Page 3 of Carver’s Crusade

I remember the file. The girl’s statement was fractured and hesitant. She struggled to describe her ordeal under the weight of disbelief. I also remember the verdict. Not enough evidence to convict, so he walks free, like so many others. He’s now free to destroy more lives, but not on my watch. I refuse to accept their version of justice.

I shift slightly, ignoring the protest in my knees, and check the time. It’s getting late. Good. That means fewer variables and fewer witnesses.

When he steps out, I’m ready.

Cory stretches like he doesn’t have a care in the world, keys jangling in his hand. Relaxed. Comfortable. Untouched by what he’s done. He’s a man who got away with his crime. My lips press into a thin line.

He locks the doors and glances around, casual, unaware. Then he turns and walks down the path that cuts along the hedges. He’s heading in my direction as I knew he would be.

My breathing slows—my body stills, coiled and ready. Every sense sharpens—the crunch of gravel beneath Cory’s shoes, the faint rustle of leaves, the rhythm of his careless stride.

When he passes my location, I move—surging out of the shadows behind him. Two steps and I’m right behind him. He doesn’t notice me until I’m already pressing the taser into his back.

Electricity snarls through him, his body jerking violently as his muscles seize. He crumples to the ground, hitting the path hard. I watch him twisting and gasping. He’s disoriented, but he’s still alive. At least for now. Now begins the Trial.

I kneel beside him, rolling him onto his back. His eyes flutter as he struggles to focus, confusion giving way to fear.

“Wha—who—”

“I am Oya, defender of Krista. You remember Krista, right?”

His eyes widen with fear as I pull the vial from my pocket. He can’t fight me as I tilt his head back. My expression is hard as I pour the liquid down his throat. This is the Trial Ordeal. If he survives, he’s innocent. If he doesn’t, well, then he earned his death.

I release him and rise to my feet. His movements are slow. Then stop. As the silence settles around us, I look down at him. He’s suffered the consequences of his actions. I turn away and forget him. He no longer matters.

The campus stays quiet, indifferent. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. Laughter echoes. Life moves on, untouched by the death of another predator.

I pull my hood lower and slip back into the shadows, my footsteps light against the pavement. Tomorrow will be a brighter day because his darkness no longer exists.

Morning light feels too clean after a night like that.

I sit behind the reception desk, posture perfect, expression neutral, as if I belong in this quiet, carefully curated space. Athena Stokes’ office smells faintly of lavender and lemon polish—calm, controlled, safe—the exact opposite of where I was a few hours ago.

My fingers tap lightly against the keyboard as I log in, the rhythm steady, practiced. No one looking at me would see anything but a receptionist starting her day.

Athena isn’t here yet, but she’s left me a voicemail message.

I press play, leaning back slightly as her voice fills the small office. “Raven, something came up this morning. I need you to reschedule my appointments for today. I’ll touch base with you later.”

With some relief, I pull up the schedule and scan the names. All women. Some I recognize from the way they avoid eye contact in the waiting room. Some from the way their hands shake when they check in.

I move through the list efficiently, dialing, leaving voicemails, and offering new times. My voice is soft, reassuring. Within thirty minutes, I’ve cleared Athena’s day. I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to the filing cabinets along the wall. Athena’s clients. Their stories. Their pain, neatly documented and locked away. So tempting to rifle through the files and select my next target, but I hesitate. Not because they don’t deserve to face the Trial, but it is too risky. I’ve already taken care of the bastard who attacked one of Athena’s patients, Georgie. If I select another, it could bring the cops sniffing around. I can’t risk it. Besides, I would never put Athena in danger.

I reach into my bag and pull out my Chromebook, flipping it open as it hums quietly to life. If I’m going to do this, I'm going to do it right. Avoid connections and the possibility of loose threads.

I start with local arrest records. I filter and narrow. Charges dismissed. Cases dropped. Names that earned a justice they never received. My eyes move quickly, scanning details, building profiles.

Then one name catches.

Tony Martin.

I click on it.

He’s the owner of a local gym. His public image is impeccable. On the surface, he appears to be the kind of man people can trust with their bodies and their confidences. My lips press together as I read further. Domestic violence charges filed by an ex: broken arm, split lip, and a black eye. Charges dropped when one of Tony’s members testified that the woman tripped while working out in the gym. The authorities dismissed another woman’s pain in favor of a man’s lie.

I close the file, committing his name to memory.

Tony Martin.