A few months have passed since the "Third Reich Cake" incident.
Summer slipped by, taking with it the ashes of my old life, the lingering stench of peanut oil, and—absolute miracle—my doubts about my academic future. Against all odds, and despite a karma so hostile it makes a black cat under a ladder look like obscene luck, I passed my year.
So here I am: officially enrolled in a Master's in Criminal Law.
The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast. Me—Eliot—the guy who technically has two corpses on his conscience. Okay, fine, they were domestic accidents involving a staircase and an allergy, but the outcome is still two death certificates. And now I'm studying how to put criminals behind bars. Every class is a delicious little psychological torture. When we cover mens rea, I have to physically stop myself from raising my hand to ask, "And if the murder weapon is sheer clumsiness, sir—do we plead insanity or stupidity?"
"Good morning, everyone. Please take a seat. I'm Professor Adrien Valmont."
The voice that rolled through the lecture hall instantly silenced the sun-tanned chatter of students still carrying beach sand in their souls.
Adrien Valmont.
Mid-thirties, sharp as a blade, wearing an Italian suit tailored so perfectly it probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined—plus a kind of charisma that makes you want to plead guilty just to get him to look at you. He was brilliant, incisive, and looked like he'd walked straight out of a high-budget American legal drama.
"Criminal law isn't a question of statutes," he said, planting his dark eyes into the room, sweeping the crowd like a predator scanning a savannah. "It's a question of morality. The law is a tool. Justice is an ideal. Sometimes, the two never meet. You have four hours to think about that."
A shiver ran down my spine.
Not my usual garbage radar, no. This was different. Like... recognition. Mutual. Unsettling.
At the end of the lecture, as I was packing up my things, he stepped down from the platform and walked toward our little group. Sarah, Thomas, and Lucas were already practically drooling.
"Gentlemen. Miss," he said with a smile that was both predatory and charming. "I read your undergraduate files. You're the small group that survived the year from hell, aren't you?"
His gaze landed on me. Intense. Amused.
"And you must be Eliot. I've heard you have a gift for being in the wrong place at the right time. Or the opposite. That's a rare quality in a criminal lawyer. Keep your eyes open."
He gave me the slightest wink and walked away, leaving behind a trail of expensive cologne and mystery.
"Jesus," Sarah breathed, watching him go. "If that man asked me to kill someone, I think I'd do it immediately. He is... offensively attractive."
"He's terrifying," I corrected, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
That exact moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A new message flashed on my lock screen.
Unknown: I'm in town. Coffee at our usual place? 4 p.m. I need you.
A small smile tugged at my mouth—an honest reflex I hadn't had in a long time. I typed a quick reply.
"Oooh," Thomas said, elbowing me when he caught my expression. "Who's 'Unknown'? You already forgotten Zoé?"
Zoé's name dropped the temperature a few degrees. Since her father's scandal and the forced exile that followed, the subject was radioactive.
"You move fast," Lucas added, trying to lighten the mood with his usual bulldozer delicacy. "Grief is for the weak? That a Tinder date?"
I rolled my eyes and pocketed my phone.
"Shut up, idiots. It's family."
"Yeah, sure," Lucas snorted. "'My cousin from the countryside.' We know that song. 'It's just my sister' is the oldest excuse in the world to hide a new conquest!"
I let them joke. For once, I wasn't lying.
It really was family.
The only family I had left, actually.
And if she needed me, nothing—not even a charismatic professor, not even my friends—was going to stop me.
Time for the second half.
We leave the light, campus tone and step into something more intimate. Darker. You're supposed to feel it: Cléa is my Achilles' heel.
I realize I've never really told you about my family. It's a topic I avoid the way you avoid mirrors after a night of heavy drinking.
You're probably imagining the orphan-hero cliché: lonely, mysterious, self-sufficient.
The truth is... more complicated.
After our parents' accidental death (and frankly absurd death), I wasn't alone.
I had Cléa.
Back then I was barely eighteen—broke, clueless, and about as responsible as a hamster on amphetamines. Social services, in their infinite wisdom, decided to separate us.
I got the tiny maid's room and student grants.
Cléa got the golden ticket: a foster family made of solid gold—the Dervals. Good people. Really. No secret cellar. No Nazi past. Just love and a comfortable income.
She lives in a nearby town, thirty minutes by train. We don't see each other often "so we don't disturb her stability," but she's still the only person on this earth for whom I'd fight an army of zombies without blinking.
I arrived at the Coffee Corner—our usual HQ. She was there, sitting in the back, drowning inside a sweatshirt that was too big for her. At seventeen, Cléa is everything I'm not: brilliant, sunny, and blessed with a functioning sense of humor.
"Hey, shorty," I said as I sat down, wearing my best big-brother smile.
She looked up.
Usually her eyes sparkle with mischief. Today they were ringed with gray—flat, unplugged, like someone pulled the cord.
"Hey, Eliot," she murmured, shredding a paper napkin into tiny balls.
"That's it? No joke about my haircut? No comment about how I look like a bookworm rat who hasn't seen sunlight since 2012?"
She forced a smile—more a painful grimace that never reached her eyes.
"You're still ugly. Don't worry."
We ordered. I tried to steer the conversation toward her classes, her new "perfect" family (I still pray they don't have bodies in the closet), her college plans. But every sentence hit a wall. She answered in monosyllables. She flinched every time her phone—face down on the table—buzzed.
My radar switched on.
Not the supernatural-danger radar.
The big-brother one.
"Cléa," I said, setting my cup down a little too hard. "Cut the crap. What's going on?"
"Nothing, Eliot. It's the baccalauréat. Stress..."
"You've been top of the class since kindergarten. You eat stress for breakfast. Look at me."
She lifted wet eyes to mine.
In them, I saw pure terror. The fear of a hunted animal.
"It's... it's a guy from school," she let out in a breath.
My stomach knotted.
"A guy? Did he hurt you?"
The floodgates opened.
Between muffled sobs—so she wouldn't alert the other customers—she told me the nightmare.
Killian.
The school's golden boy. Team captain. Untouchable rich-kid aura. He'd charmed her, gained her trust... and then he took photos. Intimate photos. Stolen at a party where she drank a little too much, or demanded under the pressure of "love."
"He says if I don't do his homework... if I don't give him money... and if I don't do other things..." she cried, "he'll send everything to the class Snap group. He already did it to another girl last year, Eliot. She had to move to another region. My life is over."
The world stopped.
The espresso machine, the student laughter, the background music—gone.
All that remained was the dull hammering of my heart in my temples.
A cold heat filled my veins.
This wasn't the messy panic I'd felt with Jean-Pierre or Dolores.
This was rage.
Black. Dense. Calculated.
My eyes emptied of emotion, leaving only one thing behind: a clean, absolute intent to kill.
For one second—one single second—I wasn't Eliot the clumsy student anymore.
I was the monster the exorcist saw inside me.
Cléa instinctively recoiled in the booth, eyes widening.
"Eliot? You... you're scaring me."
Her voice snapped me back.
I blinked, chased the darkness away, forced control back into my bones. I reached for her hand, but my voice stayed icy—sharp as a scalpel.
"We're going to the police. Now. We're filing a complaint for blackmail and child porn. I know the articles. I know the procedure. We're going to destroy him, Cléa. Legally."
She yanked her hand back like I'd burned her.
"No! You don't understand! By the time they do anything, he'll have posted everything! He warned me. 'If you talk, I hit send.' I can't, Eliot. I can't!"
Her phone buzzed again. A long, insistent notification. She looked at it and went pale.
"I... I have to go. He knows I left."
"Cléa, wait—!"
She sprang up, knocked her chair over in her rush, and ran out without looking back—leaving me alone with two cold coffees and a desire to kill that had nothing left to do with legality.
I watched the door swing shut behind her fragile silhouette.
Killian, huh?
I pulled out my phone.
I'd spent the year studying law. But tonight, I had the feeling the only law that would apply was the law of retaliation.
And for the first time, I didn't want to wait for karma to do the job for me.
I was going to give it a hand.
I'm not a violent man by nature. I'm the kind of person who apologizes when he bumps into furniture.
But something had changed.
A fuse had blown.
On my way home that night—rain hammering down, clothes plastered to my skin—I felt... different. Heavy steps. Dark eyes. And a small arrogant voice whispered in my ear:
"Hey, Eliot. Wake up. You eliminated the biggest serial killer in the region with your ass. You neutralized a Nazi war criminal with a yogurt cake. You're untouchable. You're the Grim Reaper on a temp contract."
Misplaced confidence is idiot fuel.
And that night, I filled the tank.
I wasn't going to kill that kid. No. Of course not.
I just wanted to scare the life out of him. Make him understand that if he came near Cléa again, he'd be dealing with something far worse than human justice.
I wanted to be his nightmare.
Back in my tiny apartment, I opened my laptop like an action-movie hacker (except I was eating chips at the same time).
"Let's see, Killian..." I muttered, typing his name.
His profile was public. Obviously. The guy thought he was a star. Gym pics. Rugby field pics. Mirror pics. Pure, concentrated narcissism, pumped full of protein powder.
His Achilles' heel was glaring: his ego and his libido.
I made a fake Instagram account in three minutes.
Name: Lola_FitGirl19
Profile pic: a mysterious brunette from behind, stolen from a royalty-free image bank
Bio: "I like strong men and dangerous places. New in town."
It was obvious. It was cliché. It was borderline insulting to human intelligence.
He bit within ten minutes.
Killian_TheKing: Hey beautiful. Never seen you at school. You from around here? 😉
I swallowed a gag and typed back.
Lola_FitGirl19: Just here for the weekend. Saw your photos... impressive. I like guys who aren't afraid.
Killian_TheKing: You haven't seen anything. I'm a beast. Wanna meet?
Lola_FitGirl19: Maybe... But I'm shy. And I like discreet places. You know the old industrial area outside town? There's an abandoned building with a flat roof. I love watching the rain from up there. Meet me there at 10 p.m. Alone. If you bring your friends, I disappear.
Killian_TheKing: The old warehouse? You're wild. I love it. I'm coming, baby. Get ready.
"Baby."
I slammed the laptop shut, furious.
This guy was a walking caricature.
At 9:30 p.m., I was on site.
The industrial zone looked like a post-apocalyptic set: cracked concrete, wild weeds, rusted car skeletons—under a biblical downpour. The weather service had issued an orange alert for violent thunderstorms, but that worked for me. The mood was perfect for intimidation.
I climbed the rusted service stairs of the main building, nearly slipping three times (old habits die hard), until I reached the rooftop. A wide slab of gray concrete, whipped by wind, with zero safety rails.
I planted myself near the center—black hood pulled low over my face—baseball bat (bought that afternoon at a sports store) clenched in my right hand.
I was shaking.
Cold? Fear? Excitement?
All three.
Lightning ripped the sky in purple flashes, followed by thunder that made my ribcage vibrate.
"Come on, Killian," I whispered, imagining myself as Batman hunting the Joker. "Come see what happens when you touch my sister."
I felt powerful. Invincible.
I forgot one tiny detail: in real life, a seventy-kilo law student versus a steroid-fed rugby kid rarely ends like the movies.
At exactly 10 p.m., the heavy metal rooftop door squealed open.
A massive silhouette appeared in the frame, lit by his phone.
"Lola?" a deep voice called over the rain. "Where are you? Hope you're not afraid to get wet!"
I stepped out from the shadow of a ventilation block, bat in hand, ready to perform the role of my life.
The trap snapped shut.
"Lola?" Killian called again, squinting into the storm, flashlight sweeping the roof.
I emerged, gripping the bat so hard my knuckles hurt. Heart galloping, I forced my voice into the deepest register I'd practiced in the shower.
"Lola's not here, Killian. But Cléa's big brother is."
His beam blinded me for a second. Killian lowered his phone, disbelief on his face—then he laughed. A loud, greasy laugh that drowned out even the thunder.
"Is this a joke? Her big brother? The law student who looks like a depressed accountant?"
He took a step forward, not remotely impressed by my weapon.
"You think you scare me with your toothpick, four-eyes?"
"Delete the photos, Killian. Now. Or I swear I'll break your knees."
I stepped in, threatening.
This was my moment.
I was going to scare him.
Except Killian didn't back up.
He charged.
The reality of a street fight is that it never looks like movie choreography. Killian wasn't "just a kid." He was a pillar of the rugby team—a 110-kilo wall of muscle fed on steroids and ego.
I tried to lift the bat.
Too slow.
He slammed into me like a freight train. My breath vanished. I literally left the ground and crashed three meters away onto wet concrete. The bat skidded out of reach, rolling uselessly toward a puddle.
I didn't even have time to inhale before he was on me.
"You wanna play hero?" he roared, grabbing my jacket collar.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing and hurled me into a cinderblock ledge. My head hit stone. Stars exploded behind my eyes, mixing with the lightning tearing the sky.
"You're pathetic!" he spat, driving a boot into my ribs.
Pain detonated through me. I folded in half.
I lay there in mud and freezing water, curled up, humiliated. My "genius plan" had collapsed in thirty seconds flat. I wasn't a killer. I wasn't a vigilante. I was just a law student getting his ass kicked by a high schooler.
Killian stepped back, panting, a sadistic grin stretching his mouth.
"You tried to be clever... tried to trap me... You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna finish you right here. And then I'll post your sister's photos and tag your whole family."
He scanned the area and spotted a long rusted rebar rod jutting from a collapsed pillar. He ripped it free with a jerk.
A meter and a half of heavy metal. Sharp. Mean.
"Get up!" he ordered, pointing it at me.
I tried to rise, slipping on the slick surface, blood in my mouth. The rain intensified. The storm was directly overhead now. The air was saturated with static—my hair prickled up, ozone flooded my nostrils.
Killian climbed onto a small concrete rise—the highest point of the roof—looming over me. He lifted the rebar toward the black sky like a triumphant spear, playing god.
"I'M UNTOUCHABLE!" he screamed at the world, thrusting the metal into the charged clouds. "I DO WHAT I WANT!"
The sky answered.
CRAAACK!
It wasn't light.
It was a white explosion—pure, blinding.
The sound was so violent it felt like the heavens tore in half.
I saw the bolt: a titanic arc of violet-white electricity connecting cloud to the iron rod in Killian's hands.
Time froze for a fraction of a second.
I watched the current race through the metal, shoot up his right arm, light his skeleton like a grotesque cartoon, rip through his massive body, and exit through his expensive sneakers—which literally burst into smoking scraps of rubber.
He didn't scream.
He didn't have time.
Killian flew backward, rigid as a plank, and slammed onto the wet gravel with a dull, final sound.
Silence dropped again—heavy—broken only by the hiss of rain... and the faint crackle of his synthetic jacket still smoking.
I sat there in a puddle, mouth open, forgetting my ribs entirely, staring at the body of the guy who—three seconds ago—was about to cave my skull in.
I blinked, stunned.
"Holy shit... you didn't check the weather forecast?"
I stayed there a while under the downpour, staring at the smoking heap of clothes that had been the terror of an entire school.
You get used to anything. Sad to admit, but this was my third corpse in less than a year. The raw panic I felt with Jean-Pierre was fading into something colder, almost surgical.
But there's one thing you never get used to.
The smell.
Melted plastic. Ozone. And worse than anything...
Grilled pork.
A thick, greasy stench that clawed at my throat and nearly made me throw up my lunch.
"Come on, Eliot," I muttered, forcing myself up with a hand pressed to my aching ribs. "Not the time to fall apart."
My law-student brain retook the wheel.
Crime scene. Body. You were here. Motive. You're screwed.
I pulled out my phone. My fingers were still shaking, but I moved with the precision of a pianist: delete the "Lola" account. Delete history. Delete VPN. Delete the app. Clear cache.
Once my phone was as clean as a digital newborn, I hesitated.
Run? No. There were cameras at the entrance to the industrial zone. If I fled, I looked guilty. If I stayed, I was a witness.
I dialed emergency services.
"Police? I... I think there's been an accident. Someone got struck by lightning. North industrial zone. Please hurry."
The next hour blurred into blue flashing lights, barked questions, and scratchy thermal blankets. But this time, the reception was different.
No gentle cops patting my shoulder.
They drove me straight to the station—into a gray interrogation room—across from a man who looked carved from rock and resentment.
Captain Vasseur.
Fifties. Shark eyes. A scar on his cheek. A reputation like a pit bull that never lets go.
He dropped a folder onto the metal table with a dull thud.
"So, Mr. Black Cat," he said. "We meet again in the middle of corpses?"
He leaned in, invading my air.
"You were there when notary Belmont died. You were the neighbor of the Nazi old lady. And tonight, by the greatest coincidence on earth, you're wandering alone in a thunderstorm next to a charred teenager? Are you kidding me?"
"I wasn't wandering, Captain," I said evenly, despite my heart sprinting. "I was doing urbex. Urban exploration. It's my hobby."
"Urbex under lightning? With a baseball bat found ten meters from you?"
"I never go unprotected in areas like that. And about the lightning... I'm not a meteorologist. I didn't touch that boy. The autopsy will prove it. He was struck by lightning. That's an act of God—force majeure. Article 1218 of the Civil Code."
Vasseur's jaw tightened. He knew. He could smell that I was lying about why I was there. He wanted to pin me for homicide—or at least failure to assist a person in danger.
He grilled me for four hours.
He shouted. He threatened. He slammed his fist on the table.
But facts are stubborn.
The experts were clear: Killian had been holding a metal bar above his head on a rooftop during a thunderstorm. That's practically the definition of natural selection. No signs of deadly struggle (my bruises proved he hit me, not the other way around). No prints of my hands on him.
Then technology delivered the final blow.
Killian's phone was destroyed—melted. But not his cloud.
Around 4 a.m., a young lieutenant walked in, pale, and whispered something to Vasseur while handing him a tablet. The captain's face changed. The hatred he'd aimed at me twisted into something else entirely.
Disgust—for the victim.
The "kid" wasn't an angel.
His cloud was full of folders named after girls. Cléa. Maëva. Julie... Hundreds of stolen photos, humiliating videos, blackmail evidence. They discovered he was directly linked to the suicides of two high school girls the year before—cases that had been dismissed for lack of proof.
Vasseur set the tablet down and stared at me for a long time.
"You're lucky, kid. Very lucky. That guy was filth. Real filth. If lightning hadn't taken him, he would've ended up in prison for a long time."
He stood, visibly frustrated that he couldn't slap cuffs on me, but forced to admit divine justice had done its work.
"You're free. But listen to me, Eliot. Lightning never strikes the same place twice. But you... you seem to attract trouble. I'm watching you. One wrong move, and I'll lock you up."
I left the station at dawn. The air was fresh—washed clean by the storm. I inhaled deeply, trying to purge the "burnt pork" smell still haunting my nose.
I sent one message to Cléa:
It's over. He'll never bother you again. Sleep.
I wasn't a hero.
Just a big brother with awful luck... who had served as bait for a human lightning rod.
But when I looked up at the bright blue sky, I thought maybe—just maybe—the weather was my best ally.
Cause of death: atmospheric electrocution (improvised barbecue).
Red flag for a killer: always check the forecast. When you've got personality, avoid waving metal around in a thunderstorm—unless you want the sky to fall for you... literally.
End of Chapter 3.