The golden hue of the setting sun blanketed the city in a warm, fleeting embrace.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of trees lining the sidewalk as Peter walked silently through the streets, hands in his coat pockets, his silhouette stretching behind him like a fading memory.
The sky was painted in streaks of orange and crimson, the kind of evening that could lull even the most battle-worn souls into momentary peace.
And for a moment—just a moment—Peter allowed himself to enjoy it.
He passed a baseball field nestled between two school buildings. The rhythmic sounds of metal bats cracking against balls, the shouts of youth, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air with energy.
Peter's gaze wandered lazily across the field until it paused.
There.
Near the benches—stood a girl.
Brown hair danced gently in the wind. Her figure was graceful, confident, the kind that naturally drew attention. But it wasn't her beauty that caught Peter's eye.
It was her kindness.
With a soft smile, she handed a bottle of water to one of the players—presumably her boyfriend. The boy, around eighteen or nineteen, smiled back with flushed cheeks, wiping sweat from his forehead before accepting the bottle with a thanks.
Peter chuckled faintly, just under his breath.
Peter:
"Innocent love... still exists, huh?"
But then...
His eyes narrowed.
A shadow—twisting behind the calm.
The coach. A man in his late 40s, wearing the whistle around his neck like a leash of control.
Peter noticed the way the coach stared at the girl.
It wasn't admiration.
It wasn't fatherly care.
It was predatory.
Lingering eyes.
Slight lip movements.
A quiet mutter under his breath Peter could read from a mile away.
And Peter's warmth vanished instantly.
His heart slowed.
His vision sharpened.
The air around him shifted—he felt it. That old familiar tension.
Peter (coldly):
"Not in front of my eyes... Motherfucker."
The sky was still glowing, but to Peter, the world had already darkened.
He stayed still.
Watching.
Analyzing.
His mind whirring like a war machine locked in calculation.
This wasn't just about saving a girl.
This was about destroying monsters in disguise.
But he knew—these kinds of demons can't be purged with fists alone.
This one required something more... delicate.
A performance.
A plan that only someone like him could execute.
Peter (whispering to himself):
"Be patient. Watch his steps. One wrong move... and I'll bury him."
The wind blew harder now. The sun dipped lower. The last rays of light brushed the coach's face—revealing something even uglier beneath his smile.
Peter turned, walking away from the field like a ghost drifting from a battlefield he hasn't yet scorched.
But soon...
That smile the girl wore?
Would be gone.
Unless Peter stopped it.
And he would.
No matter what.
The metal clang of bat meeting ball echoed through the field as the evening sun dipped further behind the trees. The baseball team's training was in full swing—cheers, laughter, and determined yells filling the open air.
That is... until a calm, unfamiliar voice cut through the noise.
Peter (from the edge of the field):
"Hey there. Sorry to interrupt... but mind if I take a swing at the next pitch?"
Silence.
Every eye turned toward him.
The players blinked in confusion—some looked at each other, unsure if he was joking. A few chuckled nervously. Peter didn't look like a coach, or a teacher. Hell, he didn't even look like someone who belonged there.
But something in his eyes...
Made them listen.
Peter (with a soft grin):
"It's been a while since I played. Just a few hits. For old times' sake."
Curiosity got the best of them. The team's captain gave a nod, and one of the players handed Peter a metal bat.
He took it in both hands—testing the weight, the balance. His fingers tightened around the grip as he stepped up to the plate.
The sun glinted off his eyes, casting his shadow long and sharp across the field.
Peter (calmly):
"Ready."
The pitcher hesitated... then threw.
CRACK!
The bat connected perfectly. The ball soared through the air like a bullet from a cannon, flying high above the fence, landing somewhere beyond the trees.
Gasps. Whistles. A few jaws hit the dirt.
???:
"Damn..."
???:
"Who is this guy?"
But Peter didn't bask in their awe. He stayed focused. Swing after swing, he nailed every pitch with terrifying precision. Each hit seemed to echo louder than the last, stirring something in the air—like a storm waiting to break.
Then, between hits, Peter glanced at the couple sitting near the dugout—the same boy and girl from earlier, sharing water and laughter. For a moment, there was peace in his gaze...
Until his eyes shifted.
To him.
The coach.
Leaning against the dugout wall, arms crossed, watching the girl. No longer hiding the smirk spreading across his face like oil in water.
Peter's expression dropped.
Something ancient and dangerous flickered behind his eyes.
He lowered one hand from the bat—his stance now casual, one-handed grip like it weighed nothing.
Peter (without turning):
"Throw it."
???:
"Uh... sir? Maybe we shouldn't—"
Peter (firmly):
"I said throw it."
Everyone felt the shift. The weight in Peter's voice silenced the field. The pitcher hesitated... then obeyed.
The ball shot forward.
Peter's eyes locked onto it.
He swung.
THWACK!
The ball screamed through the air—not toward the sky this time, but straight across the field, slicing the wind as it zipped inches from the coach's face, slamming into the dugout wall behind him with a brutal metallic clang.
The sound silenced the entire field. Even the birds stopped.
The coach froze. His smug face drained of color for a moment before he tried to cover it with a nervous chuckle.
Peter didn't even look back.
He adjusted his grip, looked toward the couple again—but they were gone. The girl and the boy had wandered off toward the benches to take a break... or maybe the boy offered help with cleanup.
Peter (softly):
"Well played, guys. Thanks. It brought back some memories..."
He handed the bat back and turned toward the nearest player.
Peter:
"Mind if I use the bathroom real quick?"
The player nodded and pointed him toward a building nearby.
Peter smiled, thanked them... and walked calmly toward the building.
But he wasn't going to the bathroom.
His footsteps were light.
His hands—ready.
And in his mind... a different plan was already unfolding.
Peter's footsteps echoed faintly as he turned away from the baseball field, pretending to head toward the bathroom. The late afternoon glow filtered through the windows, brushing the hallway with amber warmth, but there was a tension in the air that color couldn't mask.
He wasn't looking for a sink.
He was hunting.
And he found them.
The coach stood in the open with his arms crossed, barking out disapproval toward the two students—the same couple Peter had noticed earlier. The boy looked embarrassed, scratching his head awkwardly, while the girl held her hands in front of her, eyes downcast and flustered. They must've gotten caught sneaking out of practice early.
Peter lingered in the corner, silent, watching it unfold like a predator behind the brush.
"Hey! This isn't a love hotel!" the coach scolded, his voice thick with condescension. "If you've got time for flirting, you've got time to run laps!"
The boy apologized with a bow. The girl murmured something Peter couldn't catch.
Then the coach pointed at the boy and raised his voice. "You—go home. Practice is over for you."
But when his eyes shifted to the girl, his tone changed. Lower. Slicker.
"You, stay. Come with me to the P.E. room. We need to have a private talk."
Peter's eyes narrowed.
There was a shift in the air. Something... off.
He waited until the coach and the girl disappeared down the corridor, then approached the boy, who was still standing awkwardly by the wall.
Peter's hand clamped gently but firmly around the kid's arm, and he leaned in close.
"Do what I say," he whispered, his voice low, steady. "Don't leave. Stay around here until I come back."
The boy's eyes widened. He gave a slight nod, unsure whether to feel reassured or terrified.
Peter let go and turned away, vanishing down the same path the coach and the girl had taken.
He moved through the halls like smoke—silent and determined—until he reached the P.E. room. The door was cracked open, just enough for sound to escape.
And what Peter heard made his blood turn to fire.
"I want to talk about your... sexual development," the coach said, his voice oozing with false concern.
There was a short pause.
"Young people like you need proper guidance. Especially with the way emotions run high during competition season."
The girl's voice came out small and uncertain.
"Sexual... guidance?"
Peter leaned against the wall beside the door, fists clenched, the wood beneath his fingertips creaking under the pressure.
"Yes," the coach replied, unfazed by her hesitation. "If we don't control your urges, they'll affect your performance. I've come up with a special routine. Just for you. To keep you... focused."
The words were soaked in filth.
And Peter's fury rose.
The girl took a step back—he could hear it in the scuff of her shoes on the floor.
"No. This is wrong. I'll report you."
A chair scraped against the floor. The coach stood up.
"You'll report me?" he laughed, mocking. "Go ahead. I've got proof of you and your little boyfriend sneaking off earlier. I show that around, and neither of you will see the field again."
Silence.
"I'm the only one giving him play time. Without me, your boy's warming the bench while someone else takes the spotlight."
Peter could feel her fear now. He could practically hear her heart racing through the door.
She wanted to scream.
To run.
To cry.
But she was paralyzed—trapped in a moment that had stolen her power, her voice, her safety.
Inside her mind, she begged for a miracle.
Somebody... save me.
Peter took one step back from the door.
His head lowered, shadow swallowing his eyes.
He had heard enough.
And when he moved again—
it wouldn't be with words.
It would be with fury.
Just as the coach leaned forward, smugness curling on his lips, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
He froze.
With a twitch in his brow, he turned to the girl and hissed, "Don't even think about doing something stupid." His hand hovered near her arm like a threat, but she didn't move.
The door creaked open—
And a fist exploded through the gap, colliding with his face like a freight train. The coach was ripped from his stance and hurled backwards, slamming into the wall with bone-rattling force, dust puffing from the aged plaster.
Before he could even comprehend the pain, Peter stepped inside.
The atmosphere shifted.
All warmth bled from the room.
Peter's eyes weren't just angry—they were something else. Something cold. Ancient. Unforgiving. The scars across his face twisted under the tension in his jaw, and the room pulsed with an unspoken promise:
No one was leaving here untouched.
The girl, wide-eyed and trembling, stared at Peter—confused, terrified. But when his gaze shifted to her, it wasn't filled with rage. It was protective, firm. Without saying a word, he tilted his head toward the door.
Go.
She ran. Not in fear of Peter—but from the room, from the coach, from the nightmare that almost unfolded.
Peter reached back and clicked the lock shut.
The silence was thick.
The coach peeled himself from the wall, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Ohhh... I see now. You're playing the hero." He coughed and laughed weakly. "Should've known. You're the one who tried to hit me with that swing earlier."
He rolled his neck, cracking it once to the side, then tried to pull himself together. "Now what? You gonna play tough guy? Gonna hit me again? C'mon. I box. I'll fucking—"
He didn't finish.
Peter was already in front of him.
One hand shot out like a viper, wrapping around his throat.
The coach's feet left the floor.
He dangled in the air like a ragdoll, clawing at Peter's arm, sputtering as the grip around his neck tightened like a noose.
"R-R-RELEASE ME—" he gasped, but his words came out as cracked gurgles.
Peter's face was motionless. Eyes like two dying stars. Not blinking. Not trembling.
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone.
He pressed play.
The room filled with the coach's own voice.
Every disgusting line.
Every manipulative threat.
Every word drenched in perversion and abuse of power.
Peter didn't flinch.
The coach's eyes widened as he heard himself played back—exposed, recorded, damned.
That was when Peter finally spoke.
Voice low.
Tone like a knife sliding down a tombstone.
"You wanna hear a joke?"
The coach gasped, still struggling.
Peter leaned closer, his breath almost ice against the man's face.
"You... can walk like a normal person."
The words hit harder than the punch.
Because beneath them was a threat so dark, it didn't need to be explained.
The silence afterward was colder than death.
A Friend Named Wheelchair
Time didn't move.
Not for the coach.
Not for the air in the room.
Only Peter moved—with purpose.
He smashed the bastard into the wall again, the drywall cracking beneath the impact. The sound was sickening—like bones snapping inside concrete.
Then came a devastating punch straight to the gut.
WHAM.
The coach's mouth flew open in a silent grunt, all air stolen from his lungs as spittle sprayed from his lips. But Peter didn't wait for him to recover.
BANG! He hurled the man onto a wooden table.
It shattered on impact.
Splinters flew across the room. The man groaned beneath the wreckage, twitching.
Peter released his neck and stepped back—only to grab the man by the leg like dead weight and swing him like trash into the nearest wall.
THUD!
The man crashed into the wall and collapsed.
Peter dashed forward in a blur, and—
CRACK!
A ruthless punch to the face sent the coach's head whipping to the side, his nose exploding in a crimson burst. Blood ran down his lips, and his eyes blurred with shock.
Peter didn't stop.
With no hesitation, he delivered a brutal uppercut. The coach's body lifted from the ground for a split second before slamming back down to his knees, reeling, gasping for breath.
But Peter wasn't finished.
He turned, grabbed the metal chair the bastard had once sat on like a king of dirt... and raised it above his head.
WHAM!
The chair slammed into the man's back. The coach screamed in pain, a wild, broken cry that bounced off the walls—yet no one came.
The field was empty.
Practice had ended.
There would be no witnesses.
Peter's eyes burned like fire and death merged together.
He lifted the chair again—fury in his bones.
The coach tried to shield his head.
Too late.
CRACK!!
The chair smashed into the back of his skull.
The man collapsed forward, blood smearing the floor as he groaned. But Peter didn't stop.
He lifted the chair one final time.
His body shook, every muscle in his frame clenched with rage. His teeth gritted like an animal on the edge of a kill.
"AUGHHHHHHH!!!"
His roar shook the room.
CRASH!!
The chair came down like an executioner's axe—and exploded into pieces over the coach's head.
Wood scattered like shrapnel.
The coach lay there—whimpering, bloodied, barely moving.
But Peter crouched down, grabbed the bastard by the hair, and leaned close. His breath icy against the man's ear.
His voice dropped, colder than the void.
"Hope you enjoy your life... with a friend named wheelchair."
And then—without warning—
WHACK.
He drove a single punch into the back of the neck with pinpoint force.
Silence.
For the coach, time stopped.
His limbs twitched once.
Then nothing.
Peter let the man fall. His body hit the floor like a lifeless doll—spine shattered, nerves dead.
There was no need for more.
The monster had been broken.
Permanently.
The Monster You Saw That Night
Peter stood in the shattered room—debris, blood, and silence all around.
The air was thick. Heavy. Like time itself was afraid to move.
He turned to leave, his boots crunching over the broken remains of the chair. But just before reaching the door...
He stopped.
Still.
Motionless.
His shoulders tense.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes—still glowing with fury—stared forward, but not at the room.
At something else.
Or someone.
And then, in a voice that cut through the silence like a blade wrapped in shadow, he spoke. To the air. To a presence. Or maybe... to himself.
Peter:
"Yes... I still am the same monster you saw that night." A low, bitter laugh followed—dry, angry, almost trembling
"And you... you were my first prey."
His breath fogged in the room, even though it wasn't cold.
He stood there, hands clenched, teeth grinding.
"So let me give you a little advice—"he hissed, rage biting every syllable
"Don't ever stand in front of me again...
if you don't wanna see that same 'guy' from that night."
No more words.
No explanations.
Peter turned and walked away—never glancing back.
The door creaked open... and then slammed shut.
Silence.
But the room... it was no longer just broken.
The place felt... wrong.
Like something had been left behind.
Like someone else had been here all along.
The camera would slowly pan across the wreckage—blood on the floor, shattered chair legs, the coach's twitching, paralyzed body.
And then... the wall.
Written in blood.
Dripping.
Smeared in jagged, furious strokes.
"You are an unchangeable monster.
Always a killer.
A failure."
A chill passed through the room. Something unnatural. Something old.
Someone else had been there.
Watching.
Listening.
Mocking.
And Peter knew it.
But who was he talking to?
Who wrote that message...?
And what the hell happened on that night?
To Be Continue...