They gave it time.
Not days. Weeks.
Long enough for anger to cool into something quieter and more precise. Long enough for Samuel to stop pacing and start watching. Long enough for grief to sharpen instead of spill.
They learned the man's habits the way people learned prayers — by repetition.
The mechanic shop opened late most mornings. Closed later than it should have. The man lingered after hours, drinking, talking, eyeing women like he was entitled to them. Samuel already knew his rhythms from years of proximity. Tomas filled in the gaps.
Who he talked to.Who he trusted.Where he got careless.
The woman came through someone Tomas knew — not close enough to ask questions, not important enough to matter afterward. She was paid in advance. No names exchanged. No future implied.
She showed up at the shop with a car that "was acting funny."
The man noticed her before she finished shutting the door.
Samuel watched from across the street as the man leaned too close, laughed too freely. The woman smiled just enough. Let him talk. Let him take the lead. Let him think this was his idea.
Messages followed. Then calls.
When she invited him over, he didn't hesitate.
---
The serviced apartment felt borrowed.
Neutral furniture. Clean lines. A place meant for passing through, not staying. Samuel and Tomas arrived first and waited in silence. Curtains half-drawn. Lights low. The air still.
The woman arrived later, exactly on time.
She let the man in herself.
He came relaxed, jacket loose, confidence loud in his posture. He looked around, pleased. She offered him a drink. Sat close. Let her knee brush his. Let her hand linger on his arm.
He smiled.
Talk drifted easily. Cars. Work. Compliments that meant nothing. She laughed when she was supposed to. Leaned in when he leaned closer.
When she stood and took his hand, leading him toward the couch, he followed without question.
He never saw Tomas move.
Something wrapped around his head from behind — soft at first, then tight. His shout died in his throat, smothered, disoriented. He thrashed, arms flailing, confusion taking precious seconds to turn into fear.
That was when Samuel stepped out.
The first strike landed clean.
The bat connected with his shoulder, driving him sideways into the couch. The second caught him in the face. Bone gave way with a wet sound that didn't register until later.
The woman was already backing away, eyes down, job finished.
Tomas kept the man restrained while Samuel swung again. And again.
The man screamed into the wrapping, muffled, useless. Blood soaked through, dark and spreading. Samuel's breath came fast now, uneven, something wild breaking loose behind his eyes.
He dropped the bat and climbed on top of him.
Fists.Elbows.A headbutt that split skin.
Each blow landed with everything Samuel had been carrying since the hospital hallway. Since the waiting room. Since the sound of dirt hitting wood.
"Yo," Tomas said, strained now. "That's enough."
Samuel didn't hear him.
He was somewhere else — in the room where his mother lay still, in the house where she cried quietly at night, in every moment she tried to pretend she wasn't breaking.
Tomas hauled him back hard.
"You're gonna kill him," he snapped. "He's not worth it."
Samuel froze.
The man lay beneath them, face ruined beneath the wrap, body already swelling where the blows had landed, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls. Most of the blood stayed trapped there, soaked into layers meant to silence him, meant to keep the room clean.
They didn't leave him there.
They lifted him instead — awkward, heavy, limp between them — and carried him down to the car he'd arrived in. The woman was already waiting, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. The man was shoved into the back, slumped and barely aware, his head lolling as the door closed.
All four of them rode in silence.
The city thinned out as they drove, lights giving way to darkness, noise falling off into something hollow and far away. When they stopped, it was somewhere forgotten — quiet enough that even the engine sounded too loud.
They dragged him out and left him where the ground dipped and the road no longer cared who passed through. He made a sound when he hit the dirt, more reflex than protest.
Then they were gone.
For days afterward, they kept their distance. No calls. No movement that could be noticed. They watched the world carefully, waiting for ripples, for signs they'd misjudged something.
Only when nothing came did they move again.
---
They burned the shop later.
Late enough that no one was around. Quiet enough that the street felt abandoned. Tomas stood watch at the corner, eyes scanning the dark, listening for footsteps, engines, anything out of place.
Samuel worked fast.
He poured gasoline along the edges of the building, around the doors, beneath the bays where customer cars sat waiting. He traced it carefully, methodically, making sure it would catch everywhere at once. The smell was overwhelming, clinging to his hands and clothes.
When he struck the flame, it took immediately.
Fire ran the lines he'd drawn, leaping up walls, spilling into the open mouths of the shop. They didn't wait to watch it grow. The moment it caught, they turned and left, footsteps quick, heads down, gone before the heat had time to announce itself.
Later, there was bleach and water. The sting of it burned Samuel's skin as he scrubbed, erasing the smell, the residue, anything that might linger too long. Clothes were ruined on purpose. Everything that could remember was destroyed.
Samuel didn't look back.
---
That night, he stood under a cold shower.
The water hit hard, unforgiving, washing gasoline and bleach from his hands, from beneath his nails. The smell lingered anyway, filling the small bathroom as steam failed to rise.
His shoulders shook.
Only then did it hit him.
His mother was gone.
Not because of the man.Not because of the fire.Not because of anything that could be undone.
The sound he made was small. Cracked. Lost in the rush of cold water.
When he turned the shower off, the room felt empty.
And Samuel understood that whatever he had crossed, there was no walking back.