The flickering fluorescent lights in the small interrogation room buzzed faintly. A lone detective stood over a table, frustration clinging to his every breath as he looked down at the ten-year-old boy seated quietly across from him.
The child, Ethan, looked hollow—too still, too quiet for someone his age.
"So you're telling me… you can't remember the face?" the detective asked, voice firm but edged with disbelief.
Ethan, small and pale, slowly shook his head. His lips didn't move.
His eyes didn't flinch. Just a slight shake.
The detective's hands slammed the table, startling the boy. "How can you not remember the face of your parents' killer?!"
The words hit Ethan like a bullet.
His body flinched involuntarily, but his expression didn't change. Inside, though, something cracked deeper.
"Detective, that's enough!" another officer said sharply, stepping forward.
"He's just watched his parents die tonight. Do you think shouting is going to fix that?"
The detective let out a slow breath, regret flashing across his face.
"You're right… I'm sorry. It's just frustrating knowing that a murderer's walking free, and we' can't do anything to catch him" He said
Before He turned away, rubbing his temple, and quietly exiting the room, leaving the second officer with the boy.
The officer knelt, bringing himself to Ethan's level. "Hey… Ethan. Today's been a long day, huh? How about we get you home so you can rest?"
He paused. "Do you have any relatives nearby?"
Ethan looked at him, then slowly shook his head again.
"No one's… alive," he whispered—his first words since arriving.
The officer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sound of his voice. "Alright," he said softly, "I'll arrange for someone to take you home for now, okay?"
Ethan didn't respond. He simply stood when prompted and followed the officer out of the room.
---
Later that night, Ethan stood alone by a window, the pale moonlight cutting across his face.
He watched as the red and blue lights of the police car faded into the distance.
Only once they were gone did his posture loosen—his mask slipping.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't traumatized.
He was angry.
There was a reason he hadn't told them what the killer looked like.
It wasn't fear that kept his mouth shut.
It was choice. He didn't want justice from others. He didn't want law and mercy.
What he wanted was revenge—raw and personal. He wanted to be the one to find that man. To make him suffer.
To show him what it felt like to lose everything.
Ethan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his skin.
Most wouldn't understand. They'd think he was too young to think this way. But Ethan had never been like most kids.
He'd always been quiet and Withdrawn.
Never speaking to anyone and only showing his true self around his parents because they were his entire world.
There was a reason for this.
When Ethan was younger he had been diagnosed with selective mutism his parents tried all means to cure him but no treatment worked.
In the end, his parents simply accepted him, loved him, and never forced him to change.
They were his voice.
They were his warmth.
They were… everything.
So when he watched them die, something inside Ethan broke—completely.
The light in his heart was extinguished that night. And from the ashes, something darker took root.
He wasn't a child anymore.
He was the weapon their killer unknowingly forged.
And that man would come to regret ever leaving Ethan Cross alive.
****
Luckily for Ethan, his parents had set aside a decent sum of money for him in case of emergencies.
A life insurance policy, a savings account, and a small inheritance his father had quietly built up.
It wasn't enough to live lavishly, but it was more than enough to survive without being thrown into the foster system or sent to an orphanage.
And that was for the best.
What Ethan planned to do… wasn't something he could afford to do while being surrounded by others.
He needed solitude. He needed freedom. He needed space.
After the funeral—quiet, with barely any attendees. Ethan returned to the house that once rang with warmth and laughter.
It was silent now. Hollow. But he didn't cry. He didn't scream. He simply resumed life.
To the outside world, Ethan remained the same: quiet, reserved, and distant.
No one thought much of it—he had always been that way. So when he returned to school shortly after the burial, there was no alarm. No red flags. He passed through the days unnoticed.
His life followed a simple routine. School during the weekdays. Trips to the local supermarket every couple of days to restock on food.
He paid bills using the funds left for him, kept the house clean, and maintained his grades well enough to stay under the radar.
But at night… he became someone else.
After his homework was done, after the dinner dishes were washed, Ethan would sit alone in the dark with his laptop glowing against his pale face.
Every night, he scoured the internet—forums, public databases, facial recognition tools, obscure social media accounts.
He was hunting a ghost. Searching for a name to match the face etched into his memory like fire.
He had seen the man. He had memorized the man.
And all he needed was a name.
Seven long years passed like that. Each one quietly sharpening Ethan's will into a blade.
Until one night—at 17 years old—he found it.
A newly created account.
Just a few friends. Barely any posts. But the profile picture was unmistakable. That smug, hateful face that haunted his dreams.
Ethan stared at the screen, breath frozen in his throat.
A whisper escaped his lips like a curse finally uttered:
"I finally found you."
He clicked into the profile. Scrolled through every detail. Then he found what he needed—a careless post tagging a location.
It led to a local bar, and from there, he followed the trail. And finally got a home address
He copied the home address into a separate notebook—his revenge journal, the one no one ever saw.
Name: Trumple Donaldson.
Ethan stared at the name. A small smile curled at the edge of his lips—but there was no joy in it. Only cold satisfaction.
He wasn't going to act yet. Not now.
The hunt was about patience.
He needed to understand his prey. He needed to learn everything about Trumple Donaldson—his habits, his schedule, his weaknesses.
The time for justice wasn't here yet.
But soon…
It would be.
****
A loud crash echoed through the quiet street as the bar doors burst open, and a man was hurled out like garbage.
He tumbled across the pavement, groaning as he clutched his ribs, the stench of cheap liquor clinging to him like a second skin.
From the doorway, a burly man with sleeves rolled up and fury in his eyes shouted after him, "I don't want to see your face here ever again—got that?! You show up one more time, and you'll be going home with one leg!"
Without waiting for a reply, the man spat on the ground and slammed the door behind him.
Donaldson, still sprawled on the cold sidewalk, groaned and rolled onto his side. He sat up, swaying, and dusted off his stained jacket with a shaky hand.
"Hell!" he slurred, rising to his feet. "You'll see me dead before I ever come back to this dump. Your drinks taste like shit anyway…"
He staggered down the street, muttering curses to himself, tripping over his own feet with every step. His gait was clumsy, almost pitiful.
Clearly drunk beyond sense or reason.
Eventually, he reached his small, dilapidated house.
He fumbled through his pockets, pulling out his key, only for it to slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground.
"Why can't anything go right?!" he shouted, his voice cracking in frustration.
He dropped to one knee, snatched the key off the floor and after several failed attempts, finally managed to unlock the door.
The moment it creaked open, the foul stench of stale booze, sweat, and rotting leftovers washed over him.
The interior was a disaster—bottles scattered across the floor, furniture stained and broken, walls yellowed with grime.
It was less a home and more a pigsty that reeked of decay.
Just as he was about to take a step inside, a voice drifted out of the darkness behind him—quiet, cold, and chilling.
"There is no peace for the wicked."
Donaldson froze.
Before he could turn around, a blunt object slammed into the back of his head with bone-jarring force.
His eyes rolled back instantly as he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The door creaked slowly shut behind him.
And the silence that followed was heavier than before.
...
...
...
A/N will release an extra chapter if I get 50 power stones or 25 Golden tickets.
...
...
...
...