It was a quiet night at the gas station. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a pale glow over the empty aisles. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of gasoline, mingling with the faint staleness of asphalt that had soaked in the heat of the day. The old security camera in the corner let out a faint whir, lazily recording the monotony of another graveyard shift.

  Mike, a 17-year-old boy with dark circles under his eyes, sat slumped behind the counter, his chin propped up by his palm. The hours stretched endlessly, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on his eyelids. His phone screen flickered in the dim light, its glow reflecting off the polished surface of the register.

  Then, the silence broke.

  A car pulled up outside, its headlights cutting through the night like a blade. The low rumble of the engine hummed in the background as the vehicle rolled to a stop. The doors creaked open, and a figure stepped out—a tall man, maybe 6’1”, broad-shouldered with a posture that carried an air of quiet authority. He moved with deliberate steps, his boots clicking softly against the pavement before he disappeared into the store.

  Mike barely lifted his gaze. Customers at this hour were rare, but not unheard of. Still, something about this one made his skin prickle—an odd awareness settling in his bones.

  The man strode through the aisles, his sharp gaze scanning the shelves before settling on a bag of candy. He picked it up, inspecting it for a brief second before turning towards the register.

  Mike sighed, stretching his arms before sluggishly rising to his feet. His voice was thick with fatigue as he muttered, “Hello, sir. What’s got you out here so late?”

  The man placed the candy on the counter, his face calm but unreadable. "Just finished my shift. I’m heading home, but I’m picking up some candy for my kids."

  Mike blinked, feeling an odd mix of relief and curiosity. He glanced at the man’s appearance—his crisp yet slightly wrinkled clothes, the way he carried himself like someone accustomed to being in control.

  "What’s your name?" Mike asked, more out of boredom than genuine interest.

  The man hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before replying smoothly, "Anton Miles. I work at a government facility—Ministry of Agriculture."

  Mike raised an eyebrow. The way the man said it—so quick, so practiced—sent a strange feeling through him. He knew government jobs usually came with security, benefits, stability.

  "That’s a pretty good job, especially with the benefits," Mike remarked, scanning the candy. The register beeped as he punched in the total.

  Anton smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He pulled out a few bills, placing them neatly on the counter before picking up his purchase.

  “Have a good night,” he said, his tone polite, yet something in it felt… final.

  The door chime rang as he walked out, his tall frame vanishing into the night. Mike watched him leave, the faint glow of the car’s taillights fading as it pulled back onto the road.

  And just like that, the gas station was quiet again.

  Mike exhaled, slumping back into his chair. His fingers idly scrolled through his phone, but his mind lingered on the brief encounter. There was something about Anton—something about the way he spoke, the way he carried himself—that left an itch in the back of Mike’s mind.

  Maybe it was nothing.

  Or maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of detail that people only realize was important after it’s too late.

  Suddenly, the lights flickered, buzzing with an eerie hum before dimming. The neon glow overhead sputtered, casting erratic shadows against the shelves. Mike frowned, blinking up at the failing bulbs, his gut twisting with unease. It wasn’t uncommon for the old electrical system to act up, but something about this felt different—wrong.

  Then, the noise started.

  A slow, deliberate sound.

  Footsteps.

  They came from the far corner of the store, rhythmic and heavy. A creeping dread coiled around Mike’s chest, constricting his breath. His fingers tightened around the counter’s edge as he turned his head, scanning the dimly lit aisles. Nothing. No movement. No customers. Just rows of junk food and half-stocked shelves.

  Thud.

  Mike’s stomach dropped.

  Thud.

  The air shifted. A metallic scent—thick, sharp, unmistakable—curled into his nostrils. His heart stuttered, hammering against his ribs. The scent was pungent, like rusting iron and something deeper, something sickly sweet.

  Blood.

  Mike swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears.

  Then, without warning—

  CRASH!

  The front window shattered.

  Glass exploded inward in a spray of jagged shards, raining onto the tile floor with a deafening clatter. The frigid night air rushed in, carrying with it the distant scent of asphalt and something else—something foul.

  A dark figure loomed in the broken frame.

  Mike’s breath caught, his limbs locking in place. His mind screamed at him to move, to run, but fear rooted him to the spot.

  The creature stepped forward.

  It was monstrous—some impossible fusion of man and beast. Towering at nearly seven feet, its body was a grotesque blend of glossy black feathers and reptilian grey scales, shifting and rippling with every movement. Its long, skeletal wings unfurled, their sharp, rigid tips grazing the edges of the shattered window. The glow of the flickering lights cast a haunting shimmer across its wet, gleaming feathers.

  But its eyes—God, its eyes.

  Two glowing crimson orbs locked onto Mike, burning with an unnatural hunger.

  A slow, deliberate breath hissed from between its sharp, glistening teeth, curling into the cold air. Its talons—long and curved like knives—scraped against the tile with a grating, ear-piercing screech.

  Mike choked on his breath. His body screamed to move, but his mind couldn’t process what he was seeing.

  Then, the creature tilted its head.

  It sniffed the air, its long, jagged fingers twitching as if sensing something unseen. A guttural growl rumbled deep within its chest.

  It was hunting.

  Panic exploded in Mike’s chest. Every survival instinct he had took over.

  RUN.

  His feet finally obeyed. He turned on his heel and bolted, his sneakers skidding against the tile. The janitor’s closet—small, cramped, but his only hope—was only a few steps away.

  The creature let out a sound—a low, guttural click, something between a growl and a chuckle.

  It was enjoying this.

  Mike lunged into the closet, slamming the door behind him. He pressed his back against the wall, his entire body trembling. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his fingers fumbling over his phone. He tried to dial, but his hands were slick with sweat, slipping against the screen.

  Outside, the creature moved.

  Aisle by aisle.

  Shelf by shelf.

  Its claws dragged over the metal racks, knocking over cans and bags of chips, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. It wasn’t searching randomly.

  It was toying with him.

  The register let out a sudden beep. A split second later, the cash drawer was ripped open with an ear-splitting crack. Bills fluttered to the floor, followed by the dull clink of loose change spilling across the counter.

  Then—silence.

  Mike held his breath, his body so still it ached.

  Minutes passed. Or maybe just seconds.

  Then—the sound of wings.

  A powerful gust of air slammed against the door as the creature vanished into the night.

  Mike remained frozen, his entire body locked in place, his pulse hammering in his skull. His mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

  Slowly, painfully, he forced his shaking limbs to move. He crawled toward the door, his knees weak, his breath uneven. His trembling fingers pressed against the handle. He eased the door open just an inch, peeking out.

  The store was wrecked—shelves knocked over, shattered glass glittering like ice under the flickering lights. But the creature was gone.

  His legs felt like jelly as he stumbled toward the counter, his hands shaking so violently he could barely keep hold of his phone. He forced himself to dial.

  911.

  A click. A voice.

  Dispatcher: “911, what’s your emergency?”

  Mike’s voice came out in a ragged pant.

  "Hello? Someone broke into the store. There was this… this thing—wings, feathers, scales, red eyes! It wasn’t human!"

  The dispatcher hesitated. “…Sir, can you clarify? Was it an animal or—?”

  "It wasn’t a damn animal!" Mike’s voice cracked. “It was something else. It—it tore the place apart and then it just… disappeared!”

  Minutes later, red and blue lights flooded the parking lot. Two officers stepped out of their cruiser, their hands resting near their holsters.

  Officer Jon—a man in his late 40s with tired eyes and a skeptical frown—walked in first, his boots crunching over the broken glass.

  He gave Mike a once-over, noting his sweat-soaked shirt and panicked expression.

  "What’s going on, kid?"

  Mike struggled to find his voice. "There was a maniac—he had black wings, feathers, grey scales! He—he broke in and—"

  Officer Jon raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Sounds like a guy in some weird costume."

  Mike shook his head furiously. "No! It wasn’t a costume! It wasn’t human! It had red eyes and these teeth—these sharp, gleaming—"

  Officer Jon let out a long sigh. "Kid, it’s late. You’ve been working the graveyard shift, right? Maybe you dozed off, had a bad dream."

  "I wasn’t dreaming!" Mike’s voice wavered, but the conviction in his eyes was raw.

  Officer Jon exchanged a glance with his partner before exhaling. "Alright. We’ll take a look around, but…" He shook his head. "Not much we can do without a suspect."

  Mike wanted to scream. Wanted to tell them to believe him.

  But as he stood there, watching the officers casually inspect the wrecked store, he knew—no one would.

  His gaze drifted toward the shattered window. The night was still, eerily calm, as if nothing had happened at all.

  But it had.

  And deep down, Mike knew—

  It would happen again.

  The next morning, after forcing down a cup of coffee, Mike sat at the kitchen table, still shaken from the events of the night before. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the ceramic mug, the bitter liquid doing little to steady his nerves. His mind replayed the creature’s every movement—its wings, its eyes, the sickening sound of its talons scraping against the tile. The raw terror that had gripped him as it hunted through the store still clung to him, a phantom sensation that refused to fade. He told himself, again and again, that it had to have been some twisted nightmare, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But deep down, he knew better. What he had seen was real.

  The air in his apartment felt oppressively still, as if the weight of the previous night hung in the corners of the room. Sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, casting long, pale streaks across the table. He absently scrolled through his phone, trying to find something—anything—to distract himself. That was when a notification popped up: a message from his friend, Dylan.

  Dylan: "Dude, check this out. Some real creepy shit."

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Attached was a link to an article. Mike clicked on it, expecting something mundane. Maybe a bizarre news story, some conspiracy theory nonsense. But as the page loaded and his eyes skimmed the headline, his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

  "Man Found Dead Near Gas Station—Mysterious Claw Marks and Severe Injuries."

  Mike sat up straighter, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes immediately darted to the accompanying photo, and a cold wave of nausea washed over him. The victim’s lifeless face stared back at him, pale and frozen in a grotesque mask of terror.

  Anton.

  The same man who had bought candy from him only hours before.

  A shiver ran down Mike’s spine as his brain fought to process the image. The friendly, easygoing man who had stood at his counter, laughing about his late-night sweet tooth, was now unrecognizable. Deep, jagged claw marks slashed across his torso, tearing through his clothes, his flesh. Blood had soaked the pavement beneath his body, dark and congealed under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Anton hadn’t just been killed—he had been ripped apart.

  Mike’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. His fingers clenched around his phone, his knuckles turning white. Could it be? The creature? The thing that had stalked him in the store—had it followed Anton instead?

  A lump formed in his throat, thick and suffocating. The world around him blurred as his thoughts spiraled. He had barely escaped with his life. But Anton... Anton wasn’t so lucky.

  Guilt gnawed at his insides. If he had done something—warned someone, told the cops what he had truly seen—would it have made a difference? Would Anton still be alive?

  The article provided no answers, only a cold, clinical report of the scene. The police were baffled. No animal in the area matched the wounds inflicted on the victim. No weapon could have made such precise, inhuman gashes. There were no suspects. No witnesses.

  Except for Mike.

  His mouth felt dry, his stomach twisting in knots as another realization hit him.

  If the creature had killed Anton, what was stopping it from coming back?

  Anton Heidan had always seemed like an ordinary man. He was a government worker in the Ministry of Agriculture, a husband to Marina Heidan, and a father to two young children, Matthew and Sophie. A friendly, laid-back guy who never seemed to have any real worries. To the outside world, he was a devoted family man, balancing work and home life with ease.

  But Anton had a secret. A dark, insidious habit he had cultivated for years.

  He was a serial adulterer.

  Throughout his youth, Anton had played a dangerous game, seducing women in committed relationships. It had never been about love. Never about real connection. For him, it was about the thrill. The rush of knowing he was disrupting someone else’s life, planting the seeds of chaos and watching them bloom into destruction.

  As a teenager, he had prided himself on luring married women and those in serious relationships into his bed, treating it as a sport. Every conquest, every ruined relationship, was a trophy to him. A testament to his ability to manipulate, to deceive, to control. It was never enough to simply be with a woman. He had to break something in the process. Their trust. Their stability. Their love for someone else.

  And he was good at it.

  Even as an adult, with a job, a wife, and two children, Anton never stopped. His work at the Ministry of Agriculture provided him with the perfect cover. Long hours, frequent travel, excuses that Marina never questioned. She trusted him completely, never once suspecting the double life he led.

  But Anton knew better.

  He knew that trust was fragile, a thin sheet of glass, and if the moment came where shattering it would benefit him, he would do so without hesitation.

  Over the years, he had built a web of deceit, a collection of broken relationships and shattered families, all hidden behind the image of the perfect husband and father. Marina and the kids were nothing more than a shield, a carefully maintained illusion. If his double life ever unraveled, if his sins ever caught up to him, he would simply move on, rebuild elsewhere, start the game anew.

  But last night, the game had ended. Violently.

  Anton Heidan had been hunted.

  And now, he was nothing more than a name in an article, a gruesome crime scene, a cold body lying on a slab in the morgue.

  Mike swallowed hard, gripping his phone so tightly his fingers ached. His stomach churned.

  What if it wasn’t random?

  What if Anton had been targeted? What if the creature hadn’t just been hunting aimlessly?

  What if it knew? Knew who Anton was.

  Mike sucked in a sharp breath, his pulse pounding in his ears. The thought was absurd, impossible—and yet, a deep, primal part of him whispered that it made sense.

  This wasn’t just a mindless beast. It was something else. Something intelligent.

  And if it could sense Anton’s sins...

  Who would be next?

  As Mike sat in his kitchen, the image of Anton’s mangled corpse from the news article replaying in his mind, the connection between Anton and the creature began to take shape in his thoughts. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It couldn’t be. That thing had come for Anton specifically, as if drawn to him by something unseen, something dark and inevitable.

  Mike clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. Was this creature hunting specific people? If so, what made Anton a target? His mind whirled with questions, each more unsettling than the last. He had always thought monsters belonged in the realm of nightmares, yet one had shattered his reality in the most terrifying way possible.

  Was it a force of retribution? Something beyond human understanding, delivering punishment to those who had wronged others? Mike had heard of cosmic justice, of karma finding its way to those who deserved it, but this? This was different. This was brutal. Anton hadn’t just been killed—he had been torn apart. As if his very existence had been offensive to something far more powerful than human morality.

  The thought made Mike shudder. The way the creature had rampaged through the store, tearing through shelves and destroying everything in its path, mirrored the way Anton had torn through people’s lives. Had the monster known? Had it been drawn to Anton, not because of where he was, but because of who he was?

  Mike swallowed hard, his breath shallow. He turned back to his phone, scrolling through the article again, his pulse pounding in his ears. He read about Anton’s family, his job, his seemingly normal life. But then, deeper in the report, a disturbing truth began to emerge. Mentions of affairs. Suspicions of deceit. Broken relationships left in Anton’s wake, all pointing to a pattern of manipulation and destruction.

  His chest tightened. Could it be? Was this creature punishing the wicked? And if so—why had it come so close to him?

  The days that followed felt surreal. A thick fog of dread hung over him, making it impossible to think of anything else. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the creature. Its glowing red eyes. The way its wings unfurled in the dim light. The sound of its talons scraping against the floor. And then Anton—his lifeless body, shredded beyond recognition.

  Then, the news broke again.

  Another body.

  Mike's stomach twisted as he read the report. The victim had been found only a few miles away, his body ripped open in the same horrific manner. Claw marks. Torn flesh. A face frozen in a final, desperate scream.

  It wasn’t done.

  Mike could barely breathe. This wasn’t a one-time event. The creature was still out there, hunting. But why? Why these people? And more importantly, why had it stopped at him?

  His anxiety deepened into paranoia. Every shadow felt too dark. Every sound outside sent his nerves into overdrive. The feeling of being watched crept into his bones. The creature had been in his store. It had stood mere feet away from him. But it had left him alive. That fact haunted him more than anything.

  Then, one night, a car pulled up outside the gas station.

  The headlights cut through the darkness like knives. Mike, standing behind the register, felt his body tense. His hands hovered over the counter, but he couldn’t move. He watched as the engine shut off. The door creaked open. A man stepped out, his tall frame silhouetted against the night sky. He wore a long coat, his features obscured by the dim lighting.

  Something about him sent a chill crawling up Mike’s spine.

  The man stepped inside, his movements smooth, deliberate. The door shut behind him with a soft click. The air inside the store thickened, pressing in on Mike from all sides.

  Mike forced a weak smile. "Can I help you?"

  The man didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked over the store shelves before locking onto Mike. It was piercing, assessing, as if looking through him rather than at him.

  Then, he spoke, his voice low, deliberate. "You saw it, didn’t you? The creature."

  Mike’s breath hitched. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs.

  "How do you know about that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The man took a step closer, his presence looming. "Because it’s not random. It’s coming for those who have done wrong. The ones who deserve to pay for their sins."

  Mike felt his stomach drop. He gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. "Anton... He was one of them?"

  The man gave a slow nod. "He was just the beginning. There are others. And the creature will find them."

  Mike swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Then why... why did it stop at me?"

  The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering something. Then, with an almost imperceptible smirk, he answered, "Are you sure it stopped?"

  The words sent ice through Mike’s veins.

  The man leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Anton had secrets. So do you. Are you certain you have nothing to fear?"

  Mike's vision swam. His thoughts spiraled. He had done things, sure. But nothing like Anton. Nothing that deserved that. Right?

  The man straightened, adjusting his coat. "It’s watching, Mike. It chooses who to take... and who to test."

  Then, without another word, he turned and walked out into the night.

  Mike stood frozen in place, his mind unraveling. The distant sound of the car engine starting barely registered over the deafening rush of blood in his ears.

  It chooses who to take... and who to test.

  Mike looked toward the shattered window from that night. The creature had stood there. Had stared at him. Had left him alive.

  But for how long?

  Mike sat frozen in his chair, staring at the closed door. The man’s words still echoed in his mind.

  “It’s not just hunting monsters. It’s hunting the ones who hid them.”

  His breath came in shallow gasps, and his fingers dug into the table. A nauseating weight pressed down on his chest, heavier than anything he had ever felt before. His past—his secret—was unraveling before his eyes. The creature knew. And now, so did whoever that man was.

  The thought made his skin crawl. Who was he? How did he know about the creature? And more importantly—how much did he know about Mike?

  Mike swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His mind flashed back to that night 6 years ago. The dimly lit backseat of his car. His friend, laughing about what had happened, shaking off his guilt like it was nothing. The girl, crying in the alleyway, her face burned into Mike’s memory like a scar that would never fade.

  “Just drive, man. No one needs to know.”

  And Mike had driven. Because he had been afraid. Because he had been weak. Because he had told himself that what was done was done, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

  But now? Now something was changing it.

  And it had just killed his friend.

  The Second Death

  The next morning, the news had already broken. Another brutal murder. Another body found ripped apart in an alley just three blocks away from Mike’s apartment.

  The image of the mangled body was flashing across every news outlet, with grim images of bloodied streets and half-eaten flesh. People were murmuring on the streets, casting worried glances at one another, wondering if this was just the beginning of something much worse.

  This time, though, the killer had a familiar face.

  Mike knew the victim. Eric Carson. The same man Mike had once called a friend. The same man who had ruined that girl’s life when he raped her and walked away without a shred of remorse. Mike had always hated Eric in the back of his mind, but he had never once imagined that this would be how things would end.

  Mike clenched his fists as he scrolled through the article, his stomach twisting into knots. The body—torn apart, desecrated—looked all too familiar. It was almost as if he could feel the agony, the pain. The same kind of mutilation had been left on Anton, that other man who had been taken by whatever dark force had come for them. He could already picture it. Eric, cocky as ever, probably heading home from some bar, thinking he was untouchable—until it found him. Until it made him pay.

  And the body, well, it was a reminder. The police hadn’t described it in detail yet, but Mike knew what it would be. Just like Anton. Torn apart. Brutalized. But this time, there had been something else. Something personal.

  There was a message.

  The news didn’t mention it, but when Mike pulled up the crime scene photos from a leaked forum, his breath caught in his throat. His hands shook as he zoomed in on the mangled body, his eyes scanning for any detail that stood out. And there it was, carved into Eric’s chest, deep into the flesh, five letters, jagged and cruel:

  LIAR.

  Mike’s stomach twisted in response. His breath caught in his throat, and his vision swam. His mind spun with disbelief as he barely made it to the sink before he emptied the contents of his stomach. His hands were clammy, his skin pale, his heart racing in panic.

  It knew. It had been watching him. Watching them.

  The eyes that had been haunting him since the moment he turned his back on that girl, the girl he’d left behind, the girl whose name he couldn’t even recall. The eyes that had waited patiently, like a predator circling its prey, biding its time until it was ready to strike.

  Mike wiped his mouth, his hands trembling uncontrollably. His mind screamed in denial, trying to convince him this was all a nightmare. But deep down, a cold certainty settled in his chest. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t just some coincidence. The creature didn’t forget. And it didn’t forgive.

  The Watching Eyes

  That night, sleep evaded Mike completely. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The girl. The one he had left behind. The one whose name was a blur in his mind, as much a memory as a dream. She was there, standing in the shadows, and behind her, those burning red eyes. The eyes that had been waiting for him to slip up. To fail.

  Something was outside. Watching.

  Mike could feel it in the pit of his stomach, that tight, suffocating sensation that pressed against his ribs every time the wind howled outside his window. Every creak of the apartment sent his heart racing. Every shadow seemed wrong, too sharp, too still. The darkness itself felt thicker, heavier, as if it was wrapping itself around him. And then, at exactly 3:12 AM, his phone buzzed.

  Mike hesitated before picking it up. His pulse quickened, his fingers cold and clammy as he stared at the unknown number flashing on the screen. No caller ID. No name. Just the number. And then the message.

  "You’re next."

  Mike’s entire body froze, his blood running cold. His hands trembled as he gripped the phone tighter, rereading the message over and over, as if somehow, the words might change, might soften, might offer him some hope. But they didn’t.

  A second text appeared moments later, sending his heart into a frantic rhythm.

  "You hid the monster. You let it walk free. Now it’s your turn."

  His breath caught in his throat, and his heart slammed against his ribcage. His pulse pounded in his ears, deafening, filling the silence that had settled over him. There was no mistaking it now—he wasn’t just a witness anymore. He was the next victim.

  And then—a soft knock at the door.

  Mike’s blood turned to ice. He stared at the door, unable to move. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to stay still, to pretend he wasn’t home, to ignore the knocking that was coming, slowly, methodically.

  Another knock. Louder this time. More insistent.

  His mind screamed at him not to answer. Every instinct told him to stay put, to stay silent, to hide. But deep down, he knew that wouldn’t matter. It already knew he was here. It already knew.

  Shaking uncontrollably, he stepped forward, reaching for the door handle, his body trembling as if he was stepping into the unknown. What if it wasn’t the creature? What if it was him? The man from before—the one who knew.

  Swallowing hard, he opened the door.

  No one was there.

  Just the cold night air, pressing against his skin like unseen fingers. It was as if the very air itself was alive, and it had been waiting for him.

  But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hallway, he saw something on the ground. Something small, something out of place.

  A single scrap of paper.

  His heart pounded in his chest as he bent down, his hands shaking as he picked it up. The paper was crumpled, rough against his fingers, and as he unwrapped it, five words appeared in jagged handwriting:

  "Do you deserve to live?"

  Mike’s hands went numb. The room around him seemed to spin, his vision narrowing, and his breath came in quick, shallow gasps. His knees buckled, and he stumbled backward, slamming the door shut behind him. The lock clicked, the deadbolt slid into place, but it felt like nothing would be enough. Nothing could keep the dark from seeping in.

  He pressed his back against the door, hands clutching his chest as if he could hold his heart in place, as if he could will it to stop racing. His breath was ragged, unsteady. The fear had taken over. This wasn’t just paranoia anymore. This wasn’t just coincidence.

  It was a trial.

  And Mike had no idea if he was going to survive it.

  The Third Murder

  The news broke at dawn, but Mike had already been awake. Sleep had become a luxury he could no longer afford. The images of his mangled friend—Eric—had haunted him all night. He had tried to convince himself that this was all some terrifying coincidence, that the creature’s wrath was directed elsewhere. Maybe this was just the monster’s final vengeance on Eric and those around him.

  But then came the third murder.

  And this time, it wasn’t just one victim.

  The morning broadcast showed the wreckage of a home—Eric’s home. The entire house had been torn apart. Windows shattered, doors ripped from their hinges, walls caved in as if something massive had torn through them with unstoppable force. The wreckage looked like a scene from a nightmare, as if it had been ravaged by something beyond human comprehension.

  What lay inside was worse.

  Eric’s entire family had been slaughtered.

  His parents. His younger sister. Even his grandmother, who had lived with them. All of them were found in the same grotesque state—bodies shredded, limbs twisted, flesh torn as though something had carved through them without hesitation. The crime scene was drenched in blood, the sheer brutality of it making seasoned officers turn away in horror.

  Mike stared at the images on the screen, bile rising in his throat. His entire body felt like it had turned to stone. This wasn’t just vengeance. This was eradication.

  The creature had killed Eric for what he had done.

  And it had wiped out his family, too.

  A shuddering breath left Mike’s lips as the reality of it set in. This wasn’t about justice anymore—if it ever had been. The creature wasn’t just punishing the wicked. It was eliminating bloodlines. Erasing entire family trees because of one person’s sins.

  Mike thought of Eric’s sister, a girl barely out of high school. She hadn’t done anything. Neither had his parents or grandmother. And yet, the creature had torn through them like they were just extensions of Eric’s crime.

  The rules had changed.

  Mike’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of his table, his mind spiraling. He had covered for Eric. He had kept the truth hidden. If the creature was delivering judgment, if it was going after the guilty and their kin—

  What did that mean for him?

  He tried to breathe, but the air felt thick and heavy. His thoughts raced. He had to get out. He had to leave. Maybe if he ran, he could escape this thing. But deep down, he already knew the truth.

  It wasn’t done with him yet.

  And when it came, it wouldn’t just be him who suffered.

  The Second Death had already begun.