Chapter 1

Six months ago, my son Ethan, who was preparing for his high school graduation and SATs, was brutally bullied at school. They threw him off the school rooftop. His body was covered in horrific wounds.

The school claimed it was a suicide. Before we could even get an independent autopsy, the local authorities rushed his body to be cremated, claiming it was standard procedure.

I knew who those kids were. They all came from wealthy, powerful families, so the school district refused to hold them accountable.

People online even said it was my son’s fault. They said he was book-smart but socially awkward, that he couldn't handle pressure. They blamed him for his own death.

I had been a trauma surgeon for twenty years. I saved countless lives. They used to call me an angel in a white coat.

But from the moment I saw my son’s cold, bruised body, I decided to become a demon.

One night, under the cover of darkness, I wore a black tactical jacket and slipped into Tyler Sterling’s house.

He was one of the monsters who bullied my son. His father, Robert, was a high-ranking executive at a major local pharmaceutical company, always out late drinking with clients.

Tyler was the star of the school basketball team. Tall, athletic, and popular with girls. He was the polar opposite of my nerdy son, Ethan.

They should have lived in different worlds. But in the two months leading up to his death, Ethan was subjected to Tyler's living hell.

Someone told me Tyler had kicked Ethan to the ground and urinated on his head.

And now, this monster was fast asleep in his warm, comfortable bed, while my son's ashes were buried cold in the ground.

I clenched my fists, my breathing growing heavy. My face must have looked terrifying.

I pulled out a chloroform-soaked gauze and pressed it tightly over his nose and mouth.

He struggled weakly for a second before slipping into a deep sleep.

I wasn't going to let him off that easily.

I used IV tubing to tie his hands and feet securely to the bedpost.

Then, I crept into the master bedroom. His mother, Cheryl, was lying in bed with a face mask on, scrolling through TikTok.

She didn't look up, probably thinking it was her husband coming home late.

“Home so late? You might as well have slept at whatever whore's house you were visiting,” she muttered.

It was only when I pressed the chloroform rag over her face that she realized something was horribly wrong.

She thrashed wildly, but she was no match for a grown man fueled by pure vengeance. She blacked out soon after.

I tied her up as well and dragged both mother and son into the living room.

Five minutes later, they both woke up. As a surgeon, my dosage of anesthetics is always precise.

Cheryl opened her eyes, saw her son tied up across from her, and panicked. She thrashed against her restraints, but it was useless.

When she looked up and saw my face, her eyes filled with absolute terror.

We actually knew each other. We met back when she was still a pharmaceutical sales rep.

Later, she married Robert Sterling, quit her job, and gave birth to Tyler.

She had used her connection with me to skip the line at the hospital when Tyler was sick.

Ethan was with me that day. I remember how he shrank back, looking terrified of Tyler.

Back then, I never could have imagined that one teenager could do something so monstrous to another.

Every time I recalled that day—recalling my son's innocent, sweet face—rage would boil in my chest, tearing me apart.

I pulled out a surgical hammer. I began tapping Tyler's body, targeting very specific, painful areas.

Even though I had only gotten a fleeting glance at Ethan's body, every single bruise and scar was permanently burned into my memory.

I was just returning the favor.

Then, I delivered a heavy blow to Tyler’s throat. His airway collapsed instantly. Blood began leaking from the corner of his mouth as he suffocated.

Cheryl watched her only son die right in front of her.

I knew she wasn't innocent. She knew exactly what her son was doing, but she chose to enable it.

Since she raised a monster, I made her watch him die.

Cheryl’s mouth was gagged, but I could read the curse in her eyes.

She was probably cursing me to rot in hell.

But for a father who had already lost his son, I was already living in hell.

I didn't torture Cheryl. I simply took a scalpel and slit her throat clean.

Then, I sat on the sofa, turned off all the lights, and waited quietly for Robert to come home.

At 2:00 AM, the heavy stench of alcohol preceded him. Robert was back.

Drunk and slurring, he yelled:

“Where the hell is everyone? I'm home! Someone get my slippers!”

He fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

The sudden glare forced his eyes shut for a second. When he opened them, he let out a blood-curdling shriek.

He saw the bodies of Cheryl and Tyler. The shock sobered him instantly.

He spun around to run, but I was faster. With one swift slice of my scalpel, I severed the tendons in his wrists. His hands went limp, blood soaking down his white shirt.

“Bro, look,” he whimpered, shaking with fear. “If it's money, take it all. Just don't kill me. I have credit cards, cash. I'll give you the PINs.”

But the moment he saw my face, the words died in his throat.

He knew exactly why I was here.

Still, the desperation to live overcame his fear. He dropped to his knees, begging.

“Please, man. Your boy is already gone. I'll give you everything I have. I won't call the cops. Just let me go.”

I remembered seeing him at the hospital once. He was dressed in a sharp suit, arrogant and demanding.

Tyler had beaten someone up, and Robert had brought the victim in, throwing cash around as if money could erase any crime.

Like father, like son.

Robert was responsible for at least half of Tyler's sins.

Seeing me step closer, he realized there was no mercy. He scrambled up and tried to run.

But the blood loss had already drained his strength. Within three steps, I caught up to him.

I plunged the scalpel straight into his heart. He slumped to the floor like a rag doll.

I turned and walked out of the blood-splattered house.