On the streets of Edmonton, they had called him the Wraith. Now, he was just another prisoner—a number stitched on a faded orange jumpsuit, held in a penitentiary buried deep in the wilderness of the Canadian Shield. The Wraith was a lean, athletic man, his black hair streaked with a shock of silver white. His eyes, red-ringed irises against black sclera, hinted at something otherworldly—an effect of the powers that had once defined him. Powers now rendered useless by the steel collar fastened around his neck, flickering lights on the matching cuffs and manacles a constant reminder of his captivity. These disruptors caused a dissonance in his body, making him unable to focus enough to access his abilities.

The Wraith could alter his density—make his body intangible, his clothes and small objects shifting to ghost-like form. Or he could do the opposite, become heavy and dense, as solid as steel. In Edmonton, he had used that power to hunt the city's worst killers, phasing a blade through armor only to make it solid at the exact moment it touched flesh. Nothing stopped him—no armor, no super-durable skin enhanced by the drug Chem-Xtra. Even ranged weapons, wielded in the same way, obeyed his will. He had perfected the art of taking lives without leaving a mark until the very end.

He could be light enough to walk on air, silent as a feather, or dense enough to be immovable, bullets bouncing harmlessly off his skin. These powers had allowed him to strike out against the murderers who stained Edmonton red—a city plagued by violence, a haven for the worst psychopaths in Canada. The Wraith vowed to rid his city of every last one of them, until he was the only killer left. To the RCMP, he was just another madman, a rogue vigilante, but that didn’t matter. When his mission was done, the ends would justify the means.

Now he was here, behind bars, because of a single mistake—a misstep that had allowed an RCMP containment team to hit him with a ray that mirrored the tech of his restraints. The trial had been swift, decisive, and now he was caged with the very men he had fought to purge from Edmonton’s streets.

His time in the penitentiary had not been without incident. Once, they had shanked him, leaving him bleeding on the concrete floor. Other times, he had been beaten, ambushed by groups of vengeful inmates. He might not have survived if it hadn’t been for Benny, the guard who had saved his life more than once. Benny had whispered to him one day, "A real hero like you doesn't deserve to be here." And the Wraith had thought, in that fleeting moment, that perhaps Benny was a decent guy—someone who saw more than just a killer.

***

The lunchroom of the penitentiary was bleak—steel tables bolted to the floor, worn benches that wobbled, and an atmosphere as cold and uninviting as the concrete walls. The Wraith sat silently at one of the tables, his tray of food untouched. The hum of the disruptor collar and cuffs was ever-present, a reminder of the power he no longer wielded, the abilities that had once made him untouchable.

His red-ringed eyes scanned the room. To most, the other inmates were just nameless bodies in orange jumpsuits, but to the Wraith, they were a catalog of sins—a list of ruined lives and spilled blood. Each face was marked in his memory, attached to crimes that could not be forgiven.

Two tables away sat Mark "Two-Fingers" Gallo, a petty thief who’d lost two of his digits in a botched robbery. Gallo was inconsequential—a small-timer. Beside him was Bobby “The Worm” White, a weasel-faced smuggler whose crimes had never involved taking lives. The Wraith barely registered them; they were beneath his notice.

But others drew his attention, their names and faces etched into his mind with burning clarity. Gerry "Red" Hannigan, a hulking brute with a crude bleeding heart tattoo on his forearm, sat across the room. He was serving time for multiple counts of manslaughter—bar fights that had turned deadly, leaving too many bodies in his wake. Red laughed, slapping the back of another inmate, his eyes betraying the delight he took in violence.

And then there was Lenny "The Butcher" Davis, sitting just a few seats away from Red. Davis’s string of grisly murders had shocked the city, his victims’ lives taken without reason or remorse. For a moment, Davis's cold, dead eyes met the Wraith's, a flicker of recognition passing between them. He smirked—a smile that promised violence. The Wraith’s fingers twitched, an old habit from when he could have ended Davis with a single, well-placed strike. But now, he could do nothing but watch.

At the far end of the room sat Victor "The Snake" Malory, a scar running down his face—a reminder of his last victim’s desperate struggle. Malory had strangled a girl in her own home, a crime that haunted the Wraith every time he closed his eyes. He remembered finding her body, her life stolen away by a man who believed she would be forgotten. But the Wraith remembered. He always remembered.

Hatred simmered quietly within him—a cold, controlled fire. He had hunted men like these, removed them from the world one by one, and now he was forced to share their space, to breathe the same air, to eat in the same room as the very filth he had vowed to eliminate.

They had tried to break him, to make him one of them, but he was nothing like these monsters. He had a purpose—a mission that extended beyond survival. He wasn't merely a killer; he was a weapon, a force of justice. And even here, even without his powers, he was waiting. Biding his time. When the moment came, he would resume his work.

Red Hannigan’s loud laughter broke his reverie. The Wraith turned to see Hannigan joking, slapping an inmate on the back. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he imagined what he would do to Hannigan if his powers were still his.

He turned his gaze to Lenny Davis. The Butcher. The worst of them all. Davis had taken lives for the sheer thrill of it. His victims had been prostitutes—women society often ignored. But the Wraith had not ignored them. He remembered every bloodstain, every life taken by Davis. The Butcher had been the first name on his list—the first that needed to be crossed off.

The Wraith’s stare bored into Lenny "The Butcher" Davis, his thoughts simmering with barely restrained rage. Davis, oblivious to the scrutiny, ate with casual indifference, his expression that of a man who thought himself invincible. The Wraith could still picture the aftermath of Davis's so-called "work"—crime scenes left grim and silent, bodies abandoned like discarded refuse. The women Davis had butchered had been invisible to society, forgotten lives deemed inconsequential. But the Wraith had seen them and remembered every one.

They weren't just victims. They were reminders of why he had started this crusade, why he had donned the mantle of the Wraith in the first place.

He recalled the last crime scene—an alleyway dimly lit, rain washing blood across the cracked pavement, the broken body of a young woman crumpled at its center. She had been too young, her life snuffed out by a man who saw himself as untouchable, a predator preying on those the world cast aside. The Wraith had stood there in that alley, his rage and the bitter cold mingling as he vowed that Davis would pay for what he had done.

But now, instead of bringing justice, he shared space with this monster. Every fiber of his being ached to act, to reach out and crush the life from Davis, to feel his bones crack under his grip. He knew exactly how to do it—precise pressure points, the exact angle to strike to ensure maximum pain with minimum effort.

The collar around his neck, the cuffs on his wrists—they held him in check. For now.

Davis had been on his list—a name he had planned to cross out with finality. But the RCMP had gotten to him first, and now the Wraith had to sit and wait, powerless, as this monster continued to breathe the same air.

His hand clenched into a fist under the table, his nails digging into his palm, drawing a sharp pain that helped ground him. He could almost hear the crunch of Davis's bones, feel the warmth of blood splatter as he exacted his vengeance. But all he had were the memories of what he had done, and what he still planned to do.

The Wraith forced himself to look away, the simmering anger still gnawing at him. He had to bury it, for now. But it wouldn’t be forever. He would find a way out—find a way to finish what he started. And when he did, the Butcher, the Cannibal, the Murderer, and every other name on his list would pay in full.

They would all pay.

***

Benny, the middle-aged guard with a worn face and tired eyes, was the one person in this forsaken place who seemed to care whether the Wraith lived or died. Benny had a quiet way about him—never making a fuss, never drawing attention—but always there. He watched out for the Wraith, made sure he wasn’t caught off guard or cornered by the more vengeful inmates.

Benny had saved his life more than once. Once, when a group of thugs tried to shank him in the showers, Benny had appeared just in time, his presence enough to make them scatter. Another time, Benny had discreetly slipped him a warning about an impending ambush in the yard, allowing the Wraith to avoid the trap entirely.

Benny had a reason for looking out for him. Years ago, Benny had lost someone dear—his sister, a bright, kind-hearted woman who had been taken too soon by a brutal killer. The justice system had done its part, sentenced the murderer to twenty-five to life, but it hadn’t been enough. The Wraith had found that killer and had made him pay—swift, final, without mercy.

Benny had never spoken about it directly, but the Wraith knew. He saw it in Benny’s eyes, the way they would meet his with a silent acknowledgment. There was a bond forged in the shared understanding of loss and the desire for true justice—justice that went beyond bars and courtrooms. Benny hadn’t wanted the man who had killed his sister to rot in a cell; he had wanted him to suffer, to pay in the only way that mattered. And the Wraith had given him that.

Benny's loyalty wasn’t born out of duty—it was personal. In some unspoken way, the guard saw the Wraith as more than just another prisoner. He saw him as someone who did what was necessary when the system failed. And for that, Benny kept him safe, as much as he could in a place like this.

The Wraith appreciated it in his own way. He didn’t trust easily, but Benny was the exception. In the bleak, gray world of concrete walls and steel bars, Benny’s watchful presence was a small comfort, a reminder that not everyone saw him as just another monster locked in a cage.

One day, he would return the favor—repay Benny for his quiet loyalty. But for now, all he could do was nod in acknowledgment as Benny walked past, a silent understanding passing between them.

***

The Wraith found his way back to his cell after lunch, his body on autopilot as his mind wandered. He settled on the hard, narrow cot, staring at the cold, gray walls as memories washed over him, unbidden. He was almost a legacy—his father and mother had been heroes once, Edmonton’s crime-fighting duo: Grey Mist and Mind-Mage. Silly names, he had always thought, but they had been good people.

Good people who were gunned down after a sting went wrong. Their cooperation with the government, their status as registered superheroes, had meant nothing in the end. The system had failed them, just as it had failed so many others. And their deaths had left him alone in a world that seemed darker without them.

The Wraith leaned back against the cold wall, letting the memories come. He could see their faces—his father’s steady gaze, his mother’s warm smile. He had tried to live a normal life after they were gone, tried to stay out of the shadows that had claimed them. But the pull of vengeance had been too strong. He had inherited a mutation of their powers, and he had honed them in secret, turning himself into a weapon.

The Wraith had been born out of that pain—born to strike back at the world that had taken everything from him.

He had become the hunter, the one who would do what his parents couldn’t: purge Edmonton of its filth, no matter the cost. He had no mercy, no compassion for the killers, the predators who preyed on the innocent. They were all the same—all deserving of the same fate.

He clenched his fists, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs dig into his skin. Was it worth it? Had he truly made a difference, or had he simply become another part of the cycle of violence? His parents had believed in justice, in doing what was right. But what had he done? Had he honored their legacy, or twisted it into something dark and unrecognizable?

He didn’t have the answers. Not yet. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. There were still too many monsters out there, too much blood left to spill. Until the last of them was gone, until he had crossed every name off his list, he would keep going.

His parents had believed in justice. He believed in vengeance. Maybe, in the end, they were just two sides of the same coin.

The Wraith sat on the hard, narrow cot in his cell, staring at the cold, gray walls, as memories washed over him. The small, stark room felt suffocating as he let himself drift back to a time before everything had gone wrong, before he had become the man he was now.

His parents had been heroes in every sense of the word. Grey Mist and Mind-Mage—Edmonton’s legendary crime-fighting duo, a force that once struck fear into the hearts of the city's criminals. To the world, they were champions of hope and justice, but to him, they were so much more: they were symbols of everything good, everything that made the world worth saving. His father, Grey Mist, could manipulate smoke and fog, turning the ephemeral into a weapon, a shield, a veil of protection. His mother, Mind-Mage, wielded her telepathic abilities to bend minds, read thoughts, and project illusions. Together, they stood tall against the darkness that threatened their city.

But darkness had claimed them in the end. It was supposed to be a simple job—a sting operation to dismantle a crime syndicate. They had followed all the rules, cooperated with the authorities, believed they were doing the right thing. But somewhere, something had gone wrong—very wrong. The criminals had been tipped off, and the hitmen were waiting for them.

He had been just a boy at the time, too young to understand the gravity of what had happened. All he knew was that his parents, his heroes, were gone. The news reports had been brutal, the details of their deaths splashed across every headline. He could still see the grainy photos of the crime scene in his mind—the pools of blood, the shattered glass, and his mother’s face, frozen in a look of horror as she tried to shield his father in her last moments.

The government had offered condolences, hollow words of sympathy that had meant nothing to him. Their registry, their cooperation with the authorities—it had all been for nothing. It hadn't saved them. In the aftermath, he had been left alone, orphaned, angry, with a hatred for the system that had betrayed them.

He had tried to live a normal life, to avoid the shadows that had consumed his parents. But the pull of vengeance was too strong, the need to strike back too consuming. He had inherited their powers, a mutation of both his mother’s and father’s gifts, and had honed them in secret. Slowly, he turned himself into a weapon. The Wraith had been born out of pain, out of a desire to fight back against a world that had taken everything from him.

He became the hunter, determined to do what his parents couldn't—purge Edmonton of its filth, no matter the cost. He prowled the night, preying on the predators, killers, and monsters who acted with impunity. He had no mercy, no compassion for them. To him, they were all the same—each deserving of the same fate.

He always knew who deserved his wrath. The Wraith could see auras, an ability inherited from his mother—a kaleidoscope of colors representing emotions, the core of a person. He learned that unrepentant murderers had a twisted, roiling darkness in their aura—black and red streaks, like poison running through them. It was a mark of their evil, and once he saw it, he knew they had to be dealt with.

But now, sitting in his cell, he wondered if it had all been worth it. Had he truly made a difference, or had he merely become part of the cycle of violence? He wasn’t sure anymore. The faces of his parents floated in his mind—his father’s steady gaze, his mother’s gentle smile. They had wanted to make the world a better place. What had he done? Had he honored their legacy, or twisted it into something unrecognizable?

The Wraith clenched his fists, feeling the familiar anger rise within him. He didn’t have the answers—not yet. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. There were still too many monsters out there, too much blood that needed spilling. Until the last of them was gone, until he had crossed every name off his list, he would keep fighting.

His parents had believed in justice. He believed in vengeance. And maybe, in the end, they were two sides of the same coin.

He leaned back against the cold wall, letting his thoughts drift through the moral labyrinth he had built for himself. Perhaps, in some twisted way, he was still a hero, like his parents had been. He didn’t kill indiscriminately; he didn’t slaughter those who didn’t deserve it. Even if someone had the intent to kill, if he managed to stop them before they acted, he let them live. It was only those who crossed the line—who took lives without remorse—that he put down.

He had stopped robbers, muggers, and even supervillains without killing. He had faced down threats that would have terrified lesser men, and he had done it by the book. His father would have been proud of that, he liked to think. The old man had always believed in justice, in the system, in doing what was right, even when it was hard.

The Wraith had inherited some of that, he supposed. He wasn’t a monster—not completely. He could still hear his father’s voice, calm and steady, teaching him the value of restraint, of discipline. He remembered his mother’s lessons—empathy, understanding others' minds, and finding strength in kindness. Those lessons had stayed with him, even as he veered off the path they had set.

He wasn’t a mindless killer. He was something more complicated, something far more nuanced—a protector in a world that could never understand the kind of protection he offered. He didn’t revel in the bloodshed; he never killed for the thrill of it. Every life he took had been weighed, measured, and judged against the standards his parents had instilled in him. Only those who had crossed the line—who had become predators—faced his wrath.

Yes, in his way, he was still a hero. He had not let the darkness fully consume him. There were boundaries he would never cross, rules he refused to break. Only those who had forfeited their right to live, the irredeemable monsters, deserved the finality he delivered. In that way, he was different from the killers, the psychopaths, and the soulless criminals that prowled the world. He still had a code—albeit a twisted echo of the one his parents had lived by.

Maybe, just maybe, they would have understood. Maybe they would have seen that he was doing what had to be done, what he believed was right. They had fought for justice, and so did he. His justice was simply... sharper.

He sighed, feeling a small measure of comfort in that thought. The world might see him as a criminal, a madman driven by a twisted vendetta, but he knew the truth. He was still fighting the good fight, even if his methods were darker, even if his path was a lonely one. And as long as there were killers to stop, he would keep going, keep fighting—just like his parents had.

***

The darkness of his cell pressed in around him like a physical weight, the silence only occasionally broken by the muffled sounds of the penitentiary settling into its nightly routine. The echoes of "lights out" still reverberated through the cold, concrete walls, signaling the end of yet another long, monotonous day. The Wraith unwrapped the snacks Benny had slipped him—a small gesture of kindness in a place where kindness was rare. He’d have to find a way to repay Benny, even if it was just a handshake or a quiet nod of gratitude. It was the least he could do for someone who had risked so much for him.

As the cell grew darker, so did his thoughts. He found himself circling back to a single word—inheritance. It was a heavy word, one that carried a great deal of weight, especially for him. He had inherited so much from his parents, more than just their sense of right and wrong. He had inherited their values, their unwavering code of ethics, and their relentless drive to fight for justice, even against impossible odds. But he had also inherited something far more dangerous—something the world could never know about.

The Wraith was an Extra—a being born with powers that defied the natural order. Unlike many others who acquired their abilities later in life through accidents, experiments, or sheer luck, the Wraith had been born with his powers. From day one, they had been a part of him, as integral to his being as breath or heartbeat. It was as if his very DNA had been coded with these abilities.

His parents had feared what would happen if his powers were ever discovered. They had heard the horror stories—the government-mandated Extra Schools where children like him were taken, registered, and trained—or worse, weaponized. His parents had broken the law to protect him, keeping his abilities a secret and teaching him how to hide what he was. To the world, he was just a man—a dangerous one, maybe, but still just a man with an unusual appearance. But the truth was far more complex, far more dangerous.

No one knew the truth—not the government, not the RCMP containment team, not the criminals he had hunted so ruthlessly. They saw him as a vigilante, a madman obsessed with vengeance. They didn’t realize that his powers were more than just tools of revenge—they were an intrinsic part of who he was, a power that he had mastered with terrifying precision.

He could alter his density at will. He could phase through walls, become as intangible as a ghost, or as solid and unmovable as steel. He could be light enough to pass unnoticed, or heavy enough to be immovable. It wasn't just a skill—it was part of his being, a power he had learned to wield from childhood. His parents had taught him to use it wisely, to keep it hidden, to ensure that no one could use it against him.

Now, in the dark silence of his cell, he knew that this secret might be the key to his freedom. No one knew he was an Extra, and that gave him an advantage. The disruptors that the RCMP had placed on him—the collar, the cuffs, the flickering lights—were designed to neutralize ordinary powers, the kind that were acquired or developed later in life. But his abilities were different, deeply ingrained in his biology, in his very essence.

He had tested them quietly in his cell, pressing against the edge of his limits, feeling the familiar hum of his power even beneath the disruptors. It was there, beneath the surface, unaffected. It was like a coiled spring, ready to be released. The RCMP thought they had him contained, but they had no idea. They were holding a ghost in their midst, a man who could slip through walls and restraints as easily as walking through an open door.

The Wraith moved with the kind of precision and purpose that only someone with his unique abilities could muster. He had planned this from the beginning, orchestrating his capture, weaving a web of lies about his origins. The official story, the one that had been carefully planted, was that his powers were the result of a failed experiment—some tragic accident that had gifted him abilities beyond human comprehension. It was a plausible story, one that fit the narrative the government liked to tell. But the truth was far more dangerous, far more powerful, and entirely his to control.

He rose from his cot, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the restraints. He focused, closing his eyes, letting his mind drift inward, feeling the energy within him—an unbroken connection to the power he had always known. Slowly, he let himself change. His body became light, intangible, the restraints slipping from his wrists as if they were nothing more than a passing mist. He phased through the collar around his neck, letting it fall silently onto the cot.

He opened his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he felt free.

The Wraith moved like a shadow, slipping through the walls of his cell, his body fading into the intangible state that had earned him his name. He passed through the cold, solid barriers as if they didn’t exist, each step carrying him closer to his goal. His destination was clear—Lenny "The Butcher" Davis.

He reached Davis’s cell, watching the man sleep, unaware of the death that was now looming over him. The Wraith moved with practiced ease, his hand palming the crusty dinner roll Benny had given him earlier. It was a crude weapon, but in his hands, it was all he needed. With a fluid motion, he pressed the roll into Davis’s throat, phasing it into the man’s body with precision. He could feel the object lodge there, becoming solid once more, a suffocating mass that blocked Davis's airway.

Davis's eyes shot open, wild with panic, but the Wraith’s hand clamped down over his mouth, his other hand pressing against Davis’s chest, keeping him pinned. The man flailed, his body thrashing, but it was useless. The Wraith held him down, watching as the light in Davis’s eyes faded, his struggles growing weaker until they stopped altogether.

When it was done, the Wraith stepped back, letting his form fade into intangibility once more. He moved through the walls, returning to his cell, slipping back into his restraints, the collar clicking back into place. The cold metal settled against his skin, and he leaned back on the cot, his eyes closing as if he had never left.

No one would suspect him. No one could. He was just another prisoner, another number in the system. But the Wraith knew the truth. He was no prisoner. He was the judge, the jury, and the executioner of those who had taken lives without remorse. And he would continue his work, one name at a time, until his list was complete.

When that day came, he would walk out of the prison, passing through the walls as if they were nothing. He would return to the streets of Edmonton, and his mission would go on.

His parents would have disapproved of his methods, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the mission—the unyielding, unrelenting pursuit of justice. And in the end, the Wraith would make sure that no one else would suffer the loss he had endured. The Butcher was dead, and soon enough, so would every other name on his list.

As he phased through the walls of his cell, his body slipped into its intangible form, transforming him into a shadow—soundless, unseen, the embodiment of spectral vengeance. The chill of the concrete walls passed through him, leaving behind a faint tingle, like the echo of a memory. He moved through the silent prison with an effortless grace, each step light, as though he were drifting on air. Walls and barriers were nothing to him, as insubstantial as mist. His purpose was clear—Lenny "The Butcher" Davis.

Davis lay asleep, his breath even, his face slack in the throes of whatever dark dream held him. Oblivious. The Wraith stood over him for a moment, his eyes narrowing in contempt. Here lay a man who had taken so many lives without hesitation or remorse. The very idea that Davis could sleep so peacefully filled the Wraith with a cold rage that simmered beneath his calm exterior.

He moved with practiced ease, his hand finding the crusty dinner roll Benny had given him earlier—a simple, unassuming weapon. As he reached out, his hand faded into an incorporeal state, the roll phasing with it, slipping through the fabric of reality like it was nothing. The Wraith’s movements were deliberate, controlled, the result of a thousand hours of training. He leaned in, his breath steady, and with a fluid motion, pressed the roll into Davis’s throat, phasing it into the man’s body with meticulous precision.

The sensation was strange—a mixture of resistance and nothingness. He could feel the roll lodge within, becoming solid once more, occupying space it never should have. The Wraith’s own form shifted, becoming impossibly dense, his hand clamping over Davis’s mouth, his weight pinning the man to the bed, crushing the air from his chest.

Davis woke instantly, his eyes snapping open, wide with terror. For a brief moment, their gazes met—Davis’s eyes filled with shock and panic, while the Wraith’s held nothing but cold determination. He could see the fear, the desperate realization of what was happening, but there would be no reprieve, no mercy. The roll was lodged too deep, blocking his airway completely. Davis flailed, his body jerking violently beneath the crushing weight, his hands clawing weakly at the Wraith’s wrist. But there was no sound, no scream, just the muted thrash of a dying man.

The Wraith watched as the life drained from Davis's eyes, his struggles growing weaker with each passing second, until finally, there was nothing. The body went limp, the eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, devoid of anything that had once made Davis human.

The death was quiet. It always was—cold, precise, executed with the calm certainty of a man who believed, without question, in the righteousness of his mission. It was not rage that fueled him in these moments, but purpose—a sense of justice that had been twisted into something dark and final. When it was done, the Wraith pulled away, his form fading into intangibility once more, leaving behind no trace of what had occurred. He moved through the walls, his body slipping through solid matter as easily as a knife through water.

He returned to his cell, slipping back into his restraints. The collar clicked into place around his neck, the cuffs settling on his wrists, the metal cold and familiar. He leaned back against the hard cot, closing his eyes, his breathing even. To anyone looking in, it would seem as though he had never left.

No one would suspect him. No one could. He was just another prisoner, another faceless number in the system—a man trapped behind the very walls he had vowed to tear down. But the Wraith knew the truth. He was no prisoner. He was the judge, the jury, and the executioner of those who had taken lives without remorse, and he would continue his work, one name at a time, until his list was complete.

When that day came, he would walk out of the prison, phasing through the walls as though they were nothing, leaving behind only whispers of the ghost that had haunted the place. He would return to the streets of Edmonton, to the mission that had defined him.

His parents would have disapproved of his methods. He knew that. They had fought for justice within the boundaries of the law, had believed in redemption and the power of the system. But those ideals had died with them, torn apart by the same system they had trusted. What mattered now was the mission—the unyielding, unrelenting pursuit of justice, as sharp and as brutal as it needed to be.

He would make sure that no one else would suffer as he had. The Butcher was dead, and soon enough, so would every other name until they had all been scratched off his list. One by one, they would pay.

Maybe, someday, when all the monsters were gone, he would find peace. But until then, he would remain the Wraith—a ghost trapped between the walls of vengeance and justice, bound to his purpose until the very end.