Chapter One: The List.
Jason Ruthmore had broken into a high-security compound, fought mercenaries in back alleys and jungles, and once escaped an underground cartel bunker using nothing but his mind... and maybe something like a spoon. None of that could have prepared him for battling the beige of silence of a psychologist's waiting room.
He was an agent of a top security agency in the government until they turned their back on him. His whole family was murdered; he gave his whole life, and the government can't even catch Damien Mercer for what he has done to his family... his mother, father, and his sisters with their families. His grandma and aunts... each targeted at their homes... were killed without mercy.
A drooping plant judged him from the corner. A "Hang in there" sign mocked him from the wall, and the receptionist kept on eyeing him from her booth, like she somehow knew he wasn't here for therapy. She is making him nervous.
Jason tapped his foot in an uneven rhythm... three fast taps and one slow. He caught himself and forced his boot flat to the floor.
Calm down, Jason; you're slipping. He reached into his jacket, his thumb brushing the worn edges of a folder thick with stolen medical files. His files. His real work. The reason he was even here at all.
The list.
Not a government list.
Not an FBI list.
Not even a list that should legally exist.
This one was built under the tables, behind closed doors, compiled by interns too underpaid to ask questions and psychologists too naive to imagine the world Jason lived in.
A list of confirmed psychopaths... dangerous, unhinged, untreated, and unnoticed by the law because they hadn't yet done something headline-worthy before or someone had hidden their previous murders under the state rug.
And one name on this list is responsible for destroying Jason's life. One name at the top. The one that is the worst of them all.
Damien Mercer.
Jason had once believed that if he could just track Damien Mercer down, everything would fall into place. His revenge. His closure and maybe even the ability to sleep for more than three hours without seeing flashes of blood on linoleum tiles.
But Damien Mercer didn't move alone. He collected his own army of psychopaths. He is building an army of monsters
To beat Damien Mercer, Jason needed one of his own monsters. A perfect psychopathic monster. One he would train, sharpen, and direct like his own weapon. Someone capable of matching Damien's creations blow for blow.
And today... he might have found her. A soft sound pulled him from his spiraling thought. The receptionist stood up and smoothed her cardigan.
"Mr. Ruthmore, Dr. Morgan will see you now."
Jason followed her down a narrow hall and into an office decorated with framed quotes on the walls.
Dr. Morgan, early forties, soft voice, brittle smile... extended a hand.
"Jason, good to see you again. How are you feeling this week?"
"Tired," Jason said.
"Still insomnia?"
Jason nodded and offered the appropriate broken-man half-smile. He'd spent months building the role of the traumatized, grieving older brother needing unofficial therapy sessions. It kept the doctor sympathetic... and kept Jason close to the files he needed.
Dr. Morgan studied him for a long moment, then sighed sympathetically.
"Do you want to talk about your dreams again?"
Jason thinks, "Not really," but he says, "Sure, let's talk."
Five minutes of meaningless small talk later, Jason leaned back in his chair and rested his gaze on the filing cabinet beside Morgan's desk. The doctor noticed.
Morgan cleared his throat. "Jason... you've been glancing towards that cabinet every session."
Jason blinked slowly, feigning confusion. "Oh? Sorry. My mind wanders with the lack of sleep."
Morgan folded his hands, his index fingers touching. "Last time you were here, a few files went missing from that cabinet."
Jason's heart beat once... hard, and then steadied again.
Sorry, but I did not take the files; my mind is off with the insomnia, Doctor.”
Morgan continued, “Nothing confidential. But I do worry that you may be... seeking information that isn’t helpful for your recovery.”
“Doctor,” Jason said gently, “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my progress.”
Morgan looked tired. “I believe that you’ve been searching for meaning or control in places that cannot give you either; you could be hurting yourself.”
Control.
If only Morgan knew.
Jason nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’ll be more careful.”
The doctor smiled, relieved, and that, of course, was when a muffled thump sounded outside the office door.
Both men paused.
Another thump.
Then a hurried whisper: "Oh-crap-uh, sorry!"
Morgan sighed with rolled eyes. “That’s my intern. She's… is new.”
Jason stood. “Bathroom?”
Morgan waved toward the hall. “Second door on the left.”
Jason stepped outside and found the intern kneeling beside a toppled stack of patient files. Papers were everywhere; he felt sorry for her with that horror on her face. But he is glad he is not the one going to fix all those files.
“Oh no no no,” she whispered, frantically grabbing sheets. “If Dr. Morgan sees this, he’ll kill me.”
Jason crouched beside her. “Here, let me help you.”
She blushed. “Thank you! Sorry, I’m a disaster. This is only my third day.”
“Rough start?”
“You have NO idea." She handed him a pile. “Don’t look at those, please; it’s confidential.”
He handed her the stack back, intentionally mixing in the one he needed... the thick one with a name scribbled in sharp black ink.
Maren, Elena J.
He didn’t look directly at it. Didn’t break the conversation. Didn’t do anything that would make her suspicious of him.
He simply handed over the mixed stack, patted the top sheet, and stood up.
“Good luck,” he said warmly, with a smile that flattered her heart... She smiled back. “Thanks.”
Jason returned to Morgan’s office.
Three minutes later, the intern burst in, panicked. “Doctor, uh, I think I misfiled some...”
Morgan raised a calming hand. “Take a breath... We’ll sort it out after the last patient.”
Jason listened politely.
Inside his jacket, now tucked against his ribs, was Elena’s file.
He left the clinic ten minutes later with another appointment scheduled, and the doctor was none the wiser.
Outside, evening had pulled itself over the city like a heavy, dark cloak. The streetlights flickered on. Traffic hummed, and Jason walked until he reached the abandoned laundromat he used as a temporary base.
He locked the door behind him, dropped his bag, pulled up a broken rolling chair, and clicked on a single flickering fluorescent light.
Dust floated like sad confetti.
Jason opened the file.
Elena Maren. Age: 23. No fixed address. Possible history of foster care. No stable employment. Multiple psychological evaluations over the past four years.
Diagnosis: Primary psychopathy. Factor 1- dominant.
High intelligence. High charm. High impulsivity. High thrill-seeking. Capable of masking emotion extremely effectively. Violent ideation. Recommendation: Continued observation.
Jason flipped through more pages, reading quickly:
-Two incidents in school: one student was injured, and the fingers of another student were almost cut off.
-No arrests.
-A string of jobs she held briefly: receptionist, barista, club promoter, nanny. (That one was concerning.)
-Last therapy notes:
“Patient reports feeling nothing about interpersonal connections. Displays unusual fixation on fear responses.
Expresses fascination with the idea of moral training.”
Jason frowned.
Moral training.
That was... interesting.
He paused on the picture clipped to the file.
Blonde hair past the shoulders. Blue eyes, bright and deceptively soft. A slight smile that sat halfway between innocent and predatory.
She looked like someone you’d trust instantly.
She looked like someone who could kill you while making it look like an accident.
Jason studied the picture longer than necessary.
If he shaped her... sharpened her... she could be perfect.
The perfect weapon.
The perfect counter to the architect and his creations, his soldiers... that is what Damien Mercer named himself.
The perfect key to the answers he needed.
He whispered, "You do."
A creaking groan from above made him glance at the ceiling. Rats scavenged through the broken vents. One hissed at him.
"Join the fan club," Jason muttered.
He turned back to the file and read the last page... An emergency note from Elena's last psychologist.
"Patient expressed interest in watching me sleep. Unclear if this is literal or metaphorical. Transferring patient to colleague for safety."
Jason rubbed his face. "Fantastic."
He checked the timestamp on the last note.
Three weeks ago.
Which meant she was nearby. Still in the city somewhere. Still active and still... hunting.
Jason pushed away from the table and stood up. Time to move... time to find her.
He grabbed his bag, stuffed the file inside, holstered his concealed weapon, checked his knife, and stepped outside into the thick, humid night.
The city’s neon lights reflected in shallow puddles. A siren wailed somewhere far away. Music thumped from a nearby club. Life here was loud, chaotic, and violent.
Perfect for monsters.
Jason walked with purpose through crowded sidewalks, scanning faces, watching reflections in windows, listening for whispers or footsteps that didn’t match the rhythm of the street.
But he didn’t see her.
Not yet.
He made his way toward Westview Station... the last location tagged in her file.
The closer he got, the stranger the atmosphere felt.
Quieter.
Heavier.
He descended the stairs to the platform.
A lone maintenance worker swept the floor. A homeless man slept on a bench. A bored teenage couple argued about whose turn it was to pay for snacks.
Jason waited.
He scanned every reflection in the glass. Every shadow in the corners.
He felt watched.
Good.
That meant he was getting close.
Across the tracks, a figure stepped out from behind a pillar.
Female. Slim. Blonde hair catching the flickering lights.
Jason’s pulse picked up.
She stepped forward until she was directly across from him.
Then she smiled.
A perfect, bright smile.
As the train thundered into the station between them, drowning out the noise of the world, Jason knew:
He had found Elena Maren.
Or rather…
She had found him.
The train slowed and screeched to a stop.
Doors were opened.
People shuffled in and out.
Jason waited... he held his breath.
The train moved again... pulled away.
Elena stood on his side now.
Five feet away.
Calm and amused.
Blue eyes locked onto his.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “You’re late.”
Jason blinked. “For what?”
She tilted her head in that birdlike, unsettling way. “For finding me... I expected you sooner.”
Jason tried to step back subtly.
Elena stepped forward with the same subtlety.
“You’ve been tailing me for three blocks,” she murmured. “You’re good... But not good enough.”
Jason exhaled. “You noticed.”
“You smell like purpose,” she said. “It’s loud.”
He swallowed. “I want to talk.”
“Everyone wants to talk.” She stepped closer. “Almost no one wants to bleed.” She smiled sweetly. “Which one are you?”
Jason reached into his bag and pulled out her file.
She looked down at it… and her expression lit up like someone had brought her a birthday cake.
“Ohhh, my greatest hits!” she chirped. “Which picture did they use? The one with the curls or... ooh, the messy waves? That one makes me look mysterious.”
Jason didn’t smile. “You’re on the list."
Her eyes glittered with something darker. “Am I a favorite?”
“Yes.”
She looked pleased. “I thought so.”
Jason inhaled deeply. “I want to train you.”
She blinked once, then twice, with her eyebrow arching up.
Then she started laughing... a bright, musical, utterly wrong sound echoing through the empty tunnel.
“Train me to do what?” she asked once she calmed down. “Ballet? Knife juggling? Pilates?”
Jason kept his voice steady. “To be the perfect killer.”
Her smile froze.
Not fear... Nor shocked.
But interesting.
She stepped close enough that he could smell her perfume... sweet, floral, almost innocent.
“You don’t even know what perfect means,” she whispers.
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
She studied him like a scientist analyzing a specimen. Then she leaned back and nodded, as if coming to a private conclusion.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “I’ll play.”
Jason swallowed. “Play?”
“You train me…” She grinned. “…and I get to see what kind of monster you become.”
Jason steadied his breathing. “We’ll start with discipline, tactics...”
She pressed a finger to his lips.
“Shh.”
Jason froze.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief and threat. “You don’t get to start yet.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she whispered, leaning in... too close... “you still haven’t told me…”
Her lips curled upward, sharp and dangerous.
“…who we kill first.”
Jason felt the world narrow into a single point between them.
And he realized something he hadn’t expected to feel on the hunt for a psychopath:
He wasn’t just afraid of her.
He was captivated.
Too captivated.
Elena stepped back, smiling brightly.
“Well? I’m excited,” she said. “Let’s go meet the rest of my monsters.”
Jason breathed in once.
Then...
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s begin.”
