I've been chasing shadows for too long. The answers have been right in front of me all along, and I've been too blind to see them. The killer wasn't just some stranger, some faceless monster who'd slipped through the cracks of society. No, the killer—the killer—was someone I should've recognized. Someone I should've remembered. But I didn't. And now, as I sit here, staring at the confession letter in my hands, the weight of it is suffocating.
It's too late now. Too late to pretend I didn't know. Too late to deny it. The name on the letter feels like a slap in the face, a cruel twist of fate I never saw coming.
The confession begins, just like all the others, but this one is different. This one is personal.
"Miles, I know you're reading this, and I know you're trying to figure out what went wrong. I was there. I watched you suffer, and I watched them all fade away. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't let it go. Not until you understand."
I let the words sink in, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands shake, and I drop the letter onto the table, unable to continue reading for a second. But I have no choice. I pick it up again, forcing myself to read on.
"At 25, everything changed. You know that, don't you? You felt it, too. We all did. We were children, and they took everything from us. But you... you were the lucky one. You survived. I didn't. And now, I have to make you understand. You need to feel it. You need to know what it's like to lose everything. To be nothing."
The killer isn't just some twisted mind, they're speaking to me. This letter—this confession—isn't just a cry for attention. It's a message. A message for me.
I close my eyes, taking a slow breath. This wasn't just a random attack. This was calculated. Every victim was a piece in the puzzle, each one representing a step in the process of making me understand their pain. The pain I thought I'd buried, the pain I've never let go of, the pain I thought I could outrun.
I let out a sharp breath.
"I watched you, Miles. I was there at Riverstone. I was there when everything fell apart. And you don't even remember me, do you? I was always there, always lurking in the background, but you never saw me. You were too caught up in your own grief to notice. And that's why I had to do this. I had to make you feel it. The betrayal. The loss. You need to understand what I went through."
I can barely breathe. My mind is racing, my thoughts are spiraling out of control. I want to scream, I want to throw something across the room. I feel like I'm drowning, like the walls are closing in on me, and I can't escape.
"You think I'm crazy. You think I'm some kind of monster. But I'm not. I'm the one who's been wronged. I'm the one who's been hurt. I'm the one who's had to live with the scars, the ones that you can't see. I'm just making them pay. The way they made me pay. It's not too late, Miles. You can still join me. You can still understand."
I drop the letter onto the table again, my hands shaking uncontrollably. My heart is pounding in my chest, and for a moment, I can't breathe. I have to stop them. I have to end this. But... I don't know if I can.
Because the truth is, I see it now. The anger. The betrayal. The pain that drives this person. The killer. They're not just some random stranger. They're someone I know. Someone I've known for years. Someone I've trusted. And now, I'm staring at the wreckage of my own past, and I realize that I've been the one who's been blind. I've been the one who's been asleep.
"You should've seen it coming. We both should have. But you're too late, Miles. You'll never catch me now. The pain is already done. The only thing left is for you to accept it. To feel it, the way I did. The way I had to."
I feel sick. I know who it is now. I can see their face in my mind, their smile—too innocent, too perfect, too familiar. My stomach churns, and I have to swallow the bile that rises in my throat. It's not just a murderer, it's someone I trusted. Someone I was close to. Someone who should've been by my side. And now, they're gone, twisted by their own grief.
I can't breathe. My head is spinning. The confession wasn't just about pain—it was about revenge. It was about making the world feel what they felt. And now... they've almost succeeded.
But there's a problem.
I'm not sure if I want to stop them.
---
I look down at the confession letter again. The ink is smudged in places, and I can barely focus on the words. My thoughts are clouded, tangled in a web of guilt and anger. The killer—they—wanted me to feel what they felt, but it's so much more than that. It's not just about the victims anymore. It's about me. It's about the way I can't escape my own grief, my own trauma.
I have a choice to make.
I've been chasing this person, desperate to stop them. But now that I know who they are, I wonder... should I stop them? Should I put an end to this twisted version of justice, or should I let them finish what they started?
Maybe, just maybe, the real question is whether I can stop them. Can I stop this darkness from consuming me the way it consumed them?
The decision burns in my chest, and it feels like the world is waiting for my answer. But the only thing I know for sure right now is that I'm standing at the edge of something I can't undo.