It's funny how time works. You think you've buried the past deep enough, that you've moved on. But then something happens—a name, a face, a number—and suddenly, you're back there. Back to that moment. Back to when everything changed.
I can still see it so clearly. 25. The age that shattered everything. That single year, everything I thought I knew about life, about trust, crumbled in an instant. The world as I knew it disappeared, and I was left in its wreckage, choking on the debris.
I was full of potential back then. Young, hopeful. Like them—like her. Ivy. The next target. She doesn't know it yet, but she's already a part of my story. She's 25, just like me, just like all the others. She'll never see me coming. No one ever does.
I remember how it felt to be 25. I remember the innocence, the excitement that the world had something to offer me. I was so naïve. So sure I could trust. But the moment I found out I couldn't—well, that's when everything changed. When the betrayal happened, I thought my heart might stop. I remember it like it was yesterday. That gut-wrenching moment when the world I thought I knew ripped itself apart.
I thought I could handle it. At first. You always think you can handle it, don't you? But the lies, the deceit, the feeling that someone you loved had shattered everything you stood for—that kind of thing leaves scars. It makes you question everything. You start seeing the world through a cracked lens. And that's when I realized—I was never going to be the same.
I look at Ivy now, standing across the street, laughing with her friends like the world is her playground. She has no idea. She doesn't know what it's like to be hollowed out like I was. I wonder if she even realizes how fragile everything is. That the life she's living, that carefree attitude—it's all built on sand.
The past is always waiting, just beneath the surface, ready to drag you under. And people like Ivy—people who live without fear, without regret—are the perfect targets. She's 25. She's at the same age I was when it all went to hell. The same age I was when I lost everything.
Ivy's in a café, sipping her coffee, scrolling through her phone like she has all the time in the world. I watch her for a while. She's laughing, chatting with friends. I wonder how many of them have no idea what's about to happen. How many of them think she's invincible, that nothing could hurt her.
I envy her a little. I envy the way she floats through life, unaware of how easily it can all change. Unaware that her 25 years could be her last.
It wasn't always like this. I didn't always do this. But once you start—once you begin to take back what was stolen from you—there's no going back. You become addicted to it. To the feeling of control. To the power of making someone else understand, just for a moment, the pain you felt. The betrayal you endured.
I'm going to make Ivy see it. I'll make her feel it. She thinks she's free. She thinks she's invulnerable. But she's wrong.
I wonder if she even knows how much power a single moment can have. How something as small as a number, a year, can change everything.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and slip into the crowd, keeping my distance. Not yet. It's not the right time. But soon. Very soon, Ivy's carefree world will crash down. And she'll understand. She'll understand what it's like to lose everything.
I will make her understand.
But first, I need to take a deep breath. I need to keep my calm. Patience is key. Timing is everything.
Ivy's not going anywhere. Not yet. But she will.
And so will every other 25-year-old I find. Every other one who's lived with the privilege of not knowing what it feels like to have your world taken away in the blink of an eye.
The first confession was just the beginning.