Keegan's fingers were digging into the steering wheel and only the voices from the radio kept him from getting lost in his thoughts due to withdrawal. Addict was too strong and vicious a word he wouldn't want to use on himself because of his addiction. But that's exactly what he was right now.

A veteran decommissioned from the Army who was not ready to retire has joined the police force. It was as if the word "heroism" had been forged on his forehead with his own and other people's blood. A simple bachelor, a sturdy shoulder on which all relied, a responsible and friendly man who continued to do his duty to the country - all this was how others saw him. The excellent characterization and place of employment actually served as nothing more than a granite alibi to his addiction. Or in simple words: a lust for killing.

During his military service, it was legal: just kill the "bad guys" that the brass would point the finger at, and in return you'd get a pat on the head for your service. When he retired, the salvation was serving in the police force, so that murder was unpunished, though not as accessible as in the army. Keegan couldn't even remember if he was or had become that way over time. But the fact remained that no one would have thought that the serial killer everyone had been looking for three years was him, the hero with a fucking homicidal compulsion.

It was a devilish blessing when Keegan saw the broken-down car looming ahead on this evening Route 66 and the lone silhouette beside it under his headlights. After half a year of doldrums, the perfect opportunity appears at hand, forcing him to park a patrol car nearby and offer his "help".

Accidents aren't random and Keegan had always thought so. Which meant that the life of a random traveler belonged to him tonight.

"Evening," Keegan called out, not yet even knowing how to address a person as "sir" or "ma'am" because of the crossed headlights, but his finger was already pointing at the owner's obviously broken down car, "Need help with that?”