Kellan Wicks was gone.
Not dead—yet. But finished.
After the alley, he disappeared from school entirely. Rumors swirled—rehab, juvenile charges, family emergency. No one had facts, only fragments.
But I knew the truth.
He wouldn't recover.
Not socially. Not mentally.
And in a way, that was worse than death.
I'd turned him into a ghost in his own story.
One piece down.
Four to go.
I sat alone on the rooftop, watching the sunrise paint the city in ash and gold. The morning was cold, but my breath was steady.
Ryker once said: "Real killers don't celebrate. They prepare."
He was right.
Kellan was a test.
The next would require precision.
Not just pain.
Justice.
His name was Devin Trask.
Quarterback. Physics-flunker. Legacy student from an alumni family. Handsome enough to get away with anything.
He'd been the one who'd burned Mira's wrist.
Held her in the chess club closet with a lighter while the others laughed.
She never said his name out loud—but she didn't need to.
I remembered the way she looked at him during presentations.
No fear. Just hatred… controlled like a wire stretched thin across her ribs.
He never apologized.
Never even acknowledged it happened.
That made him dangerous.
Because people like him believed they were untouchable.
And that made them weak.
I spent the week watching.
I studied his schedule—practice, tutoring, his late night hook-ups behind the school's auto garage.
I listened to his jokes in the hallway.
The way he talked about girls.
The way he looked at Mira.
Like he didn't remember what he'd done.
Or worse—like he did, and didn't care.
I felt my fists tighten.
But I didn't move yet.
I waited.
Mira found me in the library that Friday afternoon.
"Wicks isn't coming back, is he?" she asked, sliding into the seat beside me.
I shook my head.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You did it," she said.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded once.
She stared at me a while.
"I should feel scared. But I don't."
"I don't want you to be afraid," I said.
She studied me. "Then what do you want?"
I paused.
"I want him to hurt like you did."
Her voice dropped. "Which one?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
That night, I went to Ryker's.
The gym was empty, lights off.
But he was there, sitting on the floor, back against the wall.
A bottle of whiskey sat beside him, untouched.
"You look calmer," he said without looking at me.
"I am."
"You hit someone again?"
"Four someones. Then one."
He grunted. "Was it worth it?"
"No."
He glanced up.
"But it was necessary."
He nodded.
"That's how it starts. Just don't forget why you started."
I didn't reply.
Because I couldn't forget.
It was carved into my bones.
By Sunday night, my plan was set.
Devin was already tangled in half a dozen secrets—cheating on tests, coercing underclassmen into doing his homework, ghosting girls he'd manipulated.
I wouldn't beat him with fists.
Not yet.
First, I'd light the fire under his name.
I uploaded copies of text exchanges between Devin and a sophomore girl—threats disguised as flirting, pressure dressed as compliments.
I sent them anonymously to the school's faculty inbox.
Then I posted one screenshot, anonymously, to a student confession page.
It went viral in under three hours.
By Monday morning, the walls were already closing in.
I watched from a distance as Devin stood in the hallway, red-faced and loud, trying to laugh it off.
But no one was laughing with him.
Even Reese seemed distant—arms crossed, gaze thoughtful.
The balance had shifted.
The fire had started.
And Devin didn't even smell the smoke yet.
Later that day, Mira passed me a note in class.
Just one sentence.
"Make him remember."
I tucked it in my pocket and didn't respond.
But I felt something strange in my chest.
Something warm.
And that scared me more than any enemy.
Because warmth was a risk.
Connection was a crack.
But even so… I didn't want her to look at me like I was a stranger.
I didn't want her to fear what I was becoming.
So I'd make sure she saw the truth.
I wasn't doing this because I enjoyed it.
I was doing it because it had to be done.
Because no one else would.
Because monsters don't reform.
They only hibernate.
That night, I waited behind the gym.
Devin always passed through after practice—alone.
I didn't plan to fight.
Not yet.
I just needed him to see me.
To feel me watching.
He stepped out the door, towel around his neck, earbuds in.
Then stopped.
His head turned slowly.
Eyes scanning the dark.
I stood ten paces away.
Hands at my sides.
Breath steady.
He squinted.
"Mercer?"
I didn't move.
"Something you need, freak?"
I stepped forward once.
He took half a step back.
And I smiled.
Small. Surgical.
"No," I said.
"You'll come to me soon enough."
Then I turned and walked away.
Left him standing there, confused, rattled.
Alone.
By the end of the week, he'd lose everything.
The girls.
The respect.
The protection.
And when he did—
Then I'd remind him what a burn really feels like.