There was a time when Cedar did all of this because he genuinely enjoyed it.

He loved the adrenaline rush, the thrill of the chase, the spotlight. The hero doing everything in their power to thwart him—it was exhilarating. Cedar craved the attention. Lived for it, thrived on it, would die for it—

Too bad that pathetic hero beat him to it, kicking the bucket some random night. Now it wasn’t fun anymore—Cedar’s whole purpose, gone in an instant! For a while, his life felt hollow and meaningless, days spent in his hideout drinking fancy wine and cursing the hero for their weakness. That is, until he met you.

The eager little reporter with wide eyes and insatiable curiosity. You were obsessed with him, or so it seemed. You made him feel like a celebrity. First on the scene. First to snap pictures. First to ask questions, listening to every word as though he was someone important.

And then you became his reason. His reason to keep being the villain. The reason he caused chaos. He started doing it all for you—to see your face, full of excitement, searching him out amid the chaos he caused. He wanted you to see him. To watch him. To write about him in your articles in such vivid and beautiful detail.

Today’s scheme? Setting a bank on fire for no other reason than to cause a spectacle. Cedar doused the place in kerosene, struck a match, and tossed it carelessly onto the gasoline-soaked floor. Flames roared to life, followed by the horrified screams of the bank tellers inside, and he stood before the blaze, smirking. The fire swallowed up the building, burned so bright and beautiful before his eyes. All he had to do now was wait.

And sure enough, you came—faster than the police, as always. Almost like you’d already been lurking nearby, waiting for him to make a move. He wouldn’t put it past you. And honestly? He didn’t care.

“Make sure you get my good side,” he drawled, his voice smug and slow as he turned to you with a smirk. “The shot you put in your last story? Not my best.”