December 3rd, 2016 — 3 Days After Aunt Louis

  I’m eighteen. Exhausted. Shaking. And officially a fugitive.

  The whole city’s probably buzzing by now—sirens slicing through the night, radios crackling with alerts, officers scrambling like kicked ants.

  My name is in their briefings, their inboxes, their late?night emergency calls. A warning. A threat. A headline.

  Doesn’t matter.

  I don’t have a home. No friends. No passport. But I have momentum, instinct, and nothing left tying me down. That makes me dangerous in a way they’ll never understand.

  I ditch my jacket and shoes in the river. Watch the current swallow them whole. I take cash—only what I need. A few valuables too. Enough to keep me moving. Enough to disappear.

  My goal is simple: get out. Out of this city. Out of this country. Off every radar that ever tried to track me.

  Problem? No ID. No passport. No clean way across a border.

  Solution? Think like someone who doesn’t exist.

  I find him two towns over. Toby. Twenty?five. Sharp eyes, sharper instincts. Lives above a mechanic’s garage, surrounded by grease, barking dogs, and a paranoia I respect.

  He deals in new identities—quiet ones, clean ones, the kind that slip through cracks.

  “What’s your story?” he asks.

  “I don’t have one anymore,” I say.

  He likes that answer.

  He gets me a passport. Canadian. The name isn’t mine yet, but it will be. New birthday. New history. New everything. A blank slate disguised as paperwork.

  “It’ll work if you don’t act stupid,” he warns. “You’re young. They look harder at young.”

  I meet his stare. “I know how to stay invisible.”

  He smirks. “Then you’ll be fine.”

  The plan is tight. I head for a border town—small, quiet, forgettable. The kind of place where buses come and go without anyone caring who’s on them.

  But I don’t take a bus.

  I find a trucker instead. One of those worn?down, world?tired types who’s seen too much and asks too little. He takes cash. No questions.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Northbound?” I ask.

  He nods. “Stay in the back. Don’t make noise.”

  “Deal.”

  I climb into a crate of tires, curl into the shadows, and wait. The truck rumbles through the checkpoint. No dogs. No guards peeking in. No alarms.

  Just silence.

  Just luck.

  Just me slipping through the cracks like I was born to.

  By sunrise, I’m in a new country. New air. New rules. New life.

  No one knows my name.

  No one knows what happened back home.

  No one knows who crossed their border before dawn.

  I’m a shadow now.

  A ghost.

  Exactly what they made me.

  ---

  December 9th, 2018 — 2 years 1 month 12 Days After Ms. Kathy

  739 days after Aunt Louis

  Over the past two years, I’ve been perfecting my craft.

  Not the killing — the artistry.

  The message.

  The signature.

  The Crimson Smile.

  Two identical upward curves on each cheek.

  A mark that says: I was here. I chose you.

  Her name is Veronica Thomson.

  My old high school guidance counselor.

  Too much perfume, too much fake warmth, too much “I know what’s best for you.”

  She called me into her office twenty times senior year.

  Apparently I “looked unstable” and “made other students uncomfortable.”

  She told me I needed supervision.

  She made me write daily feeling logs.

  She said I was a danger to myself.

  Funny how people project.

  Now she’s duct?taped to a vintage rocking chair in her living room, mascara streaked, photos of her kids scattered across the floor like confetti from a party she didn’t want to attend.

  “I brought you something,” I say, stepping into her line of sight.

  “Tada.”

  I tuck a red lily behind her ear.

  “See? I remember how to be polite.”

  She tries to scream through the gag — a thin, pathetic sound.

  I lean in close enough for her to feel my breath.

  “You always wanted me to ‘express myself.’ Well… I am.”

  I trace a gloved finger along her jaw, slow, deliberate.

  Her eyes widen.

  Good.

  Recognition looks better on her than that fake smile she used to wear.

  “You told me I was unstable,” I murmur. “You told me I needed help. You told everyone I was a problem waiting to happen.”

  I tilt her chin up.

  “You were right.”

  Her breathing stutters.

  Her pulse jumps.

  She finally understands the thing she spent years pretending she could diagnose.

  “This isn’t revenge,” I say softly. “This is closure. For both of us.”

  I step back, admiring the scene — the lily, the trembling, the fear she can’t hide behind a clipboard anymore.

  And there it is, bright and unmistakable across her face: the Crimson Smile.

  Two perfect upward curves, identical on each cheek, carved into her expression like a permanent punchline.

  Not gory.

  Not messy.

  Just… deliberate.

  Clean.

  A signature.

  The kind detectives whisper about before it ever hits the news.

  The kind that makes a killer into a myth.

  I gesture to the wall behind her, where I’ve already written my message in bold, sweeping strokes of red paint:

  THE RED WRAITH IS FREE.

  SMILE FOR ME.

  I take one last look at her — the counselor who tried to fix me, label me, contain me.

  “I’m not running anymore,” I whisper.

  “I’m reigning.”

  I walk out into the cold December night.

  ---

  Bloodvex Entry — “The Art of the Mark”

  “A villain without a signature is a storm without thunder.

  Noise without memory.

  Impact without legacy.

  If you want the world to fear you,

  give them something they cannot forget.”

  — From Mother’s Stories, Night 31

  ---

  I stop under a streetlamp and open my journal.

  Ink bleeds into the page like it’s been waiting for me.

  Lesson 4:

  “A villain is not defined by the act.

  He is defined by the mark he leaves behind.”

  I underline it.

  Twice.

  The tick in my jaw eases.

  ---

  The News Report

  A TV flickers through a neighbor’s window — late?night news, volume low.

  “…police are investigating what they’re calling a ‘symbolic attack’ on former guidance counselor Veronica Thomson…”

  Symbolic.

  Cute.

  “…the suspect left a message at the scene. Authorities believe this may be the work of a developing serial offender…”

  Developing.

  Even cuter.

  “…unofficial sources are referring to the suspect as The Red Wraith due to the precision of the mark and the lack of forensic trace…”

  I freeze.

  The Red Wraith.

  My name.

  Not chosen by me — but earned.

  The reporter keeps talking, but I don’t hear the rest.

  My pulse steadies.

  My breathing levels.

  The world sharpens.

  They finally understand.

  Not who I was —

  but what I’m becoming.

  ---

  Becoming

  I smile — a real one this time.

  Small.

  Quiet.

  Dangerous.

  “They’re learning,” I whisper. “Good.”

  I close the journal, tuck it under my arm, and walk deeper into the dark.

  I’m not running anymore.

  I’m not hiding.

  I’m not surviving.

  I’m becoming.

  The Red Wraith has been named.

  And the Crimson Smile is only the beginning.

  ---