PROLUGUE
It happens faster than I expect.
There’s a sharp intake of breath—more surprise than pain—and then a weight against my hands. The room fills with a sound that shouldn’t exist, something between a gasp and a plea. I step back instinctively, not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve learned that one need space to observe the result of your decisions.
“Please don't do this,” they whisper.
I don’t answer.
This is bad.
Not because it’s wrong. Not because I regret it. But because mistakes leave evidence, and evidence is inconvenient. My eyes move around the room automatically, cataloguing details the way I’ve trained myself to. The overturned chair. The shattered glass near the table. The dark splatter against the wall that will take effort to remove.
Cleaning will take time.
I look back down.
They’re still there. Still breathing. Barely.
They shouldn’t have said that. They shouldn’t have threatened me. And most of all, they shouldn’t have broken my heart—or whatever was left of it. People assume hearts are fragile things, easily shattered. They’re wrong. Hearts are resilient. What breaks easily is trust.
I crouch, close enough now for them to see my face clearly. Their eyes search mine, desperate for something—mercy, recognition, an explanation. I offer none of it.
“You know what they say,” I murmur, almost thoughtfully. “Don’t get involved in something you can’t defend yourself against.”
Their brows knit together faintly, confusion cutting through the fear.
“Nobody says that,” I add quietly. “I made it up.”
I stand again, brushing imaginary dust from my hands. I make up a lot of things. Rules. Boundaries. Justifications. Stories that make sense of what I do. Nobody knows that—not really. People see what they want to see. They believe what feels safe.
The one person who ever figured it out won’t be able to tell anyone.
And anyone else who comes close… well. They’ll learn. I'll make them learn .
I move toward the sink, turning on the tap, watching the water run clear before it stains. My reflection stares back at me from the darkened window—unremarkable, composed, calm. This is who I am when things finally make sense.
Behind me, the sound fades. The room grows quieter.
Control isn’t about force. It’s about timing. About understanding exactly how much pressure to apply before something gives. People think villains are reckless, impulsive, driven by chaos. They’re wrong. Villains are precise. They decide when stories begin and when they end.
Victims don’t get that choice.
I shut off the tap and take one last look at the room, mentally noting down changes that needed to be put back in place. So that it won’t raise questions too soon.
Because this isn’t the end. It’s barely the beginning.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
You should always know your enemy.
