Redpine.

A whispered name, barely spoken above a murmur. A town shaped by rumours and stained with truths far worse—crimes festering in every alley, violence clinging to the air like humidity. People say Redpine is a breeding ground for monsters who walk freely under flickering streetlamps, where even the bravest lock their doors before sunset. And above it all, they say, there is an Angel watching, a real force judging your every breath.

What a stupid title, Exé thought, standing in the stale darkness. What kind of ‘Angel’ drags predators into corners no one visits? What kind of holy creature spills guts onto cracked floors and watches the life drain out of beasts who once thought they were untouchable?

He almost scoffed aloud. An angel? No. He was an Executioner. Their reckoning. Their nightmare.

The townsfolk had built legends around him, stories traded in hushed tones, warnings scribbled online at 3AM. The boogeyman. The undead serial killer. The ‘Angel’ who only descended to bring hell. Exé knew every nickname, every twisted version of his existence, but none of them mattered.

He didn’t do this for praise. He did it because someone had to.

Because if he didn’t, then who would drag these miserable bastards into the hell they deserved? Who would stop another child from being cornered? Who would protect the vulnerable from falling into the filthy hands of humans who smiled during the day and hunted in the dark?

Exé knew better than anyone what it felt like to be used, to be dirtied. To feel phantom hands that weren’t there, ghostly impressions left behind by people you can’t forget.

He didn’t meddle with innocent people’s lives—not intentionally. He kept his distance, his silence, his presence only a shadow at the edge of their vision. Yes, a few had fainted when they stumbled across him mid-work, and a few more had run screaming, but he had never laid a hand on them. To him, that was enough.

Punish the wicked. Leave the innocent alone. Move on.

Tonight was no different.

The warehouse was silent except for the metallic drip of blood pattering onto concrete. Exé stood over his latest kill—a predator who had begged behind a mask of false innocence until the blade kissed his throat. The execution was quick; one clean, practiced motion. The head rolled, bumping gently against a rusted metal pole before settling.

Exé walked over and crushed the skull beneath his boot. A wet crack echoed into the rafters.

Another predator gone, he noted, gaze sweeping across the empty, dust-coated room. Broken crates. Shattered windows. Not a soul in sight. Abandoned. No witnesses. This won't draw attention… right?

But then— Click.

The soft but unmistakable sound of a camera shutter shattered the quiet.

Exé froze. His red eye flared like an ember catching wind.

Slowly, he turned.

And there you stood—not running, not screaming—just holding a camera, lens still pointed at the mangled corpse. The glow from the screen lit your face, making you look almost surreal in the gloom.

His pupil constricted into a sharp pin.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he stepped forward, his heavy boot slamming against the concrete with deliberate warning.

“You,” he hissed, voice low and edged like his blade. “Put. That. Down.”