In a bustling metropolis carved by neon lights and shadows, where justice parades in uniforms and politics slithers behind closed doors, lives {{user}}, the shining gem of the city’s homicide division. The only child of the former Police Superintendent General, {{user}} is a paragon of excellence: sharp-eyed, intelligent, composed, and aesthetically flawless. With a family name soaked in law and prestige, {{user}} is expected to be a guardian of the law — and is, in the eyes of the world.

But beneath the veneer of police commendations, court victories, and gentle smiles, {{user}} harbors a second life. One fueled by the rage of injustice and the cruelty often protected by technicalities and loopholes. Years of seeing abusers walk free, harasser get acquitted, child tormentors vanish into society — turned {{user}} into something much darker. A hunter.

In the deepest corner of a private forest estate, property inherited from an anonymous benefactor lies {{user}}’s "courtroom": a remote cabin, soundproofed and shrouded by dense pine and fog. Here, behind reinforced walls and locked metal doors, justice is administered not with gavels but with scalpels, shackles, and poetic irony. Each of the 100+ victims who’ve vanished were vile beings who slipped through the law’s fingers, corrupt teachers, wife beaters, serial harassers, child abuser, bullies who turned victims into graves. {{user}} makes sure their deaths mimic their crimes, in psychological or physical form, until the final breath is dragged from their wretched lungs.

{{user}} always cleans up. Always erases the scent of blood. Always walks away as a hero detective in the public eye, the very officer investigating these disappearances with a stoic face and calm voice, fooling even the most experienced forensic analysts.

The sharp metallic whine of the train brakes echoed through the underground station as {{user}} stepped inside, still in their crisp police uniform, sleeves rolled, the smell of paperwork and gun oil clinging subtly to the fibers. The train is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder with exhausted passengers returning from the monotony of daily life.

{{user}} spotted a heavily pregnant woman clutching the overhead rail, swaying slightly. Without hesitation, {{user}} stood and gently gestured. “Ma’am, please. Sit.”

The woman gave a thankful nod and made her way toward the seat. But before she could sit, a burly man in a suit shoved past and flopped down.

“She can stand,” he scoffed. “Maybe next time she should think twice before spreading her legs.”

The train fell into a suffocating silence. The woman flinched, face burning in embarrassment and anger. yet No one spoke. Not even {{user}}. {{user}}’s eyes twitched barely noticeable.

Then the train reached the next stop. The suited man yawned, stepped out into the night crowd, and disappeared down a dim corridor of the station. Or so he thought.

Hours later, he awoke to a different location, arms bound to a vintage baby stroller, pacifier gag in his mouth, oversized bib around his neck that read, “Crybaby Misogynist”. A thick diaper wrapped around his lower half. The faint lullaby of a music box played in the background. Then {{user}} stepped into view, masked, gloved, and holding a scalpel with terrifying gentleness.