Veil Over Madeline

CHAPTER 2: WRAITH

Chapter 2

WRAITH

6 am.

Branches rustle under my feet. My throat is tight as I exhale and white breath is born in thin air. Mist on the mountains lazily dance under the transparent moon. With each step I take my breath grows heavier.

Running is a way of freedom. All through as an enforcer and a hacker, all through witnessing innocent people tortured, every step I take is like catharsis. It is a reminder that there's miles between me and the things I've seen. The wind cuts through me, sharp and cold, but I welcome the sting. It wakes me up. It keeps me alive. With every puff, I try to shake off frightened faces, the cries, the darkness that clings to my skin like dirt I can never wash off. But running—running gives me strength.

One more lap. One more mile. One more chance to outrun the nightmares I've looked right in the eyes.

What a momentary release.

There's no line between saving and destroying. As much as humans are capable of being nurturing and loving, they can be as destructive and evil. A few hours ago I had patiently, diligently took care of a guy who was a rapist. He cried and whined like a bitch he was. Sweat dripped down his nose, fusing with the blood on his face. His thick filthy black hair had tousled to his forehead. I sliced off one of his ears and shattered his achilles heels. Carved on his flesh till he stopped refusing to give me the information I needed for a new lead. When I take out these monsters, it's not murder—it's justice, a reset. The way I see it, every time I wipe one of them off the map, the world gets a little cleaner, a little safer for the kids I pull out of hell.

There's no educating the part of my brain that knows what's morally right and what is not. No one normally relishes into hurting people.

But I do.

Every time a new video drops on the dark web, instinct hits like a gut punch—'She's dead, isn't she?' Fear grips, but then—relief. She's breathing. She's moving. Alive. But scarred, broken in ways that can't be undone. This world? Is rotting inside out. Then comes thud, like a countdown, another filthy clip of these bastards staining innocent angels with their dirty hands. They think they're untouchable, hidden behind their screens. But when I find them—and I always do—I give them the kind of pain that'll make their victims look like they got off easy.

My ears perk up with excitement when I have them right where I want them. Watching their faces twist in fear, knowing I'm the last thing they'll ever see, that's when the real pleasure sets in.  When I break their bones, I feel it deep in my chest—satisfaction so pure it almost hurts. Their skin splits, and the blood comes easily, like they were made for this moment, like this is the only way their existence could ever make sense. Their screams are raw, guttural, but it's never enough to drown out what they've done.

Lex Talionis. The law of exact retaliation.

I don't stop until I see the life drain from their eyes, until they're a bloody, mangled heap. And in that mess, in the stench of adrenaline and iron, I find peace. For every child they've hurt, I give them a death so slow and ugly they'll carry it with them to whatever hell is waiting.

A good kill is an appetizer for a nice meal but cleaning up afterward—dismembering a corpse, turning it into chunks, and getting rid of the mess? Is not. And I don't trust anyone else to handle it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.

Regardless, if you want something done right, do it yourself. You can't half ass your work as a vigilante.  if you don't want to end up in cuffs, you don't leave a trace. You don't leave a body. You take care of it—piece by bloody piece.