Holding Grudges

Prologue

Crouched behind a dense wall of ferns, I stilled my breath, forcing my lungs into silence. The weight of the pistol in my hand was unbearable, its cold steel pressing a question into my palm: Why am I here? The barrel was steady, locked onto the back of an unsuspecting man's head, yet for a fleeting moment, my mind wavered, caught in a haze of forgotten purpose.

Then, like a crack of thunder splitting the sky, it all came rushing back. A violent jolt of memory seized me, slapping my senses awake with the force of an unseen hand. Every ounce of humiliation, every blow I endured, every agonizing year spent drowning in my own torment—it was all for this.

An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Hammurabi's Law.

Wasn't that fair? Wasn't that just?

Perhaps "a life" was too generous a term, but after being beaten bloody, humiliated, and driven to the brink of suicide for four relentless years, the distinction hardly mattered. They had already taken my life once. Now, it was my turn to return the favor.

Meticulous planning had been my salvation. I had spent sleepless nights assembling the perfect execution, poring over every detail like a composer refining a masterpiece. Who. Where. How. Each victim a note in a grand, orchestrated symphony of revenge. The anticipation burned in my veins, humming with the promise of long-overdue retribution.

Twenty-two years I had waited. Twenty-two years I had perfected this moment.

The first time was intoxicating. The act itself, so sudden, so absolute, left an ache in me, a hunger that clawed at the edges of my sanity. I had expected satisfaction. What I found instead was addiction. The moment their last breath escaped, something inside me clicked—a puzzle piece falling into place. And suddenly, one life wasn't enough.

Tonight, I was correcting the missteps of my last job, which had been an unfortunate mess. A learning experience, if you will. Sloppy work had no place here. Not in this neighborhood, where paranoia hung in the air like a heavy fog, where prying eyes hid behind curtains, waiting for something—anything—to feed their insatiable curiosity.

The CCTV cameras were laughable. I had already mapped out the underground sewer system that would see me miles away before anyone could even think to react. A magician's trick—vanishing without a trace. The neighbors could gossip all they wanted. By the time they whispered my name, I'd be nothing more than a ghost in the dark.

Through the glass, I watched my target. The last of his bloodline. How poetic. His entire lineage would end with a single, silenced shot. He had no idea—no inkling of the reckoning looming behind him like a shadow.

The pistol in my hand had once belonged to a lowly thief. A cockroach of a man who thought he could steal and escape unscathed. He had learned otherwise when I pried the weapon from his trembling fingers. His final lesson in life? That some debts are paid in blood. But he had been a distraction. This—this was the true performance.

Another man sat across from my target. A surprise? No. I had accounted for him. He, too, was marked, but not for tonight. No, I had a rule—a signature, if you will. My victims needed to know. They needed to feel it coming. To dread it. And so, this one would live—for now. I wanted to watch his reaction when he realized his days were numbered. Would he run? Hide? Or carry on as though death weren't breathing down his neck?

Boring, those who don't fear, those who simply existed in ignorance. And tonight's victim? Well, he was no fun at all.

Then, a sudden noise.

A sharp, jarring blast from within the house. My muscles coiled, finger tightening over the trigger as the man inside bolted upright, startled. The glass between us trembled under the force of the sound—just a television, blaring a game no one truly cared about.

But this wasn't his game.

This was mine. And I was ready to play.