Men who are willing to become monsters to hunt monsters are necessary.
Men who keep the truly evil, the truly horrific predators like Volk in check when the systems designed to stop them fail over, and over, and over again, essential.
I'm practically a fucking superhero, if you think about it objectively. Dexter with better taste and a higher body count of people who actually deserved it.
What the world doesn't need… is another fucking gym owner.
I could make it look like an accident.
Gyms are dangerous places. Heavy equipment, faulty cables, catastrophic mechanical failures that crush windpipes or snap spines.
A bench press bar to the throat. Quick. Efficient. Tragic gym accident, nobody's fault, terrible loss for the fitness community.
But that's not satisfying.
That doesn't account for him touching what's mine. Loading her luggage like some helpful fucking Boy Scout. Making her laugh—genuine laughter I haven't heard in months, maybe ever. Opening her door like a gentleman when he has no idea what she really needs, what she truly craves.
He doesn't deserve quick.
I could take my time instead.
I'd subdue him—chloroform, taser, doesn't matter. Wake up restrained in my barn. Confused, terrified, asking why the fuck I'm doing this.
Because you touched something that belongs to me.
Simple. Honest. He'd understand then, in those final hours.
I've never killed anyone in my barn before. Never needed to. The cabin's always been my personal space—retreat, refuge, the place I disappear to between jobs. The barn's just storage. Firewood. The industrial furnace I use for burning evidence from kills that happen elsewhere.
But it's got that walk-in freezer.
Previous owners were hunters. Elk, moose, whatever the fuck. Built the freezer custom, restaurant-grade cooling, thick insulation, heavy steel door with a manual lock from the outside.
Perfect for hanging a carcass while it ages.
Perfect for keeping a man alive while you work on him slowly.
I'm rock-hard, pulse pounding in my temples, cock straining painfully against my zipper. I drop into my chair and shove the waistband of my pants down roughly, freeing my erection. It springs up, already leaking. I wrap my fist around myself and start stroking—fast, rough, no finesse—while the images keep coming.
Ryan's blood spreading across frozen concrete. Steam rising from the spreading pool. His body convulsing as shock sets in, his pathetic attempts to beg through the gag becoming weaker, more desperate.
I'd take my time after that. Hours. Maybe days if I kept him conscious enough.
Peel his skin off in strips. Start with the fingers—those hands that touched her luggage, that opened her car door like he had any fucking right.
My hand moves faster now, rougher, punishing. I'm gripping myself so tight it almost hurts, but I don't ease up.
The images come quicker now, sharper.
Ryan screaming as I work the knife under his fingernails. Ryan thrashing when I remove his eyes with a melon baller. Ryan whimpering as I break every bone in his hands with a ball-peen hammer, methodical, thorough, crushing each knuckle individually.
I'd make art of his suffering.
Document every stage. Photographs. Video. Send them to Scarletta afterward so she understands what happens when other men think they can have her.
This is what I do to people who touch what's mine.
I imagine Ryan's final moments. Hypothermic, mutilated, barely conscious. I'd stand over him and jerk off, just like I did with Volk. Come all over his ruined face while he dies watching me.
