickle. Jordan decided it was time to move.

  Pulling his hood over his head, he approached the club’s side entrance, sticking to the shadows. The two men stationed at the door were engaged in a low conversation, their attention distracted. Jordan slipped past them with practiced ease, entering the dimly lit service corridor that led deeper into the building.

  The hallway was lined with crates of liquor and cleaning supplies, but Jordan’s focus was on the muffled voices coming from a room at the end of the corridor. He moved closer, his footsteps silent as he pressed himself against the wall outside the door.

  Inside, he could hear Ezra speaking, his tone authoritative. “We’ve got to move the next shipment fast. The cops are on edge because of this Night Stalker mess. I don’t want any hiccups.”

  One of the other voices responded, but Jordan didn’t catch the words. He was too focused on the plan forming in his mind.

  Jordan waited until the meeting ended and the room emptied, leaving Ezra alone with a stack of paperwork. Jordan stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Ezra looked up, startled. “Who the hell are you?”

  Jordan didn’t answer. He moved quickly, slamming Ezra against the desk before the man could react. Ezra struggled, but Jordan’s grip was unyielding.

  “You know who I am,” Jordan said, his voice low and steady. “And you know why I’m here.”

  Ezra’s eyes widened, his defiance faltering. “You’re him,” he hissed. “The Night Stalker.”

  Jordan tightened his grip, his voice cold. “Victor’s gone. You’re next unless you start talking.”

  Ezra’s jaw clenched, but fear flickered in his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Everything,” Jordan replied. “Routes. Names. Operations. If you lie, this ends here.”

  Ezra hesitated, but the cold fire in Jordan’s gaze left no room for negotiation. Slowly, the man began to talk, spilling the details of the operation—stash houses, drop points, and the names of higher-ups in the network. Jordan committed every word to memory.

  When Ezra finished, Jordan released him slightly, but only to deliver a sharp blow to the side of his head. Ezra crumpled to the floor, unconscious, his body sprawled against the desk.

  Jordan moved quickly, rifling through the rest of the papers on the desk and taking a few that confirmed what Ezra had told him. His eyes scanned the room one last time before he turned to the crates of liquor stacked against the walls.

  He grabbed a bottle, smashing it against the edge of the desk and letting the alcohol spill onto the floor. One by one, he shattered more bottles, their contents pooling around Ezra’s unconscious form and seeping into the carpet.

  Jordan pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and watching the small flame dance in the dark.

  “You wanted to move fast,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see how fast you can run.”

  He dropped the lighter into the puddle of alcohol, stepping back as flames erupted, licking up the walls and catching on the curtains.

  Jordan slipped out the way he came, his movements swift and silent. As he reached the street, the fire began to roar, the flames visible through the club’s glass facade. People outside shouted and scrambled, their panic blending with the wail of distant sirens.

  Jordan didn’t stop to watch. He blended into the night, his face calm as he disappeared into the shadows.

  The network was already crumbling, and soon, the city would see just how far The Night Stalker was willing to go. the city was buzzing with news of the fire at Ezra Locke’s nightclub. Local news channels replayed footage of the blaze, the bright orange flames lighting up the night sky as firefighters worked to contain the inferno. The headlines speculated about foul play, some hinting at connections to the so-called Night Stalker.

  Jordan sat at his kitchen table, sipping black coffee as he watched the coverage on his phone. The reporters’ voices were filled with urgency, painting a picture of chaos and mystery.

  “Authorities are investigating last night’s fire at Indigo Lounge, a popular nightclub downtown. Eyewitnesses reported seeing a man leaving the scene just moments before the blaze began. While no official statements have been made, many believe this incident is connected to the ongoing vigilante killings attributed to the figure known as the Night Stalker.”

  Jordan smirked slightly, the reaction barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The fire had served its purpose—Ezra’s operation was crippled, and any evidence tying Jordan to the scene was reduced to ash. But he knew this was only the beginning.

  At the precinct, Detective Abigail Kane was watching the same footage in the bullpen, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The screen replayed the image of the nightclub engulfed in flames, smoke billowing into the sky.

  “It’s him,” she said, her voice low but resolute.

  Her partner, Detective Marcus Brandt, a tall man with a no-nonsense demeanor, leaned against the desk beside her. “You don’t know that,” he said. “Could’ve been anyone. Nightclubs piss off a lot of people.”

  Abigail shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “No. It’s too clean. The timing, the target, the method—it’s him. He’s not just killing anymore. He’s making statements.”

  Brandt shrugged. “And what’s the statement? That he’s got a lighter and no impulse control?”

  She turned to face him, her expression sharp. “The statement is that he’s untouchable. He’s telling us we can’t stop him, and the worst part is, people are eating it up. You saw the protest. Half the city already thinks he’s a hero.”

  Brandt sighed. “And the other half wants his head on a spike. So, what’s the plan, Kane? You want to hold another press conference?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I want to find him. And this time, I’m not waiting for him to make the next move.”

  Back in his apartment, Jordan reviewed the notes he’d taken from Ezra’s operation. The names, addresses, and stash points were all laid out in a methodical list. It wasn’t just about hitting targets anymore—it was about dismantling an entire network.

  His next target was already clear. Nico Raines, the small-time operator who worked at Horizon Freight, was next on the list.

  Jordan leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning to the fire. He hadn’t planned to escalate so quickly, but the satisfaction of watching Ezra’s operation literally go up in smoke was undeniable. The city was already talking, the fear spreading like a virus.

  And yet, the image of Abigail Kane flashed in his mind, her fierce gaze from the protest still lingering. He’d seen it again last night, in her press conference replayed endlessly on the news. She wasn’t just chasing him. She was trying to expose him, to drag him into the light.

  A challenge.

  Jordan smirked to himself, the thought igniting a spark of excitement. If she wanted to chase shadows, he’d make sure she never caught him.

  He grabbed his gear bag, slipping the notebook inside. Tonight, he’d begin surveillance on Nico Raines. And if Nico thought he could hide, he’d learn the hard way that no one could outrun The Night Stalker.

  Meanwhile, Abigail sat at her desk, pouring over reports and files. Her frustration grew with every dead end, every lead that circled back to nothing. But then, a junior officer approached, handing her a file.

  “What’s this?” she asked, flipping it open.

  “Preliminary report from the nightclub fire,” the officer said. “They found traces of accelerant and smashed liquor bottles. Looks deliberate. And there’s more—security footage from a nearby building caught someone leaving the scene just before the fire.”

  Abigail’s pulse quickened as she scanned the file. The image wasn’t clear—just a shadowy figure slipping out the side entrance—but it was enough to confirm her suspicions.

  She leaned back in her chair, her jaw tightening. “Got you,” she muttered under her breath.

  The hunt was on. That night, the city seemed quieter than usual, but Jordan knew better. Beneath the surface, the tension was palpable, a current of unease rippling through the streets. The fire at Ezra Locke’s nightclub had done more than cripple an operation—it had sent a message. The criminals of the city would think twice before continuing their work, but it also meant the police, and specifically Abigail Kane, would be relentless in their pursuit.

  Jordan parked his truck a few blocks from Horizon Freight, the industrial yard where Nico Raines worked. He had spent the afternoon reviewing his notes and planning his approach. Nico wasn’t high-ranking like Victor or Ezra, but he was an essential cog in the machine, managing the flow of product and cash through the city’s underbelly.

  Pulling his hood over his head, Jordan moved silently through the shadows, navigating the narrow alleys and side streets until he had a clear vantage point of the freight yard. The floodlights cast harsh pools of light, illuminating stacks of shipping containers and pallets. Workers moved back and forth, forklifts humming as they hauled crates across the yard.

  Jordan spotted Nico quickly, his wiry frame pacing near one of the containers. He was barking orders at a group of workers, his gestures sharp and impatient. Even from a distance, Jordan could tell he was nervous—his movements were erratic, his head on a constant swivel as if expecting something to go wrong.

  At the same time, across the city, Abigail Kane sat in the precinct’s surveillance room, staring at grainy footage from the nightclub fire. The image of the shadowy figure slipping out the side door was blurry at best, but Abigail couldn’t shake the feeling that it was him.

  She tapped her pen against the table, her mind racing. The arson wasn’t just random destruction—it was precise, calculated. The Night Stalker had left a trail of bodies before, but now he was escalating, dismantling networks and taunting the system. And she was no closer to catching him.

  Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her thoughts. It was Brandt.

  “We’ve got something,” he said when she answered. “A tip just came in about activity at Horizon Freight. Name sound familiar?”

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “It’s one of Victor Carlisle’s fronts. You think it’s connected?”

  “Wouldn’t call you otherwise. Figured you’d want to check it out.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said, grabbing her coat.

  Back at the freight yard, Jordan watched as Nico stepped away from the workers and headed toward a small office trailer at the edge of the lot. He moved quickly but with an air of caution, glancing over his shoulder every few steps.

  Jordan followed, keeping to the shadows, his movements silent and deliberate. He reached the trailer just as Nico stepped inside, the door closing behind him.

  From his position near the window, Jordan could see Nico inside, pacing and talking on his phone. He strained to catch snippets of the conversation.

  “It’s too hot,” Nico was saying, his voice tight with frustration. “First Victor, then Ezra, and now this Night Stalker crap? I’m not sticking around to see what happens next.”

  There was a pause as Nico listened to the person on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll move the product, but after that, I’m done. I’m not dying for this shit.”

  Jordan’s jaw tightened. Nico wasn’t just scared—he was planning an exit. But Jordan couldn’t let him run.

  As Abigail arrived at the freight yard, her car parked a block away to avoid drawing attention, she felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. The tip might lead nowhere, but her instincts told her otherwise. The Night Stalker had been hitting known players in the city’s criminal network, and Horizon Freight was a logical next step.

  She adjusted her holster and stepped into the shadows, scanning the area for signs of movement.

  Inside the trailer, Nico hung up his phone and turned toward the desk, rifling through a stack of papers. He didn’t hear the door open behind him.

  “Running somewhere?” Jordan’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady.

  Nico spun around, his eyes wide with fear. “Who the hell are you?”

  “You know who I am,” Jordan said, stepping closer.

  Nico’s hand darted toward the desk, reaching for something—a knife, a gun, Jordan didn’t know or care. He moved quickly, slamming Nico against the wall before he could grab it.

  “You’ve got one chance,” Jordan growled. “Tell me where the product is going. Tell me who’s next in line.”

  Nico’s breath came in shallow gasps, his fear palpable. “I—I don’t know!” he stammered. “I’m just the middleman!”

  Jordan slammed him harder against the wall. “Names. Now.”

  “Okay! Okay!” Nico gasped. “There’s a warehouse on the south side. The product moves from there to the docks. That’s all I know, I swear!”

  Jordan studied him for a moment, the truth clear in his eyes. Nico was small-time, just another cog in a much larger machine.

  “You’re done,” Jordan said coldly.

  Nico’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

  Before he could finish, Jordan knocked him unconscious with a sharp blow.

  As Jordan stepped out of the trailer, he froze. Abigail was there, standing in the shadows, her gun drawn and aimed squarely at him.

  “Don’t move,” she said, her voice firm.

  For a split second, their eyes met again, the same electric tension from the protest crackling between them. But this time, Jordan didn’t hesitate.

  He threw a smoke pellet from his belt, the dense cloud engulfing the area as he disappeared into the night. Abigail cursed, coughing and waving her hand to clear the smoke, but by the time it dissipated, he was gone.

  Back in his truck, Jordan drove away, his mind already on the warehouse Nico had mentioned. Abigail was closer than ever, but he wasn’t stopping now.

  The game was escalating, and Jordan knew exactly how to play.

  Jordan slipped into his apartment just after midnight, his heart still racing from the close call at the freight yard. He double-checked the locks on his door, pulled the blinds tight, and leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly.

  The encounter with Abigail had been too close for comfort. She’d been right there, her gun aimed at him, her eyes burning with determination. If he hadn’t had his face covered, it would’ve been over.

  But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

  Jordan tossed his gear bag onto the couch and sat down heavily. The night had gone sideways, but he’d gotten what he needed: confirmation of the next link in the chain. The warehouse. The docks. The operation was bigger than he’d thought, but that only made his mission clearer.

  Still, he knew he had to lay low for now. Abigail was closing in, and the police would be on high alert after tonight. He couldn’t risk another confrontation so soon.

  At the same time, back at Horizon Freight, Abigail stood near the office trailer, her expression grim as she watched the paramedics load Nico Raines into an ambulance. He was alive but unconscious, his face bruised and his breathing shallow.

  “Did you get a look at him?” Brandt asked, walking up beside her.

  Abigail shook her head, frustration etched into her features. “No. He had his face covered, as usual. But it was him, Brandt. The way he moved, the way he handled Nico—it’s the Night Stalker.”

  Brandt sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, at least we’ve got Raines. Maybe he’ll talk once he wakes up.”

  “Maybe,” Abigail said, though her tone was doubtful. She glanced toward the trailer, replaying the encounter in her mind. The smoke, the way he disappeared—it was like he’d planned it all along.

  But he hadn’t planned to leave Nico alive. That was a mistake, and Abigail intended to make the most of it.

  Back at her desk in the precinct, Abigail stared at the reports coming in from the freight yard. Nico Raines was in custody, still unconscious but stable. Officers were prepping to question him the moment he woke up.

  She leaned back in her chair, tapping a pen against her desk as she thought. The Night Stalker had been right there, and yet he’d left Nico alive. Why? Was it a slip, or was it deliberate?

  Her gut told her it was deliberate. The Night Stalker wasn’t just killing anymore—he was playing a larger game. Leaving Nico alive sent a message, but what was it?

  Jordan lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts churning. The night had been a risk, and leaving Nico alive was a gamble. But he needed Nico to stay in the game, at least for now. The police would focus on him, and with any luck, that would buy Jordan time to make his next move.

  His mind replayed the moment with Abigail, the way she’d stood there, unwavering, her gun aimed at him. She was close, closer than he’d expected.

  Jordan closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply, evenly. The game was escalating, and the stakes were higher than ever. But he wasn’t backing down.

  Not now. Not ever.

  The next day, Nico Raines sat in a cold, sterile interrogation room, his wrists shackled to the metal table in front of him. He looked disheveled and anxious, but his defiance hadn’t cracked—not yet. Across the table sat Detective Abigail Kane, her eyes sharp and unforgiving as she leaned forward.

  “You’re in a bad spot, Nico,” she said, her tone cold. “We’ve got you tied to enough operations to put you away for life. If you want to make it out of this with a shred of dignity, you’re going to tell us everything you know.”

  Nico’s lips twitched into a weak smirk. “Yeah? And what happens when I talk? You think the people I work for won’t find out?”

  Abigail leaned back slightly, folding her arms. “The people you work for are dropping like flies. Victor Carlisle, Ezra Locke—do those names ring a bell? They’re either dead or burned out. You’re next unless you start talking.”

  Nico swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the two-way mirror behind her. He hesitated, weighing his options, before finally exhaling. “Fine. There’s a warehouse. South side, near the docks. That’s where the shipments go before they’re moved out.”

  Abigail’s gaze didn’t waver. “And what else? Names. Routes. Connections.”

  Nico shook his head. “That’s all I know,” he said, his voice shaky but resolute.

  Abigail narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully. He was lying. She could feel it. But without more leverage, she couldn’t push harder.

  “We’ll see,” she said, standing abruptly. She gestured to the officer outside. “Get him back to holding. Keep a close watch.”

  As Nico was escorted out, Abigail turned toward the mirror, her frustration evident. She knew he wasn’t telling the full truth.

  That evening, Jordan sat on the couch in Liam’s small living room, a beer in hand as they watched a basketball game on TV. Liam was in high spirits, cheering loudly every time his team scored, while Jordan remained quiet, his thoughts elsewhere.

  “Man, you’re awful quiet tonight,” Liam said, glancing over at him.

  Jordan forced a small smile. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  Liam nodded, taking a swig from his beer. “Yeah, I get that. Work’s been rough lately. But hey, at least we’ve got the game.”

  They talked for a while about sports, work, and the usual small talk. Liam cracked jokes, and Jordan laughed at the right moments, but his mind was already drifting to the warehouse Nico had mentioned.

  Around 11 p.m., Jordan stood, stretching. “I’m gonna head out,” he said. “Long day tomorrow.”

  “You sure?” Liam asked. “We’re hitting the bars this weekend. You better not bail.”

  Jordan smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Later, man.”

  By 2 a.m., Jordan was crouched in the shadows near the docks, the faint hum of machinery and the lapping of water against the pilings filling the cool night air. He’d been watching the warehouse for over an hour, noting the movements of the men inside.

  There were three of them, casually checking shipment boxes and loading them into a waiting truck. Jordan could see the crates marked with false labels—likely drugs, weapons, or worse.

  Without hesitation, Jordan pulled out his Glock, his heart steady as he lined up his shots. The first man dropped instantly, the silenced weapon ensuring no alarm was raised. The other two barely had time to react before they joined him, collapsing to the ground in a blur of chaos.

  Jordan moved quickly, dragging the bodies out of sight before turning his attention to the shipment. One by one, he pushed the crates into the water, watching as they sank into the murky depths.

  As the last crate disappeared beneath the surface, Jordan froze. A faint sound—a whisper, a soft cry—reached his ears. He turned, his eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse until he spotted her.

  She was huddled in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest, her face streaked with tears. She looked no older than her early twenties, her clothes torn and her body bruised.

  Jordan approached slowly, his gun lowered. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl flinched, pressing herself further into the corner. “Please… don’t…”

  Jordan crouched a few feet away, keeping his voice calm. “You’re safe now. I’m here to help. What’s your name?”

  She hesitated before whispering, “Emily.”

  “Emily,” Jordan repeated gently. “I’m Jordan. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  She shook her head. “They’ll come back. They’ll find me.”

  “Not tonight,” Jordan said firmly. “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago,” she said, her voice trembling. “I… I was walking home one night, and they grabbed me. I don’t even know where I am anymore.”

  Jordan felt a surge of anger but kept it buried. “You’re not going back to them,” he said. “Can you walk?”

  Emily tried to stand but winced, her legs shaking beneath her. Jordan stepped forward, offering his arm.

  “Easy,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  When it was clear she couldn’t walk on her own, Jordan lifted her into his arms. She was light, her body frail from whatever hell she’d endured.

  As he carried her out of the warehouse, Emily rested her head against his shoulder, her tears soaking into his jacket. Jordan’s jaw tightened, his resolve hardening with every step.

  The network wasn’t just about drugs or money. It was about people.

  And now, it was personal.

  When they reached his truck, Jordan helped Emily into the passenger seat, covering her with his spare jacket to keep her warm. As he drove back to his apartment, his mind raced with thoughts of what to do next.

  For now, he had one priority: keeping Emily safe. The rest could wait. Jordan moved quickly, dragging the bodies out of sight before turning his attention to the shipment. One by one, he pushed the crates into the water, watching as they sank into the murky depths.

  As the last crate disappeared beneath the surface, Jordan froze. A faint sound—a whisper, a soft cry—reached his ears. He turned, his eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse until he spotted her.

  She was huddled in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest, her face streaked with tears. She looked no older than her early twenties, her clothes torn and her body bruised.

  Jordan approached slowly, his gun lowered. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl flinched, pressing herself further into the corner. “Please… don’t…”

  Jordan crouched a few feet away, keeping his voice calm. “You’re safe now. I’m here to help. What’s your name?”

  She hesitated before whispering, “Emily.”

  “Emily,” Jordan repeated gently. “I’m Jordan. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  She shook her head. “They’ll come back. They’ll find me.”

  “Not tonight,” Jordan said firmly. “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago,” she said, her voice trembling. “I… I was walking home one night, and they grabbed me. I don’t even know where I am anymore.”

  Jordan felt a surge of anger but kept it buried. “You’re not going back to them,” he said. “Can you walk?”

  Emily tried to stand but winced, her legs shaking beneath her. Jordan stepped forward, offering his arm.

  “Easy,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  When it was clear she couldn’t walk on her own, Jordan lifted her into his arms. She was light, her body frail from whatever hell she’d endured.

  As he carried her out of the warehouse, Emily rested her head against his shoulder, her tears soaking into his jacket. Jordan’s jaw tightened, his resolve hardening with every step.

  The network wasn’t just about drugs or money. It was about people.

  And now, it was personal.

  When they reached his truck, Jordan helped Emily into the passenger seat, covering her with his spare jacket to keep her warm. As he drove back to his apartment, his mind raced with thoughts of what to do next.

  For now, he had one priority: keeping Emily safe. The rest could wait. Jordan pulled up to his apartment building in the early hours of the morning, the city eerily quiet. He glanced over at Emily, who was curled up in the passenger seat, clutching his jacket tightly around her. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell by her shallow breaths and the occasional twitch of her fingers that she wasn’t asleep.

  “We’re here,” he said softly, stepping out of the truck and moving to her side.

  Emily looked up at him, her gaze filled with a mix of exhaustion and uncertainty. He offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

  Jordan led her inside, careful to keep an eye on their surroundings. Once inside his apartment, he locked the door behind them, double-checking the bolts out of habit. Emily stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, her eyes scanning the sparse furnishings.

  “Sit,” Jordan said gently, gesturing toward the couch.

  She nodded, lowering herself onto the cushions as Jordan set his bag down and grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair. He draped it over her shoulders before crouching in front of her.

  “You’re safe here,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Her lip trembled slightly, but she nodded again. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  Over the next hour, Jordan helped her regain a sense of normalcy. He showed her to the bathroom, giving her a clean towel and one of his favorite shirts—a black T-shirt with a white crosshair design in the center.

  “This okay?” he asked, holding it out to her.

  Emily managed a small smile. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

  While she showered, Jordan busied himself in the kitchen, putting together a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast. He couldn’t shake the weight in his chest as he thought about what she’d been through.

  When Emily emerged, her damp hair falling in soft waves around her face, she looked like a different person. The bruises on her skin were still stark, but the exhaustion in her eyes seemed to have lifted slightly. She tugged at the shirt self-consciously.

  “It’s a little big,” she said, offering a faint smile.

  Jordan chuckled. “That’s the point. It’s comfortable.”

  He handed her a plate of food and watched as she ate slowly, her movements tentative but steady.

  “You don’t have to eat it all,” he said. “Just as much as you can.”

  “It’s good,” she murmured, glancing up at him. “I haven’t had… normal food in a while.”

  After she finished, they moved back to the couch. Jordan grabbed a brush and a detangling spray from the bathroom, returning to find Emily sitting cross-legged, her eyes following him curiously.

  “You trust me?” he asked.

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “Good,” he said, taking a seat behind her. He started gently brushing her hair, working through the tangles with care. It was a slow, deliberate act, and he could feel her beginning to relax.

  For the first time that night, she spoke without hesitation. “The men who had me… they talked about you.”

  Jordan froze for a moment, the brush pausing mid-stroke. “What do you mean?”

  “They called you ‘The Night Stalker,’” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “They were scared of you. Said you were hunting them down. Is it true? Are you… him?”

  Jordan’s chest tightened. He hadn’t planned on telling her—he hadn’t told anyone—but the weight of it all suddenly felt unbearable. He set the brush down and moved to sit in front of her, meeting her gaze.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “It’s me.”

  Emily didn’t react immediately, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she nodded. “I thought so,” she said softly.

  Her response caught him off guard. “You’re not… scared?”

  She shook her head. “No. You saved me. You’re the only reason I’m here right now.”

  For the first time in a long time, Jordan felt something other than anger or determination. He felt hope.

  As the night wore on, Emily began to open up, telling him about her life before she was taken. She talked about her family in Illinois, her love for art, and the night she was kidnapped while walking home from work.

  “I didn’t think anyone would come for me,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

  Jordan reached out, taking her hand gently. “I’m here now,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  There was a spark between them, something unspoken but undeniably present. Emily looked at him, her eyes searching his face, and Jordan felt a pull he couldn’t ignore.

  They continued talking, the conversation shifting between light moments and heavy truths. By the time the first hints of dawn began to creep through the blinds, they were both lying on the couch, their heads resting against the cushions.

  Jordan felt Emily’s breathing slow as she drifted off, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, a rare sense of peace settling over him.

  For the first time, he realized that everything he’d done—every risk, every life taken—had led to this moment. He hadn’t just destroyed something. He’d saved someone.

  And that made it all worth it.