I watch them from the shadows, waiting. The cold air wraps around me like a cloak, but it's not the chill that makes my blood run cold. It's the sound of their laughter. Carefree, unbothered. The kind of laughter I used to know.

A young man and a woman, both in their mid-20s. They're holding hands, lost in their own world as they stumble down the street. The city lights reflect in their eyes, but I know they don't see the danger. They never do.

I take a step forward, my boots quiet on the wet pavement. They're too busy to notice me. Good. I've been waiting for this. The moment where I make them understand what it feels like to live with a scar that never heals. They think 25 is just a number. For me, it's a reminder of everything I lost.

25 years old—my age, back then.

I never expected it to all fall apart like that. But it did. The betrayal. The loss. The hollow emptiness that never truly leaves you. Now, I can't look at someone who's 25 without seeing the face of that person—the one who destroyed me. The one who taught me that no one can be trusted.

I stop just behind them, waiting until they've turned the corner into the alley. The perfect place. Secluded. Quiet. Alone.

I pull the mask over my face. The adrenaline surges through me as I move toward them. They don't even know what's coming. She's talking about something trivial—some story I'm sure won't matter in a few minutes. His attention is on her, his back turned to me. They're vulnerable. Easy.

I draw the knife, the weight of it familiar in my hand. There's a moment when everything goes still. I don't think. I don't feel. All I know is that this—this—will make the pain stop, even if it's just for a second.

The woman screams. The man spins around just in time to catch a glimpse of me, his eyes widening. But it's too late. My blade is already sinking deep into his side. He gasps, reaching out, but there's nothing he can do. The life is draining from him.

Her scream pierces the night as she stumbles back, her eyes wild with panic. But I've already moved. She's as good as dead. She doesn't even see the blade coming until it's too late.

I stand over them, watching the blood pool beneath them. The silence settles in like a thick fog. I can't remember the last time I felt this calm. It's not about the deaths. It's not even about them. It's about what they represent. What they remind me of. The years I lost, the people who betrayed me. This is justice, in my own twisted way.

I kneel down and pull the note from my pocket, placing it on the man's chest, the blood staining the paper as I scrawl the words with shaky hands.

"25 years, 25 dead."

It's my confession. My warning. And it's just the beginning.

I step back, taking one last look at the bodies. They won't be the last. There are many more. But for now, I disappear into the darkness, leaving only my mark behind.

The police will be baffled. They won't understand the connection. But they will. Eventually. They'll have to. Because I won't stop until they do.

Until everyone does.

And when they do, when they finally figure it out, it'll be too late. Because I've already started.