The world had become eerily quiet in the three months since Richard's diagnosis—an unnatural stillness, like the air before a storm or the hush that falls over a graveyard at dawn. He moved through the days in a fog, checking off bucket-list items that felt like hollow rituals. Nothing mattered without Sarah by his side. He had played by the rules—never smoked, never drank, worked tirelessly, and stayed loyal. And yet, the universe had stripped away everything he held dear. The emptiness clawed at him, gnawing at his soul.
It was during a restless, pain-numbed stroll along New Brighton Beach that he saw him—Tom Morris. The man who had taken Sarah from him. Richard's heart clenched as he saw that face, a smug grin plastered on it as Tom held a bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag. The girl on his arm passed a joint to him with a laugh, and the world seemed to shudder in Richard's vision.
Rage surged through Richard's veins, hot and poison-tipped, igniting a fury he hadn't felt in months. He stood frozen on the beach, watching as Tom swaggered toward his muscle car, laughing with his friends. The engine roared to life, and the exhaust burst out recklessly, sending pedestrians scrambling for safety. Tom nearly struck an elderly woman crossing the street. The girl, perched in the passenger seat, screamed curses out the window, and Richard could feel his heart shattering with the injustice of it all.
In that instant, Richard understood. His last days weren't meant for the empty pursuits of his bucket list. They were meant for justice. For revenge. For making sure Tom Morris paid in ways the justice system never could.
That night, Richard began his preparations.
He sat at his desk, pouring over every scrap of information he could find about Tom. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through social media, each post a fresh reminder of the man's arrogance. Pictures of Tom laughing with his friends, flashing contraband, and openly flaunting his disregard for the law. Richard didn't need the police. He didn't need a courtroom. He needed something more—something personal.
It didn't take long to discover that Tom was no angel. There were photos of him driving with a drink in his hand, a joint dangling from his lips—blatant violations of the law. But that wasn't enough. Richard wasn't looking for a conviction. No, his justice would be thorough, meticulous, and final.
Then, one night, he saw it—an announcement on Tom's social media. A cryptic post about a secret rave. An invitation to a select group of friends, gathering in an empty courtyard on the edge of the city. A secret event meant to elude the police. It was the perfect opportunity.
Richard spent the night assembling everything he needed. He checked his car's fuel, adjusted the trunk, and made sure his mind was sharp. He called his solicitor friend and made arrangements to have all his properties gifted to the church after his death. Everything was in place. Tomorrow, the final act would begin.
The evening was cold and clear as Richard climbed into his Ferrari, the engine humming beneath him like a promise of things to come. His thoughts were singular and focused. The hum of the road was the only sound, as he followed Tom's car through the empty streets. The rage within him simmered beneath the surface—calm, but deadly. Tonight would be the end of it all.
They reached a quiet, deserted side road—a place without traffic cameras, without witnesses. Richard knew this was it. He floored the accelerator and slammed his car into Tom's, striking it hard from the side. Tom's car skidded to a halt, and Richard watched as he stumbled out, dazed and confused. Without hesitation, Richard pulled the stun gun from his jacket and brought it down hard on Tom's chest. The man collapsed instantly.
Richard checked the car for anyone else. No one. Just Tom, alone and vulnerable.
He didn't waste any time. He crushed Tom's phone and iPod beneath his heel, ensuring there would be no trace. His own phone was smashed and discarded on the side of the road. Then he dragged Tom to the trunk of his Ferrari, binding his hands and feet before gagging him. Richard looked at his captive, a strange calmness washing over him. This wasn't revenge—it was justice.
The drive to the old warehouse felt like it took an eternity, but Richard hardly noticed the passage of time. His mind was set, his heart a furnace of cold rage. He'd once worked here, in the shadows of his former company, but it had long since fallen into disuse. It was the perfect place for what he had planned. The warehouse was a shell now—empty, decaying, and forgotten. But it would serve its purpose tonight.
Inside, only two chairs were bolted to the floor, facing each other, surrounded by darkness. Buckets of water lined one wall, waiting for the task ahead.
Richard parked the car and opened the trunk. Tom was beginning to stir, groaning softly, regaining consciousness. Without a word, Richard dragged him from the car and threw him into one of the chairs, binding him tightly. Each knot he tied was deliberate, each movement methodical—this was the end of a chapter. The final sealing of a fate that had been written in blood.
Once Tom was secured, Richard picked up a bucket of water and threw it over him. Tom sputtered, gasping for breath as he came to full awareness. His wide, panicked eyes scanned the warehouse, landing on Richard with a look of realization.
"Hello, Mr. Morris," Richard said, his voice calm, almost detached. "My name is Richard Smith, and we have a lot to talk about."
Tom's eyes widened as he struggled against his restraints. Richard allowed him a moment of defiance before he swung a metal pipe sharply into Tom's groin. Tom doubled over, gasping for air, the gag in his mouth muffling the scream that never came.
"Where was I?" Richard continued, as though they were having a casual conversation. "Oh, yes. The last time we saw each other was in court. Do you remember? The trial that let you walk free after killing the love of my life?"
Tom's breathing became frantic, his muffled sounds of pain filling the warehouse with a sickening rhythm.
Richard calmly removed a gun from his pocket, his eyes locking onto Tom's with cold precision. Without hesitation, he fired three quick shots into Tom's abdomen. The screams that followed were muffled by the gag, but they echoed like a twisted melody in Richard's ears.
"That's your liver," Richard said, his voice almost clinical. "You see, the liver is an interesting organ. Even if doctors arrived at this very moment, there's little chance they could save you. But don't worry, I've researched this. You'll have time. Time to understand what you've done."
Tom's breath was labored, his face contorted in agony. Richard stood back, watching, as his captive's struggles grew weaker. He didn't feel joy—he felt peace. A dark, sickening peace. It was as though Sarah's spirit was with him, witnessing this final act of justice.
Richard leaned against the wall, speaking softly as Tom's breaths grew shallow. "My family... we were honest people. We didn't have wealth, we didn't have influence, but we had integrity. And you walked away because you had money, privilege—because you could afford to."
Tom's eyes glazed over as the pain overtook him. His sobs became weak, his body trembling with each breath.
Richard waited, watching the light dim in Tom's eyes, his resistance crumbling beneath the weight of his agony. Every time Tom seemed to fade, Richard would toss another bucket of water over him, pulling him back to consciousness, back to his punishment.
Finally, Richard knew it was time. He leaned forward, his voice soft, but full of finality. "I've waited for this moment for a long time, Mr. Morris. But my time is short. I'll be joining my wife soon."
Richard raised the gun to Tom's head, and for just a moment, he hesitated. The silence was thick.
Then, without further ceremony, he pulled the trigger. Tom's head fell to the side, his body slack as the echo of the shot faded into silence.
Richard stood, staring at the lifeless body before him. He felt no satisfaction, only a hollow emptiness. He turned the gun in his hand, lifting it to his own head.
A single tear traced down his cheek as he whispered, "Sarah, my love, I'm coming. Wait for me." And with that, he pulled the trigger one last time.