The Perfect Revenge
His shirt was streaked with blood and soot, his face pale, but his eyes softened when they landed on me.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“I can’t.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood beside me until my heartbeat slowed enough to let me walk.
Together, we stepped out into the night.
The survivors had built a fire in the courtyard where the safe house walls had collapsed. Not a blaze, not destruction—just warmth. Around it, faces were lit by the glow: scarred, hollow, tired, but alive.
They were the ones who had ended Carl. Their hands had dragged him down, their fury had closed the chapter we never could.
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