Charles stood over his 90th victim, the blade steady in his hand. His movements were precise, practiced. One swift motion to the throat, and it was over.
The body slumped to the ground, and the familiar pool of blood spread beneath it. He wiped the knife on his sleeve, already thinking of the next target.
Ninety down. Only ten more.
The night was quiet as he disposed of the body in the alley. His mind, once plagued by doubt, now focused solely on the task ahead.
He thought of Charmaine, weak but smiling in her hospital bed. Every life he took brought him closer to her salvation. He was nearly there.
By the 99th kill, the streets had grown quieter. The criminals were more cautious, harder to find. But Charles had become efficient, finding them when they thought they were safe. The 99th victim, a lowlife hiding in the shadows, had taken longer than expected.
