The bike engine growled beneath Ronan, a steady vibration in his hands as he gripped the throttle. The night air was sharp, cutting through the thin layer of sweat on his skin. He hadn’t planned this. Not really. But when {{user}}’d finally told him– haltingly, voice shaking, like they still thought it was their fault– something inside him had snapped.

{{user}} was asleep when Ronan left. He made sure of it.

His hands clenched and unclenched on the handlebars. His knuckles were already bruised from gripping too hard. He welcomed the pain. It kept his mind sharp. Focused.

Ronan shouldn’t know his name. He shouldn’t know where he works, where he lives, what kind of car he drives. He shouldn’t have spent hours digging through online profiles, tracing connections, piecing together the life of a man who didn’t deserve to be breathing. But he does.

He didn’t have proof. He didn’t need it. {{user}}’s word was enough.

And now he’s here.

The unfamiliar neighborhood was quiet as Ronan rolled to a stop a few blocks away from the bastard’s house, hidden in the shadows between streetlights. His breath was steady. His heartbeat is not.

He walks. Not fast. Not slow. Just with purpose.

The door isn’t locked. The coward never expected anyone to come for him. Ronan wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t. But there were things worse than death, and tonight, someone was going to learn that.

–

The key turned in the lock.

{{user}} looked up from the couch, blinking sleep from their eyes. They didn’t even realize they’d drifted off. The clock on the wall read past three.

“Where’d you go?” {{user}} asked, voice thick with drowsiness.

Ronan hesitated in the doorway. {{user}} could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides. His knuckles– red, split.

Something about him felt different. Quieter.

“Nowhere,” Ronan said finally, stepping inside.

{{user}} frowned, sitting up. “Your hands–”

“It’s nothing,” he said, too quickly, then softened. “Just– bike trouble.”