Evan thought it was over.
That a single beating was the end of it. That I'd gotten my revenge and would move on.
He was wrong.
That night, as I walked home, blood still fresh on my knuckles, I knew—one beating wasn't enough.
Death would have been too merciful.
Evan didn't deserve a quick end. He deserved to suffer. To feel the same despair Mia felt when she realized the man she loved had thrown her away like trash.
I was going to make him experience that.
Not all at once.
But piece by piece.
…
It started small.
I still had access to his phone. I'd grabbed it after beating him half to death, wiping the blood off its sleek glass surface. He hadn't even noticed.
That night, I went through everything.
The texts. The photos. The videos.
Evan had documented his affairs like some sick trophy collection—recordings of his nights with other women, messages where he laughed about how gullible Mia was, how she'd "never leave" him because she was too weak.
Disgusting.
I spent hours sorting through it all, compiling the worst of it.
Then, I sent it.
To his boss. His coworkers. His family. His friends. Every single person in his professional and personal life.
I didn't write a message. I let the evidence speak for itself.
When I was done, I wiped the phone and left it at his doorstep.
The next morning, chaos erupted.
…
Evan worked at a high-end marketing firm. Image was everything.
By the time he realized what had happened, it was too late.
His inbox was flooded with messages. His phone blew up with calls—some from his boss, others from his furious coworkers.
The firm had a strict policy against workplace scandals. And Evan? He wasn't just some low-level grunt. He was in management.
Which meant his affairs weren't just embarrassing.
They were grounds for termination.
By noon, he was called into HR.
By evening, he was unemployed.
I wasn't there to see it.
But I could imagine the look on his face when he realized his cushy life was falling apart.
It was only the beginning.
…
Without a job, Evan had no way to pay rent.
His apartment—the fancy, high-rise luxury complex—wasn't cheap. And from the bank statements I'd dug up, I knew one thing for certain: Evan lived paycheck to paycheck.
He had no savings. No fallback plan.
When the eviction notice came, he probably thought he could talk his way out of it. That he could charm the landlord, negotiate for more time.
But I had taken care of that too.
A few anonymous calls. A few well-placed rumors. I made sure the building manager knew exactly what kind of man Evan was—a cheating, abusive parasite.
And just like that, his appeal was denied.
By the end of the month, Evan was homeless.
From penthouse to pavement.
I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
…
A man can lose his job and survive.
He can lose his home and adapt.
But when he starts losing his mind?
That's when the real suffering begins.
This was the part I enjoyed the most.
The psychological torment.
I started small—letting him know, in subtle ways, that he was being watched.
A text message from a blocked number: "Are you sleeping well, Evan?"
A familiar ringtone playing nearby whenever he walked alone at night.
Random whispers when he passed by dark alleyways.
Nothing concrete. Nothing he could prove.
Just enough to make him paranoid.
Then, I escalated.
I followed him—always from a distance, just enough for him to feel my presence but never see me. Every time he turned around, I was gone. Every time he thought he was alone, I made sure he wasn't.
I was fully committed to making his life hell, I had already quitted my job. I had all the time in the world to torment that guy.
He stopped sleeping.
Stopped eating.
I saw it in his face—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his body thinned out, the nervous glances over his shoulder.
Evan was breaking.
Piece by piece.
And I wasn't done yet.
Two months after I started, Evan was a wreck.
He had nothing left.
No job. No home. No money. No friends.
He lived in a cheap motel now, the kind where the walls were stained, and the bedsheets smelled like cigarettes.
I watched him from a distance, sitting alone in a run-down diner, stirring a cup of coffee with trembling hands.
It was time.
I walked over and sat across from him.
He didn't even look up at first.
Then, slowly, realization dawned. His eyes widened. He flinched back, knocking over his coffee cup, spilling the lukewarm liquid onto the table.
"You," he breathed.
I smiled. "Me."
His hands clenched. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape.
I leaned forward.
"What's wrong, Evan?" I whispered. "Not happy to see me?"
His breath hitched. "You… You did this."
I tilted my head. "Did what?"
He swallowed hard. His whole body was trembling now. "You ruined me."
I chuckled. "No, Evan." I met his bloodshot eyes, letting my voice drop to a whisper.
"You ruined yourself."
Silence.
For the first time, Evan looked truly afraid.
Not just scared.
Broken.
Shattered.
I leaned back, watching him unravel.
And then, something strange happened.
A thrill shot through me—sharp, electric, intoxicating.
My fingers twitched. My pulse quickened. My breath came in slow, measured inhales, each one laced with something I hadn't expected to feel.
Excitement.
Not relief. Not closure.
Pure, exhilarating excitement.
I had won.
I had stripped him of everything, torn his life apart, left him crawling in the dirt like the pathetic worm he was.
And I wanted more.
The feeling curled inside me, dark and insatiable.
I stood up, sliding my hands into my pockets. "See you around, Evan."
He didn't respond.
He just stared at me, empty-eyed, like a man who had already died.
As I walked away, my heartbeat pounded with something almost primal.
I had thought revenge would bring me peace.
I was wrong.
It awakened something else entirely.
And now…
I wanted to keep going.