The arrest warrant was signed just after dusk.
A dozen officers had been dispatched, boots hitting the pavement in synchronized fury. They were closing in on Jack's home, on the shop that had once been the warmest place I knew.
But they wouldn't be the ones to find him.
That honor belonged to me.
He was inside, sweeping hair from the tiled floor, humming an old jazz tune through his teeth. The shop glowed in warm yellows and oranges, its soft lighting and flower-scented air at odds with the storm I had unleashed.
He looked up and saw me through the window.
And just like that, the light in his eyes shattered.
He rushed outside into the street, panic unraveling his movements.
"Roger!" he cried, hands raised, palms open. "Thank God. You know I didn't do this."
His voice was shaking.
His eyes were already pleading.
"You were with me. You can tell them—I wasn't near those places, I couldn't have been! I never—"
He was breaking right in front of me.
And it was beautiful.
I stood silent, letting him unravel.
"You have to believe me. You know me," he whispered.
I did.
Better than he ever knew.
"You're right," I said calmly. "I do know you."
He stilled. Hope flickered across his face like a dying candle.
I stepped closer.
"I know you didn't do it."
Relief flooded him. His breath escaped in a laugh. "Then you can tell them—"
"I can't," I interrupted.
"Why not?"
"Because I made it all point to you."
He blinked.
"…what?"
"I planted the box. Falsified the records. Rewrote the statements. It's all mine, Jack. Every piece. Every crime. Every woman. Every scream."
He backed away, horrified.
"No… no, that's not possible," he breathed.
I stepped forward again.
"You should have never had her."
His lips parted.
"You—what?"
"You took everything, Jack. Anna. The shop. The joy. You floated through life, smiling while I drowned in silence. And you never even noticed."
"Roger… we were friends…"
I laughed.
"Were we?"
His horror turned to desperation.
"I can fix this," he said. "I can forgive you. I'll say nothing. Just… come with me, we'll talk—"
"Stop."
He went quiet.
"This isn't something you walk away from," I said, voice like ice. "This is retribution. And you were always going to pay for what you stole."
"I didn't steal anything from you!" he shouted. "I loved you like a brother!"
I took another step.
"And I loved you like a god."
He lunged.
Desperation twisted his body, and he grabbed a silver blade from the shop—a straight razor used for clean shaves. It flashed in the lamplight, and before I could react, it cut deep across my face.
My right eye exploded with pain.
Blood poured down my cheek.
I fell, gasping, vision split in two—half real, half red.
And I smiled through the agony.
"You always had a gentle hand," I whispered, rising to my feet, "but now you've ruined it."
He tried to run.
But I caught him.
I threw him against the brick wall of his own shop. The same wall where he'd once leaned while smoking and joking with customers. His head hit with a sickening thud. He sagged—but I wasn't done.
I grabbed his collar, lifted him to his feet.
"Look at me."
He did.
There were tears in his eyes.
Real ones.
"Please…" he whispered.
I tightened my grip.
And squeezed.
His body thrashed. His hands clawed at mine. I could hear the sharp, wet sounds of his throat collapsing beneath my fingers. His feet kicked against the wall.
His mouth formed my name again.
"Ro—"
I didn't let him finish.
And when he finally went still, I didn't let go right away.
I held on.
Long enough to make sure he knew it wasn't a mistake.
That this was always going to happen.
That it had been fated.
When I let him fall, his body crumpled into a heap on the stone.
I looked down at him.
His blue eyes, now empty.
Still beautiful.
Still mine.
For a moment, the street was utterly silent.
And then, far in the distance, I heard sirens.
But I didn't move.
I stood there, bloodied, blinded, victorious.
And for the first time in my life…
I felt seen.