MORTICIA

MORTICIA

‎The rain-soaked streets of New York City gleamed like black glass, reflecting neon lights that flickered across the night. It looked like any other evening—but something about the shadows felt… alive.

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‎In a city that never slept, one woman awakened.

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‎Detective Morticia Ava Wraddamas, also known in certain whispers as Morticia Addams Windsor, had already left the Metropolitan Police Department hours ago. By day, she was calm, brilliant, and relentless—a detective with one of the highest solve rates in the precinct.

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‎But at night… she became something else.

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‎Inside her high-rise apartment in Manhattan, Morticia stood in silence. The city hummed outside her window, distant sirens echoing like a warning.

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‎She removed her suit, revealing a body shaped by discipline and years of training. From her shoulder holster, she checked her 9mm Glock 19—familiar, reliable. Then came the transformation.

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‎Black leather. Fitted jacket. Silent movement.

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‎And finally—the mask.

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‎White, cold, and marked with intricate designs. It hid her face, but more than that—it erased her identity.

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‎She was no longer a detective.

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‎She was judgment.

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‎Her eyes moved to a small leather-bound book resting on her dresser.

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‎Names filled its pages.

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‎Criminals. Murderers. Liars. People who had escaped justice—protected by money, power, or fear.

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‎Each name was a failure of the system she served.

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‎And each one… she corrected.

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‎Tonight’s name: Victor LaGraine.

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‎A wealthy businessman. Charming. Powerful.

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‎A murderer.

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‎He had been acquitted—the court calling the evidence “insufficient.” But Morticia knew better. She had seen the truth in broken witnesses and heard it in quiet street whispers.

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‎The law had failed.

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‎She would not.

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‎With a quiet breath, Morticia Wraddamas disappeared.

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‎And something far more dangerous took her place.

‎The city blurred as she moved through it—silent, precise, unseen.

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‎Her destination: a penthouse overlooking Central Park.

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‎Inside, Victor LaGraine was celebrating his freedom.

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‎Music. Laughter. Wealth.

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‎Ignorance.

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‎Morticia studied the building from below, her sharp eyes noting every camera, every guard, every blind spot. She had memorized it all weeks ago.

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‎There were no surprises tonight.

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‎Only execution.

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‎She slipped into a nearby alley and launched her grappling hook. The cable tightened, pulling her upward with effortless grace. Moments later, she landed silently on the balcony.

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‎She paused.

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‎Listened.

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‎Then moved.

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‎Inside, the party was alive—guests laughing, glasses clinking, music pulsing through the room. Morticia stayed in the shadows, watching.

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‎And then she saw him.

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‎Victor LaGraine stood near the bar, smiling, carefree, a glass of champagne in hand.

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‎Untouchable.

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‎Her eyes narrowed.

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‎Not tonight.

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‎A waiter approached him with a tray of drinks.

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‎Perfect.

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‎Morticia moved like a ghost.

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‎In one swift motion, she grabbed the waiter’s wrist and switched the glass. The man froze, fear flooding his eyes.

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‎“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered.

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‎He nodded quickly.

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‎Seconds later, the poisoned glass was in LaGraine’s hand.

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‎Morticia stepped back into the shadows, watching.

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‎Waiting.

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‎He drank.

‎Minutes passed.

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‎Then—

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‎LaGraine staggered.

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‎The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

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‎Gasps echoed through the room.

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‎Morticia blended into the chaos, her voice low and commanding as she passed the waiter again.

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‎“Get him to the study.”

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‎The man obeyed without hesitation.

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‎When LaGraine woke, everything had changed.

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‎Darkness.

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‎Silence.

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‎And ropes binding him to a chair.

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‎His breathing quickened as his eyes adjusted.

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‎Then he saw her.

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‎Morticia stood before him, her white mask glowing faintly in the dim light.

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‎“You’ve had time to reflect,” she said calmly.

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‎His voice trembled. “W-what is this?”

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‎She stepped closer.

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‎“You used your power to hurt people. To escape consequences.” Her voice was steady, almost cold. “Tonight, that ends.”

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‎Fear overtook him.

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‎“You’re making a mistake,” he stammered. “I have connections—powerful people—”

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‎She laughed softly.

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‎Cold. Empty.

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‎“Your power doesn’t exist here.”

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‎Silence filled the room.

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‎Then she moved.

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‎A small blade flashed in her hand, catching the light.

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‎“Justice isn’t just punishment,” she said. “It’s balance.”

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‎LaGraine struggled, panic rising. But it was useless.

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‎He was alone.

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‎And he knew it.

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‎Morticia raised her hand slowly.

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‎Her fingers snapped.

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‎The sound cracked through the air.

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‎LaGraine’s body jerked violently.

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‎A precise wound bloomed on his chest, blood spreading across his shirt like dark ink. His eyes widened—then dimmed.

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‎His body fell still.

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‎Dead.

‎The room returned to silence.

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‎Only the faint hum of air conditioning remained.

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‎Morticia stared at him for a moment, her expression hidden behind the mask.

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‎“Justice has been served,” she whispered.

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‎Then she turned.

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‎And vanished into the shadows.

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‎Outside, the city continued as if nothing had happened.

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‎Lights. Noise. Life.

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‎But somewhere in the darkness…

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‎Justice was watching.

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‎And it was merciless.

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