𝙨𝙖𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙚 𝙭 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣. ❦ | 𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .
ᶜʰʳⁱᵃᵐᵒⁿᵗᵉ ʳᵉᵃˡ ᵍʰᵉᵗᵗᵒ
𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 is a haunting, slow burn descent into the kind of love that feels mo...
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⌖ HEADCOUNT | O46. ‹ ⚜ › ❝ i'm who you want to be, who you would make people believe you were. ❞
— FEBRUARY FOURTH 12:OO P.M. ᐟ
As Jasiah stepped into the elevator, he stood squarely in the center, lighting a blunt. His mind felt as empty as his heart, a hollow ache that settled heavily in his chest. The men around him remained silent, drawing some comfort from the brief moment of peace within the confines of the elevator, fully aware that chaos that was waiting for him, like grenades primed to explode.
A deep darkness continued to envelop Jasiah. It clouded his thoughts, filling him with a sense of dread that he couldn't shake. The air felt suffocating, pressing down on him as if it were alive.
He tilted his head upwards, the light shining through the fabrics of his bandanna as he took a deep breath. It felt it would be offensive to pray, knowing he was about to be the one to create more sinful acts.
Since his release from jail, bodies had been piling up across Compton—each one left with a black bandana covering their face. A silent signature to those who understood, yet anonymous to the rest of the world.
The news spread like wildfire. Warnings blared across TV screens & radio stations—be on the lookout for a serial killer, lock your doors, stay armed, sleep with one eye open. Fear gripped the city, but Jasiah didn't care about striking terror in strangers. He wasn't out to hurt anybody else. Only the ones who were associated with the ones who hurt him.
"Grim", a symbol of death is what they called him & he wasn't mad at it. It had a menacing ring to it—cold & fitting. A name whispered in fear, a warning in itself. He embraced it, damn near wore it like armor. If death was the role they saw him in, then so be it. He'd play the part perfectly.
His body count had an extra forty five added to it. Forty five bodies, all taken by his hands alone.
Meanwhile, Emery sat in the warehouse, bound & waiting for him—just as planned. Jasiah meant it when he said everyone else would die before him. He was wiping them out one by one, & he made sure Emery would see every second of it. A camera sat steady, recording it all. Every shot fired, every machete blade slicing through flesh, every severed head he tossed into a bag—his own twisted collection, a personal souvenir set for Emery.
