CHAPTER SEVEN

The room was a tomb of shadows, curtains drawn tight against the world. Only the flickering blue glow of the laptop screen broke the oppressive darkness. He sat hunched over the desk, fingers tapping with purpose, scanning the digital graveyard of Evan Rhodes’ past. Photos flicked by—a sharp-suited genius, once the darling of tech conferences, all confidence and charisma. A different man now.

That was years ago. Now, the screen displayed the wreckage—Evan slouched over a bar, whiskey glass cradled like a lifeline. His face unshaven, eyes dulled by regret. Disgust rose in his throat. “Pathetic,” he muttered, the word bitter on his tongue.

Another wasted genius, another life devoured by addiction. Potential squandered like trash on the street. They’d had their chances, and they blew it.

"Look at you, Evan," he said aloud to the empty room. "You were supposed to be something." He leaned closer, scrutinizing the most recent photo—Evan’s mouth permanently downturned. Was there even a flicker of awareness left, or had he sunk too deep into the bottle?

Bitter words and late-night confessions littered Evan’s digital trail. Desperation dripped from every post. He felt nothing but disdain. Each click was a reminder of wasted brilliance.

"Another one bites the dust," he sighed, an edge of satisfaction creeping in. This was the pattern he’d come to expect—a grim ballet of promise folding into failure. It fueled him, this sense of justice wrapped in cold indifference. He wasn’t just an observer; he was the hand that brought balance.

With a sudden push, he shoved away from the desk. He needed to act. Evan Rhodes had already lost; now it was time to finish the story.

From a drawer, he retrieved a sketch of a circuit board. The lines felt familiar beneath his fingertips, a ghost of what Evan once was. He tucked it into his jacket pocket, feeling its weight settle against his chest. Just as Lila had the violin, and Simon had the equations, this would be Evan’s final reminder—what could have been, if only he hadn’t succumbed.

He stepped toward the door, the stillness of the night looming beyond. Taking a breath, a silent vow formed in his mind. Another fallen prodigy awaited, and he was ready to deliver the reckoning.

The glow of the laptop lit his face as he scrolled further through Evan’s online presence. Each post was another step into the grave of wasted potential. He relished the hunt.

"Ah, here we go," he muttered, spotting a two-year-old post—Evan’s rambling confession, drenched in bitterness.

“I used to be great. What happened? Where did it go wrong?”

A smirk crept onto his lips. Evan didn’t even know. Potential was fragile, easily trampled or thrown away. And with each bottle, Evan had chosen his fate.

Old photos flashed by—Evan in a crisp suit, surrounded by people who once believed in him. Now, they were gone, leaving behind only echoes. He leaned back, satisfied. No redemption arc here, just a crash landing.

"Bankrupt, abandoned," he murmured. "You had your shot, buddy." Another prodigy turned punchline. Lila with her violin, Simon with his equations—they were all part of the same sick joke. But he wasn’t laughing; he was doing something about it.

He pulled up maps and addresses, piecing together Evan’s current existence. The search was exhilarating, every keystroke a step toward justice. His mind raced with possibilities.

"Time to clean house," he whispered, the thrill of purpose coursing through him. The balance needed restoration, and he was the man to do it. Lila, Simon, now Evan—each a reminder of what happens when talent rots.

He glanced at the clock. Midnight crept closer, the night still young. Rising from the desk, he felt adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was time to act.

From the drawer, he lifted the circuit board sketch again, its lines sharp and intricate. Evan Rhodes's past laid bare on a single sheet, a tribute to brilliance now buried beneath failure.

"Once a genius," he muttered, tracing the design. The hands that crafted this beauty now trembled for whiskey instead of wires. Delicious irony—a prodigy reduced to a cautionary tale.

He folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Taking a final glance at the screen, he absorbed the remnants of Evan’s life—flashes of old glory mingled with the grim reality of his downfall.

"Time to restore order," he said softly, turning away from the desk. The air felt charged, electric, as if the atmosphere itself recognized the gravity of his decision.

Outside, shadows clung to the corners of the street, the moon casting a silver sheen over the pavement. He relished the cool breeze against his skin, invigorating. Tonight wasn’t just another mission; it was a cleansing.

"Let’s see how far you’ve fallen, Evan," he whispered, a predator scenting prey. His boots crunched softly on the gravel as he made his way down the path, darkness enveloping him like a cloak. Every step brought him closer to balance, closer to justice.

Evan had squandered his chance, just like the others. Now, he would pay the price.

His pulse quickened as he glanced at the map on his phone—the blinking dot marking Evan’s address. A rundown house, forgotten by time and success. Perfect. He savored the idea of standing before it, confronting the remnants of a man who used to light up stages. A final curtain call.

"Almost showtime," he murmured, anticipation curling around him like smoke. Another wasted life, another fallen prodigy, and he would be the one to erase it.