The cafe was a symphony of clinking porcelain and low chatter, and Jack was its
unwilling conductor. He moved through the tables with a practiced grace, a tray of
coffees balanced perfectly in his hand, a neutral smile fixed on his face. It was a mask
he wore well.
Then, one voice cut through the murmur, loud, arrogant, and dripping with contempt.
"Cops are easy, Frank. They are cheap," the man boomed into his phone. "A few grand
and some steak dinners will have them drooling like dogs."
Jack's movements didn't falter, but inside, something went rigid. He placed a
cappuccino on a nearby table, his ears tuned to the conversation. The man was Viktor
Grayson. Jack had seen his face in the papers—a celebrated city official.
"Done it a dozen times," Viktor bragged, oblivious to the barista now standing a few
feet away. "Newfoundland's my playground at this point."
The disgust was a bitter taste in Jack's mouth, a stark contrast to the sweet smell of
coffee beans. He fought to keep his expression blank, to hide the cold fury that was
beginning to smolder in his eyes.
"Hey, my latte's waiting!" a customer waved impatiently.
The spell was broken. Jack snapped back to the present, the barista mask slipping
perfectly back into place. "Coming right up, sir," he said smoothly. As he turned to
deliver the drink, his eyes shot a final, fleeting look at Viktor Grayson. It was a look that
held a promise.
The evening sun cast long shadows across the park as Rose pushed a stroller along
the paved path. The baby she was watching gurgled softly, but Rose's attention was
elsewhere. She hummed a quiet tune, her eyes scanning her new neighborhood, when
she saw it—a small, tense drama playing out on her neighbor Lucy's front lawn.
She slowed her pace, her steps becoming silent on the asphalt, just enough to be an
unseen audience.
Carlos, the loan shark, stood over Lucy, his posture a low, threatening coil. "Lucy,
you're out of time," he growled.
Lucy wrung her hands, her body taut with anxiety. "Give me some time, Carlos."
"This is not the first time, Lucy," he groaned, his voice laced with theatrical frustration.
"You always do this. Always late to pay, and now you make me look like some 90s
villain."
"I'm sorry, Carlos. I will pay, I promise, just gimme some time," she pleaded, unable to
meet his gaze.
He rolled his eyes. "You know what? Maybe I should act like a 90s villain to make you
pay." Rose's focus sharpened, her humming ceased. "Pay me the money you owe
me… or maybe send your daughter. She's old enough, and from what I've heard, she's
got experience. Got quite a reputation."
Lucy froze, a statue of horror. Rose, too, felt a flicker of shock at the venom in his
words, but she remained motionless, an observer to the poison.
"I'll pay, Carlos," Lucy stammered, visibly shaking. "Just—just give me a week."
A cruel grin spread across his face. "Better hurry, darling." He turned and swaggered
away.
Rose watched him go, then watched Lucy crumble on her doorstep. She felt a brief
urge to confront him, a fleeting impulse to comfort her neighbor, but she crushed it.
Disappointment, cold and clean, washed over her. She turned the stroller and walked
away, her attention shifting to the silent baby.
"These people," she murmured, her voice low and conversational. "They want dignity
and luxury, but won't pay the money. Lucy, her daughter… they manipulate us into
feeling bad for them. And so far, they're successful." She let out a dry chuckle. The
baby didn't respond. "This town's got some cleaning to do, kid."
Night fell, and a gritty, pulsing score began to play in Jack's mind. He sat in his white
Audi, the engine silent, his eyes locked on Viktor Grayson exiting a downtown office
building. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, his jaw tight. His face
was a mask of neutrality, but beneath it, a hidden rage burned.
He tailed Viktor's expensive car through the city, a ghost in the river of headlights.
Viktor pulled into a shady, corrugated metal warehouse on the outskirts of town. Jack
parked at a distance. He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, the world shrinking to
a single, focused circle. He watched Viktor shake hands with thugs, saw a briefcase
passed between them—dirty money changing hands. Jack lowered the binoculars.
The decision was made.
The neon lights of a nightclub bled into the street, painting the pavement in lurid
shades of pink and blue. Rose leaned against a brick wall across the street, a shadow
in the manufactured twilight. Inside, she could see Carlos, the king of his grimy castle,
partying with women who looked uncomfortably young. He bent over a table, and the
brief, sharp glint of a white powder disappeared.
Rose's face, once passive, hardened into a mask of contempt. Then, a slow, cold smile
spread across her lips.
"Fucking bastard," she muttered.
She pushed off the wall and walked into the club, melting into the sweat and strobing
lights. Her body moved with the crowd, but her eyes never left Carlos.
Jack moved like a phantom. He scaled the fence of Viktor's penthouse property with
silent, athletic ease. Guards patrolled the perimeter, but he was a whisper in the dark,
slipping past their patrol routes. The lock on the patio door was a minor
inconvenience; a set of tools appeared in his hand, and with a few deft movements
and a soft click, he was inside.
He swept the ground floor, his movements slow and deliberate. He found a bedroom,
the door slightly ajar. Inside, two young women were passed out on the bed,
half-clothed. He gently pushed the door closed until it latched, locking them in,
protecting them from what was to come. He found Viktor on the rooftop terrace,
sitting at a table, enjoying a late meal and the glittering city view.
Jack pulled a thin, iron wire from his pocket. He approached from behind, a predator
stalking its oblivious prey. In one fluid motion, the wire was looped around Viktor's
neck.
Viktor's body convulsed. He gasped, his hands flying to his throat, clawing at the air, at
the invisible force choking the life from him. But Jack's grip was unbreakable. A
moment later, Viktor's body went limp, slumping forward onto the table.
Carlos stumbled out of the club, high and sloppy, a marionette with its strings cut. He
collapsed in a dark alley, sliding down the side of a dumpster into a heap. Rose
emerged from the shadows, her face unreadable. Carlos's eyes fluttered open, and a
drunken, lecherous grin spread across his face as he saw her.
Rose smiled back. Then she bent down, her hand closing around a discarded metal
pipe. The smile never left her face as she brought it down hard against his head. She
paused, listening, her head cocked to the sounds of the city. Nothing. No one saw.
Working quickly, she tied his wrists and ankles with rope she produced from her bag,
propping him against the wall like a broken statue, his right arm bent and raised, a
grotesque parody of a man petting a phantom pigeon.
Viktor woke to a splitting headache and the cold night air on his naked skin. He was
tied to a bathtub on his own roof, the city lights still twinkling mockingly before him.
His mouth was sealed with a thick strip of duct tape.
Jack walked towards him, a knife held loosely in his hand. Viktor's eyes widened in
terror.
"Don't make a sound," Jack said, his voice unnervingly calm. "I hate noise." Viktor
struggled against his bonds, muffled whimpers escaping the tape. "Let's get straight
to the point. You are corrupt. And corruption destroys families you don't even know
exist. You have a family. You have to repent. So, should I kill and punish your family, or
just torture you?"
Viktor's muffled screams became more frantic.
"Just nod your head for the options, alright?" Jack sighed, as if dealing with a difficult
child. "Option one: your family repents for what you did. Option two: you repent for
what you did. Choose one. Nod your head vertically for option one, horizontally for
option two."
Viktor was paralyzed, caught between two impossible choices, his body trembling,
begging for a life he had already lost.
"Since you're not choosing," Jack said, his voice flat, "I'm going to choose for you. I
choose option one."
A surge of pure terror shot through Viktor. He shook his head violently, horizontally,
again and again. But Jack had already made his decision. He stepped forward, raising
the knife.
"The clothes you wear? Dirty. Your house? Dirty. Your life? Dirty," Jack recited, a cold
catechism of judgment. "You are a dirty person, Viktor. So, tonight, you will bleed
clean."
Carlos woke up to the rough texture of brick against his back. He was tied to the wall,
posed. His mouth was taped. Rose stood before him, a blade in her hand, glinting in
the dim alley light.
"You must be wondering what you did to be tied up like a satanic statue, huh?" she
asked, a light chuckle in her voice. He struggled, his eyes wide with confusion and
fear. "I don't owe you an explanation."
With that, she stepped forward. In one clean, efficient strike, she sliced his throat. She
watched, her expression placid, as he struggled, as the life slowly drained from his
eyes.
She wiped the blade, slipped it back into her bag, and walked away without a
backward glance.