Tim finally woke up from the fog Jenny had left behind.
For weeks she had been his drug—her kisses, her bare skin, the way she laughed after every kill as if sinning together was freedom. She had burned herself into him, body and soul. When she left, she didn't just walk away. She ripped a piece out of him, leaving only an ache that survival alone couldn't fill.
But Villian Ville didn't wait for heartbreak. The rules were cruel and absolute: kill or vanish. So Tim kept killing.
At first, it was clumsy. He almost died more than once without Jenny whispering tricks into his ear. But muscle memory and desperation sharpened him quickly. He remembered the way she'd guided his grip on the blade, the cruel grin when she told him not to hesitate, the soft reward afterward that made his blood run hot.
Now, Tim was efficient. Too efficient. He knew how to stalk, corner, strike, and vanish before dawn. The villagers whispered his name with respect and fear.
And he began to attract followers.
It started with one girl—frightened, cornered, begging to join him for the night. Then another, and another. Soon, Tim had built himself an alliance of survivors, a small circle of women who relied on his skill to see another sunrise. He became their shield, their blade, their guarantee of living through the madness.
But every night carried the same problem.
The girls wanted more than protection.
They crowded close when the blood dried, hands brushing his arms, lips curling with promises. In Villian Ville, survival and sex had blurred into one. Partners killed together, then eased each other's guilt in the dark. The girls who followed Tim expected the same from him. Some whispered in his ear, some pressed against him when they thought he wouldn't resist. Every night was another test of his willpower.
And every night, Tim refused.
Because no matter how many women leaned into him, no matter how sweet their voices or how much skin they showed under the moonlight, they weren't Jenny.
It was Jenny's kiss he craved, Jenny's devilish smirk, Jenny's bare stomach brushing against his when she climbed on top of him. The others might have offered comfort, but Tim only wanted the fire she gave him—the way she made him forget guilt and lust in the same breath.
Still, he let the alliance grow. He protected them, taught them tricks Jenny had once taught him, and ensured none of them vanished when dawn came. Part of him knew it was the right thing. Another part of him liked being the center of their gazes, even if he refused their bodies.
But the temptation was constant.
Some nights, after a clean kill, one of the girls would crawl into his space, eyes shining, whispering, "Let me thank you." Another would slide her hand down his arm, urging him to put away the knife and take something softer.
Tim clenched his jaw, pushed them back, and rolled into the cold side of the bed. His body screamed at him, addicted to what Jenny had given him, begging for a fix. But he refused to break.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jenny leaving him a note. Jenny's handwriting, sharp and cruel: "Don't look for me. Survive if you can."
He had survived. He had built strength. He had even built an alliance. But surviving without her felt meaningless.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He had become strong enough that women now chased him, lusted after him, wanted to bind themselves to him for both survival and pleasure. Yet the only one he wanted had walked away, leaving him addicted, haunted, and dumbfounded.
Tim could kill anyone in Villian Ville now. But he couldn't kill the hunger Jenny had left inside him.