Sebastian Ashford — 17 years old
Location: The backroom of a bar in Brixton, England
Time: 2:14 a.m.
The man had touched Sky.
Not in front of me. He wasn't that stupid.
But he got close. Too close. Told the bartender he liked "girls with big eyes," even babies. Took a photo.
I tracked him for a week. He worked for a mid-level gang—low on the food chain, but enough dirt on his hands to justify what I'm about to do.
The room smells like cheap gin and spilled sweat. He's alone, drunk, humming something tuneless while counting cash with greasy fingers. He doesn't see me step out from the shadows.
"I know what you did," I say.
He startles, squints. "Who the hell—?"
I don't wait.
The glass bottle in my hand shatters against his jaw with a sickening crunch. He stumbles, bleeds, cries out. Tries to pull a knife.
Too slow.
I slam his head into the table. Once. Twice. Again.
He gasps, "I didn't touch her, I swear—"
"You thought about it."
Silence, except his gurgling breaths.
"You looked at my daughter like she was a thing."
I press the broken bottle to his throat.
"And I told myself I wasn't going to do this."
His eyes widen. "Please—"
"But she cried that night. She clung to me. Like she knew."
He tries to crawl. I pull him back.
Sky was nine months old. Teething. Smiling. And for the first time since Rain walked out, I'd thought: maybe we were safe.
I jam the glass into his neck.
It's fast. Efficient. Not clean, but I don't flinch.
When it's done, I wipe my hands, take the burner phone from his coat, delete the photo. Toss it in the fire barrel outside.
The walk home is silent.
Sky's sleeping when I get there, arms stretched above her head like she owns the sky.
I kneel beside her cot, bloody knuckles stinging. And I whisper:
"No one touches you. Not while I'm alive."
And I mean it.
Because tonight, something changed.
I crossed a line.
And I didn't feel guilt.
Only relief.