It’s redemption.Deliverance.Repossession of a stolen life.And justice for so many others.
I’m a vigilante.That part is obvious now.I move through the underworld, slaying monsters like the one who stole my childhood.
There will always be more Denver Strakhs.More Rhett Howells.More Adrian Crowes.The names change.The damage doesn’t.
I don’t pick the cities or the countries stamped on my passport.I don’t kick in doors or spill blood in alleyways.Jag made damn sure of that.
But I’m traveling the world with him, sitting in surveillance vans and hotel rooms full of screens and murmuring voices, watching patterns tighten, lies unravel, and traps slam shut.
Dove travels with us, too.Always at our sides.Happy and safe.
But I’m not a saint.
When we’re in Colombia, I let my inner wolf out.A wolf built in the Arctic Circle.
Cold taught me patience.Hunger taught me precision.Survival taught me how to play with blood.I know weapons.I know how fear sounds when it runs out of places to hide.That makes me useful in rooms where monsters finally have to answer for what they’ve done.
When the cartel needs information pulled from a human trafficker, I step in.I let my knives do the work and my animal nature sink into their bones.
In those moments, I don’t see the prisoners.
I see the doctor.
I see Denver.
I see every night I suffered in pain.
And when I walk out of the torture room, Jag and Dove are always there.My hands are steady.My heart is clear, and the world is safer than it was before.
I love this life.The purpose.The rebellion.The savage annihilation of sexual predators and the systems that protect them.The way every day asks something of me and gives something back.It’s an adventure shaped by survival and stubborn joy.It’s more than I ever let myself want.
My life makes sense now.
With Dove and Jag.
With The Freedom Fighters.
I came full circle the long way around.
From victim to vigilante.
From prey to hunter.
From discarded to wanted.
From alone to ours.
From nothing tothis.
“Yeah.”I return Frankie’s smile.“It’s fucking beautiful.”
I still go to therapy.That part doesn’t stop just because my life finally fits.
Sometimes it’s just me and the couch and the slow work of learning how to breathe through memories that still have teeth.Sometimes Dove comes with me.Sometimes Jag does.Sometimes all three of us sit together, laying our histories out on the table.
Sometimes, when I’m tired or caught off guard, a panic spike will sneak up on me.But they’re smaller now.Shorter.Nothing like that day in the shower.
Talking helps.Dove, Jag, and I discuss our childhoods like adults.No competition.No minimizing.Just truth.
