Elias Crowe had always known the world was a cruel joke, but it took him years to laugh at it.
Born to a mother who vanished like smoke in the wind, Elias entered the system at seven, clutching a duffel bag stuffed with mismatched clothes and a single worn-out storybook. The group home was a gray concrete box filled with other forgotten children, their cries echoing off the walls like accusations. He didn't cry. Crying was for those who still believed someone might listen. Instead, he watched. He observed how the older kids hoarded food, how the staff turned blind eyes to bruises, how promises dissolved into nothing.
By nine, he had stopped expecting rescue. His mother wasn't coming back. No fairy-tale hero would burst through the door to save him. Life wasn't a story with neat resolutions—it was chaos, survival, and the occasional mercy of indifference.
What pulled him through those early years was the library cart. Every Thursday, a volunteer with a kind but weary face wheeled it in, stacked high with donated books. Elias grabbed as many as his small arms could carry. He hid under his thin blanket at night, flashlight beam dancing across pages, escaping into worlds where at least the chaos had rules.
He started with adventure tales—knights slaying dragons, detectives unraveling mysteries. The heroes captivated him at first: brave, just, always victorious. But as he read more, a dissatisfaction grew. Why did the heroes win? Not because they were smarter or stronger, but because the narrative demanded it. The villains, though—they were fascinating. They schemed with purpose, saw through the illusions of society, fought for visions no one else dared. And yet, they always fell. Tripped up by hubris, or bad luck, or the author's need for a happy ending.
It bothered him. So he fixed it.
At ten, he stole a notebook from the supply closet. On the left page, he summarized the book's official conclusion. On the right, he rewrote it. What if the dragon had anticipated the knight's attack? What if the detective had been framed instead? His versions were darker, more logical. The villains won because they deserved to—they were willing to do what was necessary.
The notebook became his secret world. By twelve, he had filled two. By thirteen, four. He no longer cared for new stories; he dissected the old ones, hunting for the pivotal moments where a single ruthless choice could have flipped the outcome.
The other children began to avoid him. Elias didn't mind. He wasn't violent or loud—he was quiet, unnervingly so. His pale gray eyes, sharp and unblinking, had a way of stripping people bare. When Marcus, the home's resident bully—a hulking fourteen-year-old with a mean streak—targeted a scrawny newcomer, Elias positioned himself in the hallway, arms crossed, staring. Marcus faltered mid-threat, his fists unclenching. "What're you looking at, freak?" he snarled.
Elias didn't answer. He just held the gaze until Marcus muttered something and slunk away.
The next day, Marcus was hauled into the office after contraband was discovered in his locker—cigarettes and cash he swore weren't his. The staff didn't believe him. Elias watched from the doorway as Marcus was packed off to a stricter facility. No one connected it to the quiet boy with the notebook. But Elias felt a quiet thrill: the world could be corrected, if you knew where to apply pressure.
At fifteen, the incidents escalated. A foster parent who played favorites—giving extra food to the "good" kids while the others went hungry—received an anonymous package at social services: photos, timestamps, detailed logs of neglect. She lost her license. A teacher who inflated grades for athletes but docked points from quiet students like Elias found her computer hacked, her emails leaked to the school board. She resigned in disgrace.
Each time, Elias refined his methods. He learned to cover tracks, to make it look like fate or coincidence. He was invisible, a shadow pulling strings from the edges.
High school ended early for him. He tested out at sixteen, scholarships paving his way to university. Psychology was the obvious choice—it promised tools to dissect the human mind, to understand why people built castles of lies around their cruelties.
College was a revelation. Lectures on cognitive biases, Freudian slips, Milgram's obedience experiments—it all clicked. People weren't evil or good; they were machines of self-justification, rationalizing harm as necessity. Elias excelled, but his professors noted his detachment. "Brilliant analysis," one wrote, "but lacks empathy. Views subjects as puzzles, not people."
Elias read the feedback and shrugged. Empathy was a blindfold. He preferred clear sight.
He tested boundaries. A roommate who bragged about manipulating his girlfriend woke to find her at the door with screenshots of his texts. "How?" the roommate demanded. Elias feigned ignorance. A group project partner who claimed Elias's ideas as her own saw her academic record flagged for plagiarism—evidence planted so seamlessly it looked self-inflicted.
Word spread subtly: don't cross Elias Crowe. He graduated with honors, pursued a master's, then a PhD, all while expanding his "corrections" to the real world. Corrupt landlords evicting families for profit found their properties condemned after anonymous safety reports. A banker skimming from vulnerable accounts lost everything when his fraud was exposed to regulators.
He never used violence. That would come later, when words and shadows weren't enough.
Instead, he assembled a network. Disaffected souls: hackers tired of corporate chains, journalists silenced by threats, ex-military like Jax Harlan who had seen too much.
Jax was different from the start. Twenty-eight, broad and boyish, with warm brown eyes that saw good even in broken things. Discharged honorably after refusing an immoral order, he joined Elias's circle after a chance meeting in a dive bar. "You're fighting the right fight," Jax said, clinking glasses. "Count me in."
Elias watched him closely. Jax was loyal, efficient, the enforcer who tempered Elias's plans with practicality. Late nights, they talked—books, philosophy, the line between justice and vengeance. Jax pushed back gently. "We can't become them, Elias. That's how they win."
Elias nodded, but inside he waited for the betrayal. Everyone had a price.
At thirty-two, with his PhD in hand, their operations peaked. They targeted untouchables: judges shielding criminals, politicians selling policy. Success bred confidence—and risk.
The warehouse operation was their boldest. A federal judge protecting a trafficking ring. Everything was set.
Then sirens. Chaos. Gunfire.
Jax covered the retreat, bleeding but steady. Elias cornered him in the shadows.
"You did this," Elias said.
Jax's face twisted—not with denial, but resignation. "They offered me a way out. Clean slate. I thought... if I gave them you, the group survives. I was wrong."
The confession landed like a blade. Elias had known. Deep down, he'd always known.
He lifted the detonator—insurance against failure. "You were my friend."
Jax's eyes filled with regret. "I know. That's why it hurts."
Elias pressed the button.
The explosion was oblivion.
His last thought: *Everyone breaks.*
Awakening was agony. Tiny lungs gasping, tiny body cold. A new world. A new name: Kael Voss.
But the memories remained. The lessons. The pain.
In Elyndor's slums, Kael vowed: no trust. No closeness. No mercy.
He would be the antagonist—and this time, he would not lose.
To be continued...