For a fleeting moment, his plea punctured the red haze of my vengeance. The weight of the silver dagger in my hand felt suddenly foreign, as if it were an extension of someone else's will.
A ghost of a memory flickered through the fury.
“Remember, sweetheart, it's irrelevant whether they are monsters or not. What truly counts is their actions. Which is why we give them a choice. Once they decide to step out of line, that’s when they have to accept the punishment for what they did,” he said, my father's voice, warm and unwavering.
He cleaned his gun with practiced precision, showing me how to take apart and clean my own before I could even ride a bike without training wheels.
“What happens if they step out of line?” I asked, watching him intently.
“We deal with it like hunters do.”
I came to, remembering he taught me that every soul deserved a chance. That even those who lurked in the dark had a story, a life. It was a belief he had held onto fervently, even as those very monsters snatched him away from me.
“Fairness,” I whispered to the empty room, the word hollow and cold in the air.
Dad believed in fairness, in second chances. But fairness had died with him, trampled beneath the feet of creatures who knew only hunger.
The werewolf's eyes found mine, heavy with pain and fear, but I saw no monster there—only a creature caught in the crossfire of a war it did not choose to be a part of. A pang of something akin to guilt gnawed at my heart, but it was quickly scorched away by the relentless fire of my resolve.
“Well, he isn't here anymore because of monsters,” I muttered, more to myself than to the shivering form before me. “And I'll kill them all.”
In that instant, the decision was made. The silver dagger plunged down, driven by a force borne of grief and unquenchable anger. His eyes, wide with the shock of betrayal, locked onto mine.
There was no accusation there, only the dawning realization of his fate.
I watched, paralyzed by the act that unfolded with grim inevitability, as the life bled from his gaze, leaving nothing but the dull sheen of death. The silence that followed was oppressive, filled only by the ragged echo of my breathing and the quiet drip of blood from silver to the floorboards.
He was gone, another casualty in my quest for revenge, one that very well seemed innocent in all of this.
And maybe he was. But I shoved that down.
Nothing would stop me. I would follow every lead, and if they didn’t give me answers, I would kill them and move on to the next. Suddenly, I was left with the weight of his life on my conscience and the bitter taste of vengeance on my tongue.
The night air clung to my skin, cold and unfeeling as I stumbled from the abandoned house. I couldn’t get the metallic stench of blood out of my nostrils. As if it trailed after me, a ghostly reminder of the life I had just ended.
The silver dagger felt unreasonably heavy on my hip, as if it were laden with the weight of the werewolf's fucking soul.
“Maybe he didn't know anything,” I whispered to the stars, my voice brittle in the silence.
It was a possibility that gnawed at me, tearing jagged holes in my certainty. But the image of my father—his laugh, his unwavering kindness—flickered through my mind, fueling the fire inside me.
As I walked, the city's distant lights flickered and beckoned, mirroring the turmoil within me. Was I losing myself in this quest for revenge? The question prowled around my mind, a persistent shadow I couldn't shake off. My boots echoed on the pavement, a lonely rhythm that matched the hollow thumping of my heart.
Before I knew it, I stood in front of a bar, its neon sign buzzing like annoying bugs’ wings. I needed something to drown out the noise in my head, to wash away the sticky film of guilt that clung to me.
A drink, or maybe five, seemed like the only answer to the storm of emotions threatening to consume me.
They wouldn’t—I wouldn’t let them. But I desperately needed them to settle. These feelings only served to piss me off further. Good thing the promise of oblivion waited inside, nestled at the bottom of a glass, and I was all too ready to take the plunge.
The club was an eclectic mix of old brick walls and modern neon. Pulsating lights danced across the floor, casting everyone in a kaleidoscope of color. Smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the tang of spilt alcohol. It clung to my senses.
My boots stuck slightly to the floor as I shouldered my way through the crowd. Was it from blood or drinks? I didn’t know.
The music pounded in sync with my turbulent thoughts, a bass line reverberating through bone and blood. Bodies moved around me, swaying and twisting.
“Whiskey, neat,” I said, leaning against the scarred wooden bar.
The bartender—a guy with tattoos crawling up his arms, dark hair, and easy eyes—flashed a knowing smile.
