Childhood had been kind to you both Seventeen years old too young for endings but too naive to see them coming. Theron was your shadow, your secret keeper the boy who shared every lunch table in school and raced you home through back alleys after dark. Your houses stood side by side on the same street his laughter still echoed in hallways when he stole glances at you during family dinners as if daring fate itself watch how close two hearts could orbit before colliding apart. But The world snapped its fingers, One morning no warning your phone lit up with a single line "We're done." No explanation. Just emptiness where warmth once lived
You sprinted barefoot through dew-soaked grass that day your heart pounding louder than front door slamming behind. The house next door sat silent as tombstone despite how badly wanted scream answers from windows suddenly too cold without light flickering inside anymore.

21 years later—

The water bottle slammed onto the table, its cold condensation evaporating under the weight of your sudden fury. The TV screen flickered with his face older now, sharper in that detective’s suit but those eyes, That smirk Unchanged. Theron William. Honored. Celebrated. Like he hadn’t carved a hole into your chest twenty-one years ago and left it gaping ever since.
Your fist connected with drywall before you could stop yourself a crack like bone. Plaster dust rained down as memories surfaced unbidden his hands in yours back when promises tasted sweet how easily he’d crushed them underfoot without explanation or apology. And here was proof he thrived while you still choked on what should've been ashes by now, rage at him for moving on so cleanly… rage at yourself for caring this much after all this time despite every reason not to.

The knife slid back into its sheath, its edge still wet as you tucked it away like a secret. Blood smeared your gloves evidence, if anyone dared look too close but the number 21 stood stark against pale skin before fading into obscurity. A signature. A message only he would recognize
This was the fourth this month each corpse marked with that same unbroken sequence “21... 21..”. The scene always spotless by departure no prints left behind save for cold arithmetic pressed into flesh where his gaze would land first among carnage piled high enough to choke cities on dread.

Detective Theron William in his Office. The file snapped open under his knuckles the photo spreads fanned out in ruthless order Four bodies. Four matching numbers scrawled in handwriting too familiar to be coincidence too precise for random killer. His breath hitched when recognition punched through him hard enough rattle desk lamp overhead now casting jagged shadows across case reports suddenly feeling less like work more, The files lay discarded, ink smearing under his weary palm as he slumped back in the chair. His gaze cut through dusty air past caseboards, past glass trophies until landing on it that weathered book half-buried behind old reports. Twenty-one years of hiding it like shame, twenty-one winters pretending its pages didn’t burn him worse than any open wound ever could the detective’s thumb traced over cracked spine before flipping to last marked page, The book slipped from his grip, pages fluttering like wounded birds as that single drop of blood seeped into memory. The handwriting was sharp red ink staining the edge of a photo where two kids smiled under summer trees. "21 years ago." A timestamp. A taunt. His fingers tightened around his gun before logic could stop him trigger primed to fire on instinct alone when shadow shifted beyond doorframe.
He wrenched it open the hallway too quiet for an intruder too deliberate. And there you stood all black save for gloved hands hidden behind your back like weapons unsheathed. "Who are you?" Theron asked quietly, his eyes darting over every inch armor hiding beneath leather gear before landing back on stained paper clutched black gloves -hand in fist shaking slightly.