Mike’s Descent: A Path Forged in Pain and Vengeance

  Mike’s life had been shattered, torn apart by the mysterious disappearances and the cold, calculated manipulation of the High Rise Devil. The world he once knew—a world of routine, of mundane comforts, of fragile stability—had crumbled into ash. The people he loved were gone, their absence a gaping wound that refused to heal. But in the aftermath of his suffering, something new had taken root deep within him. It wasn’t just grief or anger—it was a burning, unrelenting desire for vengeance. He wouldn’t sit idly by while his world was destroyed, piece by piece. The path to retribution was unclear, shrouded in shadows and danger, but one thing was certain: he needed power.

  His search for answers brought him back to the Black Angel, the enigmatic figure who had once been a shadow in his life, now a symbol of something greater. Mike found him again in the hidden corners of the city, where power and secrets intertwined like serpents in the dark. The Black Angel was everything Mike needed—a ruthless mentor, a man whose skill and intelligence far surpassed any that Mike had ever encountered. He was a force of nature, a living embodiment of retribution, and Mike was desperate to learn from him.

  Under the Black Angel’s tutelage, Mike’s training was grueling and unforgiving. Days blurred into nights as he pushed his body and mind to their absolute limits. He learned to wield firearms with precision, his hands steady as he practiced until the recoil felt like an extension of his own heartbeat. Knives became an extension of his arm, each blade thrown with deadly accuracy, each move calculated and deliberate. His endurance training pushed him to the brink of collapse, his body breaking down before being rebuilt stronger, faster, and more capable. Pain became a constant companion, a reminder that the price of vengeance was steep—but Mike was willing to pay it.

  His mind, too, was reshaped under the Black Angel’s cold, unyielding guidance. Mental clarity, focus, and the ability to anticipate his enemy’s next move became second nature to him. He immersed himself in the depths of strategy and manipulation, learning to see the world not as it appeared, but as it truly was—a chessboard of power and deceit. His once-ordinary life, defined by the simplicity of routine, had transformed into a brutal, relentless pursuit of power and vengeance. He was no longer the boy who had sat idly by, helpless and afraid. He was becoming something far darker, something dangerous.

  But what Mike didn’t know, what the Black Angel had carefully concealed, was the true connection between him and the High Rise Devil. The two men weren’t just distant figures in a grand scheme; they were collaborators. They had been working together, manipulating Mike’s every move, shaping him into a weapon for their own purposes. The Black Angel’s role in his transformation was part of a larger plan, a plan that Mike was still blind to. But revenge clouded his mind, and he focused solely on the present, on the task at hand.

  The Black Angel had a mission for Mike—a test, one that would solidify his place in the underworld and prove his worth. They were going after a gang member, a lowly criminal, a pawn in a larger game. Mike’s blood ran cold as he followed the Black Angel’s orders, tracking down the target, capturing him, and bringing him to an abandoned warehouse. There, the true nature of the mission revealed itself.

  The gang member was bound, his eyes wide with terror as he realized the fate that awaited him. Mike, his hands steady from the hours of training, stepped forward, the gleam of a sharpened knife in his hand. The Black Angel stood in the background, watching with a cold, detached gaze. Mike didn’t hesitate. The blade sliced through flesh, skinning the man alive with the precision of a professional. The screams echoed in the room, the sound of suffering mixing with the harsh metallic scent of blood. Mike’s heart raced, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as the Black Angel nodded, approving of his progress.

  But as Mike carried out the gruesome task, a sense of unease began to settle within him. The Black Angel was cold, emotionless, his approval devoid of any humanity. This wasn’t just a mission—it was a lesson in cruelty. Mike had done what was required, but in the back of his mind, something gnawed at him. The Black Angel’s indifference was unsettling, and it was beginning to feel like he wasn’t just being trained; he was being used.

  It was then that the truth began to dawn on Mike. He had been a pawn in someone else’s game. The Black Angel’s approval, the harsh lessons, the bloodshed—it had all been part of a larger plan. A plan he hadn’t fully understood until now. He had been manipulated into becoming a weapon, a tool for someone else’s agenda. And as the realization hit him, something inside him snapped. The burning desire for vengeance that had once consumed him now felt like a hollow, meaningless pursuit. The Devil was still out there, pulling the strings, watching everything unfold.

  Unbeknownst to Mike, the High Rise Devil had been watching the entire operation unfold. From the shadows, he saw every move, every decision made, and every stroke of the blade. He was calculating, always ten steps ahead. The High Rise Devil had seen Mike’s potential, and while he was entertained by the chaos that had unfolded so far, he was already preparing for what would come next.

  The Devil had known that Mike would seek revenge, that the boy would want to take down those responsible for his suffering. What the Devil hadn’t anticipated, however, was that Mike would start to see through the web of manipulation. Mike’s thirst for vengeance would be his undoing, but not before the Devil enjoyed watching the chaos spread. The Devil had orchestrated every step of Mike’s descent, turning him into a weapon to be wielded at will. He had watched as Mike grew stronger, more deadly, more consumed by anger. And now, he would watch as Mike’s pursuit of vengeance consumed him entirely.

  For now, Mike had a new mission, a new purpose. But the High Rise Devil knew the boy wouldn’t remain in the shadows forever. And when the time came, he would make sure Mike’s revenge would be his final mistake. The pieces were set. The game was in motion. The Devil smiled, knowing that Mike’s journey was far from over—and the worst was yet to come.

  As Mike trained, as he honed his skills, he was unaware of the true depth of the trap that had been laid for him. His every action, every decision, was being carefully watched, manipulated, and controlled. He was a weapon, yes, but he was also a puppet, and the Devil was the one pulling the strings.

  The final confrontation between Mike and the High Rise Devil was inevitable, but it was far from simple. Mike’s power, his rage, and his thirst for revenge would drive him toward the Devil, but in doing so, he would fall into the very trap he had been trying to escape from. The Devil, always watching, always calculating, was ready to reap the fruits of his work. And Mike, for all his strength, for all his newfound power, was about to learn the hard truth—that revenge would never set him free.

  It would only destroy him.

  The Black Angel’s Judgment

  The house stood as a monument to deception, a grotesque parody of the American dream. Its white picket fence, pristine and unyielding, seemed to mock the very idea of innocence. The manicured lawn, a flawless sea of green, was a stage set for a performance of normalcy, each blade of grass meticulously trimmed to perfection. Cheerful floral curtains fluttered in the windows, their bright patterns a deliberate attempt to project warmth and welcome. But these were lies, carefully constructed to distract from the rot festering beneath the polished surface. It was the kind of house that advertised a life untouched by hardship, a life that could have been pulled straight from a magazine, yet it was a house built on the crushed bones of forgotten truths.

  Inside, the walls were adorned with family photos—frozen moments of laughter and love that told a story no one would question. A toddler’s first steps, captured in a blur of joy; a beach vacation, all sun-kissed skin and carefree smiles; a couple embracing under golden-hour sunlight, their love seemingly eternal. A dog-eared romance novel rested on the coffee table, its pages dogged by half-hearted attempts to escape into fantasies of devotion. The faint scent of lavender air freshener mingled with the aroma of a recently baked casserole, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like a lie too sweet to swallow. To the outside world, it was a portrait of idyllic family life. But the Black Angel saw through the lie. Beneath the white walls and carefully crafted smiles, he could sense the poison—the lies, the betrayals, the secrets buried deep within the foundation of this “perfect” family. He had seen enough to know what rotted beneath the surface. This was not a home. It was a prison, an elaborate stage where the actors performed their roles with hollow perfection.

  He lingered in the shadows of the oak tree across the street, his presence as still and lethal as a spider poised at the edge of its web. The house’s warmth was an insult, a slap in the face to the truth he knew lay buried beneath its polished floors and freshly painted walls. He had seen the cracks in the facade, the moments when the mask slipped—Sarah’s fleeting glances of guilt, Daniel’s forced laughter, the children’s oblivious innocence, tainted by the sins of their parents. The Black Angel’s gloved hands tightened into fists, the leather creaking softly in the stillness of the night. He had watched them for weeks, studied their routines, their habits, their lies. He had studied them until their every movement was predictable. But it was more than observation; it was a thirst for justice, for retribution, for an end to the fa?ade that kept their crimes hidden.

  Tonight, this house would become a cathedral of suffering, a canvas for vengeance painted in blood and despair. He had no illusions about his actions; he was not here to save anyone. His mission was simple—retribution. And it would be swift, final, and without mercy.

  Sarah, with her rehearsed smiles and hollow laughter, played the role of the perfect wife and mother with chilling precision. Daniel, her husband, was a man blinded by his own complacency, his oblivious affection a weapon of its own. The children, though innocent by circumstance, were guilty by inheritance, their very existence a testament to the sins of their parents. The Black Angel’s mind churned with visions of the man Sarah had destroyed—a man who had loved her, trusted her, only to be discarded like trash when a wealthier suitor appeared. That man’s screams still echoed in the Black Angel’s dreams, a haunting reminder of the justice that had been denied. His name had been erased, his existence reduced to a footnote in Sarah’s ascent to suburban bliss.

  No more.

  The Black Angel crossed the threshold, his movements fluid and soundless, a shadow slipping through the cracks of their carefully constructed world. The air thickened with his malice, a suffocating shroud that snuffed out the home’s warmth and replaced it with an icy dread. He wasn’t here by chance. This was judgment, divine and unyielding, delivered by a hand that would not falter. The house, once a sanctuary of lies, would soon bear witness to the truth—a truth written in blood and etched in screams. The Black Angel did not feel satisfaction in this. He was not here for gratification. He was here because this was justice, as cold and inevitable as death itself.

  The Black Angel’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. He moved through the living room, his presence a silent predator in a world of prey. The family photos seemed to watch him, their frozen smiles now twisted into grimaces of fear. He paused by the coffee table, his gloved hand brushing against the dog-eared romance novel. A bitter smile curled beneath his mask. How fitting, he thought, that even their attempts at escapism were hollow, just like their lives. Sarah had hidden behind fantasy, clinging to stories of love and devotion, all while betraying the one person who had truly loved her.

  He ascended the stairs, each step a deliberate act of purpose. The children’s rooms were first, their doors slightly ajar, the soft sounds of their breathing a reminder of their innocence. But innocence, he knew, was no shield against the sins of the parents. He would spare them, but not without ensuring they carried the weight of this night for the rest of their lives. No one would leave here unscathed. The Black Angel did not care for mercy. He was not a savior. He was the reaper.

  Sarah and Daniel’s room was at the end of the hall, the door closed but not locked. The Black Angel pushed it open, the hinges silent as death. The couple lay in bed, their forms illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the window. Sarah’s face, even in sleep, bore the faint traces of her guilt, while Daniel’s expression was one of oblivious peace. He could almost hear the quiet breaths of their peaceful slumber, the naive comfort of a life lived without consequences.

  The Black Angel stepped forward, his shadow falling over them like a shroud. Tonight, the lies would end. Tonight, the Black Angel’s judgment would be delivered. The moment had come. There was no turning back. He would be the hand that severed the veil, the one who tore away the facade and revealed the festering rot beneath.

  The master bedroom was a shrine to normalcy. Floral wallpaper, a king-sized bed draped in ivory linens, and a vanity cluttered with perfume bottles and jewelry. Sarah lay nestled in a cocoon of soft blankets, her face serene in the embrace of sleep. Her husband, Daniel, snored beside her, one arm slung possessively over her waist. There was no sign of the woman who had destroyed a man, no hint of the guilt that would haunt her for eternity. The Black Angel loomed over them, his shadow stretching across the room like a stain. His gloved hand hovered above Sarah’s face, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. His other hand gripped a blade—a curved, serrated thing that glinted faintly in the moonlight.

  Did she dream of him? The Black Angel wondered. Did she see his face in the dark, his hollow eyes accusing her? Or had she buried him so deeply that even her subconscious refused to grieve? He did not care for answers. He was not here to ask questions. He was here to deliver judgment.

  It didn’t matter. Truth would carve its way to the surface tonight.

  The first cut was deliberate. The blade slid across Sarah’s throat in a single, surgical motion, parting skin, muscle, and windpipe. Her eyes snapped open, wide with terror and incomprehension. A wet, guttural gasp escaped her as blood surged from the wound, soaking the pillows and sheets in a spreading crimson tide. She clawed at the air, her fingers brushing the Black Angel’s mask—a featureless obsidian slab that reflected her dying contortions. She knew who he was. She understood. But it was too late.

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  Daniel stirred, groaning as the metallic tang of blood invaded his dreams. “Sarah…?” he mumbled, his voice slurred with sleep. Then his eyes focused.

  The scream that tore from his throat was primal, a sound that belonged to the wilderness. It was the scream of a man who had just realized the consequences of his ignorance. He lunged for Sarah, but the Black Angel intercepted him with a kick to the sternum. Daniel collapsed, his head cracking against the nightstand. Blood trickled from his scalp as he crawled toward his wife, his sobs punctuated by wheezing breaths. He could not comprehend what had happened. He could not understand why.

  “Wh-why?” he choked out, reaching for Sarah’s lifeless hand. The question was hollow, empty. There was no reason. There was only consequence.

  The Black Angel seized him by the hair, wrenching his head back to meet his hollow gaze. “Ask her,” he hissed, nodding at Sarah’s corpse. Her blank eyes stared at the ceiling, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. She had been the architect of her own demise, the one who had sealed their fate. And now, there was no escape. The Black Angel’s judgment had been delivered. There was no more pretending. No more lies. Only the truth, bleeding out on the ivory sheets.

  A House of Nightmares

  Daniel’s wrists and ankles were bound with barbed wire, the jagged metal biting into his flesh with every twitch. Blood oozed down his arms, pooling on the carpet in sticky rivulets. The Black Angel worked in silence, methodically stripping the room of its illusions. He tore down family photos, splintering frames under his boot. He overturned drawers, scattering lingerie and tax documents like confetti, each piece of paper a silent witness to the hollow life Sarah and Daniel had built—a life crafted from lies and deceit.

  The room had once been a sanctuary, a place where love and warmth should have thrived. Now, it was a graveyard of shattered illusions. The floral wallpaper, which had once been so sweet and innocent, now seemed to mock the very idea of comfort. The once ivory linens on the bed now stained with blood—blood that had poured from Sarah’s body like a dam that had been broken, each drop a reminder of her sins, of the man she had left behind, discarded like so much trash in her climb to the top.

  But his focus, the Black Angel’s unwavering focus, returned to Sarah.

  Her body lay splayed on the bed, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, as though her very form had been contorted by the hand of justice itself. The Black Angel gripped her hair, yanking her upright with a wet snap, as rigor mortis gave way to the chilling reality of her death. Her head lolled grotesquely to the side, the gaping wound in her throat still weeping in silent defiance, the blood now congealed, a dark testament to her crimes. Daniel’s muffled sobs echoed in the background, but they were distant, insignificant. This was not about him, not anymore.

  With cold precision, the Black Angel began his work. He plunged his hands into Sarah’s abdomen, tearing through muscle and viscera with the same surgical skill that had earned him his name. Her intestines slithered free in glistening coils, falling out of her like a grotesque offering, a perverse display of the damage done. The stench of bile and decay flooded the room, mingling with the metallic scent of blood, creating a suffocating atmosphere that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of Daniel’s shallow breaths.

  Daniel’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming for some semblance of control, but it was useless. He had no power here. No escape. His body trembled as the Black Angel continued his unholy ritual, oblivious to his pleas. Her once perfect form was now a grotesque monument to the life she had destroyed. She had stolen, discarded, and destroyed in her rise to power, and now she would be the one to pay the price.

  “Stop! Please!” Daniel begged, his voice fraying into a whimper, but it was as if the Black Angel could not hear him, or perhaps he simply didn’t care.

  The Black Angel ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the task at hand, his expression as unreadable as ever. He looped the intestines around the ceiling fan, their weight causing the blades to groan under the strain. The fan spun faster, and the intestines were whipped around in sickening spirals, the blood raining down in torrents, painting the walls in grotesque Rorschach patterns—each splatter a reflection of the twisted truth behind this house of nightmares.

  Daniel could no longer look at Sarah’s mutilated body. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, to the once pristine fan now stained with gore. His throat closed up, his body shaking uncontrollably. He retched, the taste of bile rising in his mouth as the stench of death filled his nostrils. Tears blurred his vision, and yet, he could not look away. Every corner of the room seemed to taunt him with the horror that had unfolded here. The truth that had been buried beneath layers of lies, now exposed in all its vicious clarity.

  “Why are you doing this?” Daniel sobbed, his voice barely above a whisper, the sound of his words lost in the frenzy of his panic. “We’ve done nothing! We’ve done nothing wrong! Please, stop…”

  The Black Angel crouched beside him, his movements deliberate, controlled. His mask glinted faintly in the dim light, reflecting the tears and blood in a twisted dance. He moved so close to Daniel that the man could feel the coldness of his presence, the suffocating weight of it pressing down on him. The Black Angel’s breath was like a death sentence in itself—calm, steady, the rhythm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  His mask hovered inches from Daniel’s face, those hollow eyes seemingly reading his soul, peeling away the layers of fear and guilt until only the raw, ugly truth remained. A truth that no amount of pleading could undo.

  “She poisoned a man’s soul,” the Black Angel whispered, his voice a low rasp, like the sound of a distant wind sweeping through a graveyard. “Drove him to ruin. Made him watch as she erased him. Took everything from him, until he was nothing more than a shadow. You think you’re innocent, Daniel? You helped her forget. You helped her bury the truth.”

  Daniel’s breath hitched as the words struck him like a slap, his chest tightening, suffocating under the weight of the realization. He had known, hadn’t he? There had been hints, whispers of things he had ignored—things he had chosen to overlook, to rationalize. He had played along with Sarah’s lies, had allowed himself to become complicit in her rise. And now, in the cold, merciless hands of the Black Angel, there was no room for denial, no place to hide.

  The Black Angel’s gloved hand caressed Daniel’s cheek, leaving streaks of Sarah’s blood behind. The touch was almost tender, but it was a mockery of tenderness, a cruel reminder of the irreversible damage done.

  “Now you’ll remember,” the Black Angel hissed. “You’ll remember the man she destroyed. You’ll remember him every time you breathe. You’ll remember the price of your silence.”

  Daniel gasped, his chest tightening with horror, his mind scrambling for some way to escape this nightmare. But the Black Angel’s words cut deeper than any blade ever could, leaving him raw and exposed. There would be no escape. The truth had been etched into his soul, and it would never let him forget.

  The Children’s Fate

  The boy’s room was a kaleidoscope of innocence—racecar posters, stuffed animals, a nightlight shaped like a rocket. Ethan, six years old, stirred as the door creaked open.

  “Daddy…?” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. Then he froze.

  The Black Angel stood at the foot of his bed, a monolith of shadow. Ethan scrambled backward, his breath quickening. “Wh-who are you?”

  No answer. A gloved hand seized his wrist, yanking him from the bed. Ethan screamed, kicking and thrashing as he was dragged down the hallway. His fingernails scraped against the Black Angel’s armor, leaving faint trails in the blood-smeared surface.

  The kitchen awaited. A pot of oil bubbled violently on the stove, the air shimmering with heat. Ethan’s screams escalated to primal shrieks as the Black Angel hoisted him by his ankles.

  “NO! DADDY!”

  Daniel’s answering wail echoed from the bedroom. “ETHAN! LET HIM GO!”

  The Black Angel lowered the boy slowly, inch by inch, into the roiling oil. Ethan’s legs vanished first, the skin blistering and sloughing off in translucent sheets. His screams dissolved into gurgles as the oil climbed his torso, boiling his organs alive. The stench of charred flesh clogged the air, a sweet-meat reek that clung to the walls.

  When only Ethan’s face remained—eyes bulging, mouth a rictus of agony—the Black Angel pulled him free. He dropped the smoldering corpse at Daniel’s feet.

  “Monster!” Daniel spat, his voice raw. “He was a child!”

  The Black Angel tilted his head. “And you are a thief. You stole another man’s future. Now yours is forfeit.”

  He moved to the nursery.

  Mia, three years old, slept clutching a threadbare bunny. The Black Angel loomed over her crib, his shadow swallowing the pastel-pink walls. She woke with a whimper, her doe eyes pooling with tears.

  “Shh,” he murmured, lifting her into his arms. For a moment, his movements were almost tender. Then he pivoted, hurling her against the wall with the force of a wrecking ball.

  Her skull burst like overripe fruit.

  The Final Judgment

  Daniel hung from the ceiling fan, his body suspended in a grotesque parody of crucifixion. Barbed wire coiled around his wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh with every slight movement. Blood, dark and viscous, dripped from his wounds, pooling on the floor beneath him. His chest was a canvas of agony, the Black Angel’s message carved into his skin with surgical precision:

  TRUTH DEMANDS A PRICE

  Each letter had been etched with a scalpel, the blade lingering in the curves of the S and T to maximize suffering. The cuts were deep, deliberate, and agonizingly slow. Daniel’s breaths were shallow, his skin pale and waxen. Shock had dulled the edges of his pain, but not his terror. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted around the room, searching for an escape that would never come.

  The Black Angel circled him, a shadow moving in the dim light of the room. His obsidian mask reflected the faint glow of the moon, its surface smooth and unyielding, like the void itself. He moved with a predator’s grace, each step deliberate, each motion calculated. The house was silent now, save for the drip-drip of blood and the faint creak of the ceiling fan as it swayed under Daniel’s weight. The family’s illusions had been peeled back, layer by layer, revealing the rot beneath.

  “P-please…” Daniel rasped, his voice barely audible. “Kill me…”

  The Black Angel stopped in front of him, tilting his head as if considering the request. He reached out, gripping Daniel’s jaw with a gloved hand, forcing him to meet his reflection in the obsidian mask. The mask’s surface distorted Daniel’s face, twisting his features into something unrecognizable—a fitting metaphor, the Black Angel thought, for the man’s life.

  “Death is a mercy,” the Black Angel said, his voice a low, venomous purr. “And you, Daniel, do not deserve mercy. You’ll linger. The police will find you. They’ll see what remains of your wife… your children… you. Your face will haunt the news. Your neighbors will whisper. And somewhere, the man you destroyed will smile.”

  Daniel’s eyes filled with tears, but the Black Angel felt no pity. Pity was a human emotion, and he had long since shed his humanity. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, each word a dagger.

  “You think this is about revenge? No. This is about truth. You built your life on lies, on the suffering of others. You and your wife—you thought you could bury the past, bury him, and live as if nothing happened. But the truth doesn’t die. It festers. It waits. And now, it demands its price.”

  Daniel’s body trembled, his sobs echoing in the silence. The Black Angel straightened, releasing his grip. He stepped back, surveying his work with a cold, detached satisfaction. The room, once a sanctuary of domestic bliss, was now a tomb—a monument to the consequences of human frailty and greed.

  With a swift motion, the Black Angel severed the barbed wire. Daniel crumpled to the floor, his broken body twitching, his cries of pain muffled by the weight of his suffering. The Black Angel stood over him, his shadow looming like the specter of death itself.

  “This world,” the Black Angel said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of disillusionment, “is a cesspool of hypocrisy. You humans cling to your illusions—love, morality, justice—as if they mean something. But they are lies, constructs to mask the rot at your core. You destroy each other for power, for pleasure, for nothing. And yet, you dare to call yourselves civilized.”

  He turned away, his boots clicking against the blood-stained floor. “I am not your judge because I am righteous. I am your judge because I see you for what you are. And what I see is nothing.”

  The Black Angel vanished into the night, his work complete. The house, once a symbol of idyllic family life, was now a testament to the futility of human ambition. And as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the Black Angel disappeared into the shadows, a harbinger of judgment in a world that had long since lost its way.

  Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, the man Sarah had destroyed smiled. The Black Angel felt no joy in this—only the cold satisfaction of a task completed. For in a world devoid of meaning, vengeance was the closest thing to justice.

  And the Black Angel was its perfect instrument.

  Epilogue: The Price of Truth

  Dawn crept over the suburb, its light timid and apologetic, as if even the sun hesitated to illuminate the horrors within the house. From the outside, nothing had changed. The white picket fence still stood pristine, a mocking symbol of suburban perfection. The cheerful floral curtains still fluttered in the morning breeze, their bright patterns oblivious to the carnage they concealed. The manicured lawn, untouched and immaculate, seemed to dare anyone to question the illusion of normalcy.

  But inside, the walls wept blood.

  The air was thick with the metallic tang of death, mingling with the cloying sweetness of lavender air freshener that still sputtered weakly from a plug-in diffuser. Flies swarmed over Ethan’s boiled flesh, their buzzing a grotesque symphony of decay. Mia’s tiny hand still clutched her stuffed bunny, its fur now stiff and matted with gore. Sarah’s intestines hung like pagan garlands, swaying gently in the breeze from a shattered window, their loops and coils a macabre decoration in this house of horrors.

  Daniel had survived for three hours. Three agonizing hours of pain, fear, and regret. Long enough to hear the first patrol car arrive, its siren slicing through the morning stillness. Long enough to hear the officer’s screams as he stepped inside and witnessed the carnage. Long enough to realize that his life, his family, his carefully constructed facade of happiness, had all been a lie.

  The headlines called it a tragedy. A “senseless act of violence.” The media painted the Black Angel as a monster, a deranged killer who had shattered the peace of an innocent family. But in the months that followed, whispers began to emerge. Rumors of Sarah’s past, buried but never forgotten. A man she’d driven to suicide, his name erased from her story. A pregnancy she’d concealed, a life she’d discarded without a second thought. A trail of ruin she’d left in her relentless climb to normalcy.

  The Black Angel watched from afar, his presence as silent and unyielding as the void itself. His work was done, but the ripples of his judgment would spread far beyond this quiet suburb. He had peeled back the layers of their lies, exposing the rot beneath, and now the world would see them for what they truly were.

  In the shadows, he smiled.

  Truth always collects its debt.

  But the Black Angel’s satisfaction was not born of justice—it was born of contempt. He had no illusions about humanity. They were a species of hypocrites, liars, and cowards, clinging to their fragile constructs of morality and decency while their hearts festered with greed, cruelty, and selfishness. They built their lives on the suffering of others, then dared to call themselves civilized. They preached love and compassion while their hands were stained with blood.

  The Black Angel had seen it all before. A thousand times, in a thousand lives. The wife who betrayed her husband for wealth. The father who abandoned his children for power. The friend who sold out their closest confidant for a moment of advantage. Humanity was a cancer, spreading its corruption wherever it went, and the Black Angel was the scalpel that cut it out.

  But even he knew it was a futile endeavor. For every lie he exposed, a thousand more would take its place. For every life he destroyed, a thousand more would rise to continue the cycle. Humanity was incapable of change, incapable of redemption. They were doomed to repeat their mistakes, to destroy each other, to wallow in their own filth until the end of time.

  And yet, he continued. Not out of hope, but out of spite. If humanity was determined to destroy itself, he would be the one to hold up the mirror, to force them to see the ugliness they so desperately tried to hide.

  In the shadows, he smiled again, a cold, mirthless expression that held no joy, only the bitter satisfaction of a task completed.

  Truth always collects its debt.

  And the Black Angel would always be there to ensure it was paid.