CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The Reaper paced. Concrete beneath his boots seeming even rougher than usual on the rubber soles. His eyes, predatory and sharp, scanned the family planning center. He was a shadow, transient as he moved, his gaze etching every detail into memory—windows, doors, escape routes.

How long had it been since he'd visited?

Years ago.

Years and years…

The memories flashed through his mind, his rage rising to meet them. He had to bite his tongue, biting even harder until he drew blood.

He released a slow, echoing whimper.

He opened his mouth, breathing softly, tasting the tang of copper.

"Too few," he muttered, eyes darting to the entrance as a couple walked out. "Not yet."

He circled again, a vulture awaiting the decay of patience to reveal its feast. The building stood innocuous, a fa?ade of normality, but to him, it was a fortress of pain that housed the architects of his misery.

"Liars," he hissed under his breath, fists clenching. The Reaper's heart thundered, a drumbeat heralding vengeance. Each pulse was a reminder of the lies… the blackmail. The tortures.

"We'll have justice," he promised the chill in the air. "Justice at last… for what they took."

His jaw tightened, his skin stretched over bone like canvas. They would pay each and every soul inside that building. Pay for the silence that now echoed through the halls of his emptied home.

"Today," the Reaper breathed, a serpent's whisper. "Their reckoning comes."

The sun dipped lower, shadows lengthening, stretching across the pavement like fingers reaching for sin. It was almost time. His time. The moment when grief would transmute into rage, and rage would demand its due.

Soon, the building would be full. Soon, the Reaper would strike.

He needed to see it, though. To see if it was ready.

He clicked the trunk, a soft thud in the quiet. The Reaper's hands, steady as stone, reached for the tools of his dark trade. A semi-automatic—its cold metal kissed by the dying light—slid into the brown bag, silent as a secret. The chain followed, heavy. The padlock, a simple device, nestled beside an improvised explosive, small yet capable of shattering lives.

"Are you alone?"

The voice, unexpected and close, sliced through his focus. He turned. A lab assistant stood there, clipboard clutched like a shield.

The Reaper's eyes narrowed, instincts flaring. He blocked the view of his trunk with his body.

"Who wants to know?" The Reaper replied, his voice graveled, suspicion woven through each syllable.

"Sorry, just... making rounds," the assistant stammered, eyes flickering with the dim reflection of fear.

"Make them elsewhere." The words were a growl, warning clear as the blade he kept hidden.

The lab assistant hesitated, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. He glanced once more at the brown bag, the zipper carelessly left ajar. A glint of metal caught his eye—the unmistakable contour of a gun barrel. His throat tightened, words stumbling in a clumsy dance.

"Uh, I should... get back inside," he mumbled, feigning nonchalance. But his gaze lingered a second too long.

The Reaper's instincts screamed. In one swift motion, he was upon the man. Knife drawn, a silver flash in the waning light. The blade sang its deadly arc, a whisper against the hum of distant traffic.

Steel met flesh. A gurgled gasp released on the night air. The Reaper's hand clamped over the man's mouth, stifling any cry for help. Eyes wide with shock, the lab assistant's struggle ebbed away. Silence reclaimed the space between them, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze.

Blood, warm and damning, seeped through the Reaper's fingers.

The lab assistant clutched at his throat, blood sluicing between his fingers. His knees buckled. The Reaper steadied the limp form with an iron grip, easing him to the ground. No thrashing, no screams—just the gurgle of life ebbing away.

"Shh," the Reaper whispered, a perverse lullaby for the dying. His eyes, void of empathy, fixed on the lab assistant's dimming gaze. He watched the light fade, a soul departing under his hand—the price of witnessing what should have remained unseen.

With the final shudder of breath, the body stilled. The Reaper released his hold, the dead weight of secrecy now his alone to bear. He scanned the area—no witnesses. Time was fleeting; he had to move.

He hoisted the lab assistant over his shoulder, a fireman's carry. Muscles tensed, he turned towards his car. The trunk popped open with a soft click.

The Reaper deposited the body, arranging limbs with meticulous care. He couldn't afford sloppiness—not now. With a firm push, the trunk closed, sealing away the evidence. Silence settled once more, as if nothing had transpired.

This was necessary. It was all necessary. The Reaper's jaw clenched. Justice demanded sacrifice, and he was its unyielding executioner.

Blood stained the Reaper's hands. He stood still for a moment, letting the silence of the parking lot wash over him. His breath came out in controlled puffs, misting slightly in the cool air. Then, with purposeful slowness, he removed a rag from his pocket. The cloth swept over his skin, soaking up the life he had just taken.

Each wipe was methodical, stripping away the evidence. Red smeared into pink, then faded to nothing. He turned the rag, finding a cleaner spot, and continued until no trace remained. His movements were almost reverent, a ritual cleansing before the storm to come.

Another click to open the trunk once more. Satisfied, he tossed the soiled fabric into the trunk with the body.

Another click.

Once again, the trunk closed.

Next, the bag. He approached it as a soldier would his weapon—respect for the tool. The zipper's teeth clicked together with each tug, securing the metal and malice inside. He lifted the bag, feeling the weight of the semi-automatic against his side.

The Reaper surveyed the clinic once more. Windows like eyes, doors like mouths—it looked almost alive. A shiver coursed through him, not from fear, but anticipation. His grip on the bag tightened. This was it. The culmination of his pain.

He started forward, each step measured and silent. The brown bag swung lightly against his leg, a metronome. The clinic doors loomed ahead.

He reached for the door. Cold metal against warm flesh.

"Time to pay," he murmured, the words dissipating into the void.

With that, the Reaper stepped into the clinic.