He's coming down. Heavy footsteps, uneven with alcohol and adrenaline, moving through the house like a storm front. From upstairs comes the soft sound of crying—quiet, careful, the kind that tries not to draw attention.
Jenkins appears in the living room window, swaying slightly, his uniform disheveled and his face flushed withexertion and rage. He's breathing hard, like he's been doing manual labor instead of terrorizing a sixteen-year-old girl.
My body starts shaking then. Not fear—pure, undiluted fury that has nowhere to go. My vision narrows to a tunnel focused on Jenkins's face, on the satisfied expression of someone who's gotten exactly what he wanted.
She said sorry.
The thought hits again, and this time it brings everything with it. Every memory I've buried, every moment of helplessness, every fucking time I had to watch violence happen and couldn't stop it. My childhood bleeding into the present until I can't tell the difference between then and now, between me and her.
Three screws, never two, never—fuck, what comes after three? What comes after three?
My hands are flapping now, a stimming behavior I haven't done since I was a kid, since before I learned to mask everything that made me different. But the control is gone, shattered like whatever Jenkins threw upstairs, and I can't stop the repetitive movements any more than I can stop the thoughts spiraling through my head.
Through the upstairs window, I can see Delilah's silhouette moving carefully around her room. She's holding something to her face—cloth, maybe, or an ice pack. Her shoulders are hunched inward, protective, like someone trying to make themselves smaller.
That's when something snaps inside me.
Not breaks—snaps. Like a wire under too much tension, like a bone bent past its limit. The methodical killer who plans everything disappears, replaced by something raw and primal and completely fucking unhinged.
This isn't about justice anymore. This isn't about removing a corrupt cop or protecting potential victims or any of the rational justifications I've used to explain my work. This is about fury. This is about the nine-year-old boy I used to be, who never got rescued, who learned to apologize for his own bruises.
This is about making Harry Jenkins cease to exist, consequences be damned.
Time loses meaning. I might stand there for minutes or hours, watching Jenkins move around downstairs while Delilah tends to whatever damage he's done upstairs. My breathing evens out eventually, but not because I'm calming down—because I'm moving past emotion into something colder. Something that doesn't care about smart plans or careful timing or any of the rules that have kept me alive this long.
Jenkins disappears from view, heading toward what looks like the kitchen. Probably getting another drink, celebrating a successful bout of child abuse. The house goes quiet except for the soft sounds of Delilah moving around upstairs, cleaning up the mess, putting her life back together one broken piece at a time.
She'll sleep tonight with whatever injuries he gave her. She'll wake up tomorrow and pretend everything is normal. She'll make him breakfast and watch him put on his uniform and badge and go out into the world where people trust him to protect them.
And she'll do it all while carrying the knowledge that no one will ever believe her if she tries to report what happens behind closed doors. Because who do you call when the monster wears a badge?
The answer sits in my chest like a weight: You don't call anyone. You handle it yourself.
My hands finally stop shaking, not because the rage has passed, but because it's crystallized into something useful. Something with direction and purpose and absolutely no room for doubt.
Harry Jenkins is going to die. Not because he's corrupt, not because he's a threat to society, but because he broke something pure and good and made her apologize for the breaking.
And I'm going to make sure he understands exactly why.
Chapter 5 - Lila
OCTOBER 2025
The drive home passes in a blur of adrenaline and anticipation, my mind replaying every detail of Marcus Chen's kitchen. The sutures. The positioning. The cream-colored note with two letters that changed everything. By the time I pull into my building's underground garage, my hands have finally stopped shaking, but the electric current under my skin remains.
I need silence. I need space to think, to process what this means, to figure out my next move. I need to be alone with the possibility thathehas found me after nearly nine years of silence.Hadn’t he been the one who—?I can’t let my mind go there. I shouldn’t.
As happenstance would have it, when the elevator doors open to the fifteenth floor, I know something's strange. The hallway outside my apartment smells like rosemary and garlic, warm and homey in a way that immediately sets my teeth on edge. When I round the corner, I can see light spilling from under my door.
Someone is in my apartment.
My hand moves automatically to the pepper spray on my keychain before logic catches up. Only two people have spare keys to this place, and neither of them poses a physical threat. But the emotional threat they represent right now, when I'm buzzing with dangerous energy and dark possibilities, is almost worse than an intruder.
I forgot.
The realization hits me like ice water. I forgot about dinner. Janine texted me three days ago about cooking tonight—her famous lamb tagine, a peace offering after our last conversation about my "concerning work hours" and "emotional distance." I'd agreed because saying no would have required explanations I didn't want to give.
I never forget anything. Ever. The fact that something as important as a planned dinner with the woman who saved my life has completely slipped my mind is a testament to how deeply seeing his signature has affected me.
