Hunter moved like a shadow.
From head to toe, he was dressed in all black. Hoodie up. Gloves on. Black rubber-soled shoes, with a small backpack securely tied to his back.
It was 3:07 AM. The sky was almost pitch black; the deepest navy possible. He had a comfortable three hours until the first hints of sunrise.
The night was silent, save for the occasional rustling of leaves. No cars, no wind, not even the hum of streetlights nearby. Only darkness. Perfect.
He could hear anything and anyone coming from a mile away.
It helped that David lived in a quiet area, away from the bustle of downtown. He was still careful to not let his guard down.
Hunter cuts through side streets, hops a low fence, and slips behind hedges along the side of David's house. Standing beneath a large tree, he stared up at the second-floor window. The branches extended over the side roof. It was overgrown, providing ideal cover.
A motion sensor light flicks on in the neighbor's backyard. He freezes… but nothing follows. It goes dark again.
He slung his bag higher on his shoulder, grabbed a low branch, and started to climb.
He'd done recon the previous few days, every time David left for work. And then again, the previous night, when he left for the work trip.
David did have some level of security. But it was hardly a full-blown fortress.
Hunter knows which upstairs window leads to the bathroom. The one David never locks. He only had locks and alarms placed on the downstairs windows, but never bothered with upstairs.
He didn't know what to expect inside the house, so he came prepared.
The branch leaning towards the bathroom window was flimsy, at best. Eyeing it carefully, he decided to take his chances. It looked like it may hold his very light body weight.
If it doesn't, well… what a way to sign out. Splat.
Hunter half smiled at his own bad joke, as he edged his way towards the end of the branch. It was a couple of meters away from the windowsill. He'd have to swing to it.
Taking a deep breath, he looked down. He was not afraid of heights, but breaking his leg outside of David's house was not his idea of a fun Saturday night out.
It was now or never. Time to commit. There was no other way inside the house without having to force his way in.
He leapt off the branch.
For a split second, he was weightless. Suspended in the air, reaching.
Fingers brushed the windowsill. Not enough.
Gravity yanked him down…
But his right hand latched onto the ledge at the last second, muscles screaming.
He grunted, swinging slightly, legs kicking at nothing.
For a moment, he dangled there, heart hammering.
Then, slowly, he hauled himself up, inch by inch. The window was right there.
Breathing hard, he let his forehead rest against the cold wall for a second, chest rising and falling. That was too close.
Once steady, he reached into his bag and pulled out a thin pry bar. Small, sleek, and black like everything else he carried.
He wedged it under the frame. The wood resisted, swollen with old paint and weather. Every creak felt like a shout in the silence. Like the house itself didn't want to let him in.
He pushed anyway.
A soft pop broke the quiet, sharp and final.
He froze and held his breath.
Nothing stirred.
Then, he eased the window up, just enough to slip through.
He slides inside, landing quietly in the dark bathroom.
There's a moment of stillness. He stands there, eyes adjusting, straining to hear if the house is truly empty.
Exhaling, he extracts a small directional flashlight from his bag. Cheap red cellophane was pulled and crudely taped across it, casting an eerie crimson glow.
Just enough to see, but not to be seen.
Hunter stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway, letting the door close behind him with a soft click.
The red-filtered torch cast a narrow cone of light, painting the walls in shifting crimson. The effect was unsettling.
Shadows pooled like blood clots in the corners. Every surface seemed to breathe under the red hue, and for a moment, he felt like he was inside something alive.
He moved slowly, each step placed with surgical care.
David's house was cold. Empty. Too clean. Almost like nobody lived there.
There were three doors on this floor. All shut. He picked the first on the left.
The red beam from his torch slid across beige carpet and a single, neatly made bed. A chest of drawers. A wardrobe.
He stepped inside.
It was like a hotel room no one had ever checked into.
He opened the drawers one by one. Rolled socks. Plain boxers. Crisp, folded T-shirts in a monochrome palette. No clutter. No loose receipts. No forgotten keys or personal junk.
It was like someone had Googled "how to fill a dresser" and followed the instructions exactly.
The wardrobe was the same. Three button-down shirts. Two jackets. One pair of polished dress shoes.
Hunter searched the closet floor, behind the hanging clothes, above the shelf. Nothing.
He crouched and ran a hand under the bed.
Dustless.
Every movement was silent except the soft scuff of his gloves against fabric.
His brows knit together. No books, no pictures, no cables, no chargers. No sign anyone lived here.
It wasn't minimalism. It was absence.
A low chill crept up his spine.
Always knew there was something wrong with him. Creep.
He backed out, quietly closing the door behind him.
Time for the second door.
He paused, hand hovering over the knob. His pulse had steadied now, but tension still gripped him.
Something told him before he even opened it… this might be it.
David's study.
He pressed his ear to the wood. Nothing. Not even the soft hum of electronics. Still, he waited, listening through the quiet like it was a language only a patient man could hear.
The door opened with a faint groan, and Hunter winced. But it didn't echo. The thick carpet inside absorbed the sound like a secret.
He stepped into the room.
The smell hit first. Aged paper, leather, and the faintest trace of something smoky. Not cigarette smoke. Older. More like dried herbs or burnt wood.
The study was immaculate. Everything had its place. Shelves lined with books, all alphabetized. A small desk, no clutter. A lamp with a green glass shade. Deep green curtains pulled tight.
As if even moonlight wasn't welcome here.
He switched on the lamp and swept the red beam across the room. It passed over a glass case on the shelf. Inside, a stuffed hawk sat frozen mid-motion, wings half-raised, beak slightly open. Its beady eyes glinted red in the light, almost alive.
Hunter frowned.
He stepped closer to the desk and opened the top drawer. Pens, arranged in perfect lines. Nothing else.
Second drawer.
Old papers. Legal documents. A thick folder labeled "The Art of Argument: Law & Rhetoric."
Another folder, thinner: "Microexpressions and Influence."
His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, flipping through them. Nothing obviously illegal. Just… strange. Obsessive.
Then he opened the bottom drawer.
Near the back, nestled between two thick files, something caught his eye: a small glass jar. Dusty, unlabeled.
No, wait. There was a label. Handwritten.
Ashes, 2002.
He stared at it.
Not large enough for a pet. Too small for…
He put it down.
No proof. Just downright creepy.
Then, just as he was about to close the drawer, something metallic scraped lightly inside.
He reached in again, lifting a thin book from the side.
It was hollowed out. Inside, a small bottle of whiskey nestled in felt lining. Untouched.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.
A strange place to hide something so… tame. But that was what bothered him. It was all so meticulous, yet so strange.
He pulled open the last drawer. Papers, neatly clipped. A few business cards. And, almost missed among the files, a photo frame. Face down.
He flipped it over.
There, in faded color, was his mother.
Kat. In a white wedding dress. She was laughing, turned sideways, holding a bouquet.
Beside her stood David. Much younger, longer hair, wearing a dark suit.
Next to them, a rough tear through the photograph. Someone had ripped a third person out.
Hunter didn't need to guess who. He stared at the jagged edge where his father used to be.
David and Kat remained, intact. Smiling. As if they'd been the only ones there.
Hunter's throat tightened. A slow, simmering fury pressed behind his ribs. He knew David was always fond of his mother, to say the least. But this? This painted another picture entirely.
Now it was personal.
He quickly put the photo back, turning away from the desk. A gut feeling was crawling up from his stomach like a warning.
He hadn't checked the books yet.
Moving closer, he ran his fingers along the spines. Titles whispered of law, psychology, influence, control. Books people read when they wanted to manipulate others without them knowing.
He pulled them out, one by one, almost desperate to find something. A missing piece.
One thick hardcover felt... off. Lighter than it should be.
He slid it out.
It thumped differently than the others. Not the soft thud of paper and binding. This one was hollow.
Hunter turned it over in his hands, heart already speeding up.
Inside, the book had been gutted. A perfect rectangle carved into its pages.
A small, black box sat inside. Holding his breath, he opened it.
A phone.
It was an old model. Dusty, matte black. No stickers, no markings. Utterly blank, like it had been scrubbed of identity. Yet something about it felt deliberate. Like it had been waiting for him.
Hunter's pulse shot up. He pressed the power button.
The screen flared to life instantly.
No password. No SIM lock.
His throat tightened as he quickly looked through it.
No texts. No contacts. Just one call in the recent history.
One number. Unsaved.
But he knew it.
He knew it.
It was Kat's.
The breath slammed out of him.
For a second, everything narrowed.
His eyes darted to the timestamp.
11:33 PM.
The night she died.
The walls, the air, the study of the man who said he hadn't seen or spoken to her in months. The light from the red-filtered torch in his hand. It was all suddenly far away.
Hunter's heart was thundering now, hot and frantic against his ribs.
The call had lasted only a few seconds. No voicemail. No recording.
Hunter stared at the screen.
The numbers blurred.
He felt sick.
Hunter looked at the timestamp again, his brain replaying that awful timeline.
He remembered how strange it had seemed. How unlike her. She never left that late. Never without telling him where she was going.
Unless…
Unless she didn't think she had to.
His breath caught in his throat.
She left because she trusted the person who called.
She left because she knew them.
Because they said something that made her go without hesitation.
Because it was David.
Hunter's stomach turned. His hand clenched around the burner until the plastic creaked.
She picked up. She went to him. And she never came back.
The screen dimmed in his hand, but the silence it left behind was deafening.
The thought struck like a blade – cold, precise, final.
He lured her out. She trusted him. And he killed her.
The truth settled in his bones like ice.
Hunter stood there in the dark, barely breathing.
And for the first time since his mother's death…
He didn't feel lost.
He felt certain.
David was going to pay.