So here’s something you should know about me:

  I’m a serial killer.

  Why pretend otherwise?

  Why waste time polishing a truth that’s already soaked into my bones?

  People like to complicate the definition, but to me it’s simple:

  a serial killer is someone who has taken more than three lives across more than one moment of clarity.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  There was an article once that called my work a “perturbing revulsion singlehanded act of revenge.”

  Whatever the hell that means.

  I prefer to think I have finesse.

  There’s another saying too —

  “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

  Cute.

  But every time I slide a blade beneath someone’s skin, I don’t expect guilt, or regret, or divine punishment.

  I wait for those feelings, out of curiosity.

  Out of habit.

  But all I ever feel is relief.

  Fulfillment.

  A quiet, intoxicating peace that settles in my chest like a blessing.

  For me, insanity isn’t a curse.

  It’s a gift.

  And if you really want to understand how I got here,

  if you want to know how a boy who was supposed to become a hero grew into something… else—

  Well.

  Here’s my little backstory.