CHAPTER TWENTY

The door slammed against the wall as he burst into the safety of his own house, the thud reverberating like a drumbeat in tune with his wildly pounding heart. His chest heaved with the exertion and the exhilaration of what he had just accomplished. A smile unfurled across his lips, broad and undeniably satisfied. He did it. He really, truly did it.

His mind replayed the scene: the stolen car, a nondescript silver sedan that was now an accessory to his brand of justice; Lara Quentin, with her blonde hair and the guilt that should have been gnawing at her conscience, lying crumpled on the pavement; the teddy bear charm, a symbol of innocence lost, now a macabre token resting in the pocket of her blazer. And the best part? No one saw a thing.

He glanced down at his hands, expecting to see them trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline, but they were steady. It was as if everything he had done was meant to be, the pieces falling into place with divine precision. This was retribution, his own hands doling out the punishment that the corrupt system refused to administer.

Stepping further into the living room, he allowed himself to savor the rush, the sense of empowerment that coursed through him. Lara hadn't been dead when he had leaned over her broken form, whispering his justification into her ear, but the damage was irrevocable. Even then, as life clung stubbornly to her, he knew it was only a matter of time. There was no doubt in his mind that by now, she would have succumbed to the injuries he so carefully delivered.

In the silence of his living room, he felt a kinship with the shadows that danced on the walls, each flicker a silent witness to the transformation he had undergone. Once, he might have flinched at the thought of taking a life, but those days were long gone. Now, he was the arbiter of fate, the scales of justice tipping under the weight of his convictions.

Lara Quentin, the courthouse secretary, had turned a blind eye once too often, her silence as damning as the deeds of those she protected. She was a cog in the mechanism of corruption, and he had just ground it to a halt. In his mind's eye, he could still see the terror that had flickered in her eyes—a terror that mirrored the helplessness he had felt once upon a time. That helplessness was now power, and with each breath, he drew more of it into his lungs.

As the high began to wane, he walked over to the mantle, where a single photograph stood. The image of his little brother Frankie stared back at him, eyes full of hope that the world never fulfilled. They took Frankie, swallowed him whole with their lies and deceit, and now he was gone—all because of them, because of their corrupt world.

He straightened up, resolve hardening like steel within him. For Frankie, for justice, he would continue this crusade. The world would be a better place—one purged soul at a time.

He paced, the worn floorboards creaking under his weight, a frenetic energy coursing through his veins. The smile that had stretched across his face mere moments ago was now a tight line, his thoughts a whirlwind of vindication and contempt. Lara Quentin, his so-called friend, had been a fool to think her complicity would go unnoticed, unpunished. He had snorted, a sound laced with derision. Her silence, her inaction, had made her as culpable as the rest - the lawyers, the judges, the entire rotten edifice of the justice system.

"Should've known better," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. She had thought she was safe behind her desk, shuffling papers for the monsters dressed in suits, their hands as dirty as the criminals they defended. But she hadn't been safe. Not from him. He had seen through her charade, the way she'd averted her eyes, feigned ignorance to the deals made in hushed tones within the court's marbled halls. A cog in a corrupt machine indeed - and he had been the wrench thrown into its gears.

The adrenaline slowly ebbed, but the satisfaction remained, simmering like a low flame within him. He felt cleaner somehow, purged by the act of retribution. The world, too, was cleaner without Lara's silent consent perpetuating the cycle of injustice. Each step he took around the room was measured, deliberate, symbolic of the order he was restoring to a world in chaos.

Henry Caldwell. The name floated into his consciousness, unbidden but not unwelcome. Henry, the journalist who fancied himself a crusader, exposing corruption with the might of his pen. Yet even he had gotten taken. Might be charged with crimes if the whispers were true - crimes that Henry thought himself above. Crimes that proved no one was untouchable.

"Even you, Henry," he whispered, almost fondly. "You'll understand. You have to."

The idea that Henry could end up behind bars, disgraced, didn't disturb him. It was necessary, all part of the grand design. When the dust settled, when the story of his own making unfolded, Henry would see the truth. He would see the necessity of what had been done, of what still needed to be done. And maybe, just maybe, Henry would write his redemption song from a cell.

His pacing slowed; his breathing steadied. He was the tip of the spear, the hand of justice itself. And there were more out there, many more, who cloaked themselves in the guise of righteousness while feeding on society's decay. His mission was clear, his resolve unshakeable.

A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, his mind already sifting through the faces of those who believed themselves invulnerable. With each name that surfaced, the smirk widened, the flame of retribution burning brighter.

Yes, the world would be a better place - he had made sure of it.

His heart still thundering in his chest, the man halted mid-stride. The rush of his recent actions began to wane, replaced by a different kind of urgency—a deeper, more personal call to arms. He found himself drawn towards the mantle, where amid the sparse decor rested a single framed photo. His hands, still tingling with the residue of adrenaline, lifted the picture into the trembling light. Frankie’s smile, forever captured in innocence and youth, was a stark contrast to the dark wave of emotion that crashed over him.

The system had chewed up and spat out his little brother—a casualty of its insatiable hunger for power and control. Frankie had been nothing but a pawn, an insignificant piece to be sacrificed in their grand chess game. His demise had been inevitable once he'd been caught in their web, his fate sealed by the gavel of corruption. Anger bubbled beneath his skin like hot tar, searing his very soul with its intensity. Frankie, who had wanted nothing more than to find some semblance of justice in a world that offered none.

He gently set the photo back on the mantle, his eyes never leaving Frankie’s face. A vow, unspoken yet resolute, formed within him. He would cleanse the filth from this world—one corrupt soul at a time. For Frankie, and all the other lost innocents who had been devoured by the monstrous machine of so-called 'justice'.

With each memory of his brother, his resolve hardened like steel. This was no longer just a mission; it was a crusade. They—the lawyers, the judges, every last one draped in the robes of deceit—would come to know fear as they had instilled it in countless others. They would look over their shoulders, taste the paranoia that gnawed at their victims’ peace. And when they least expected it, justice would come for them too.

As the shadows in the room grew longer, the man’s silhouette melded with the encroaching darkness. In this moment of quiet contemplation, there was clarity. Frankie’s death would not be in vain; it would be the beacon that guided his hand. For in this corrupt world that took his little brother away, he would be the harbinger of a new order.

"Justice," he whispered, the word a sacred oath that lingered in the air. "For you, Frankie."

The man turned away from the mantle, his figure rigid with determination. As night fell, wrapping the house in silence, he knew the path ahead was soaked in blood and shadow. But it was a path he would walk willingly, led by the memory of his brother and fueled by the burning need to make the world a better place.

"Rest now, little brother," he murmured into the stillness. "Watch over me. I will finish what you started."