The streets didn't sleep, but Ethan no longer noticed them.
His mind was noise—unrelenting, invasive. Flashes of the girl's eyes. Her breath. The sound of Anderson's scream. The blood.
He couldn't shut it off. Couldn't breathe without choking on it.
He stared into mirrors and saw nothing familiar. A stranger. A machine fueled by grief and guilt. He hadn't spoken to anyone in days. No one left to speak to. His phone was gone. His past buried.
And yet… he moved.
He trained harder. Longer. Until his limbs trembled and his knuckles split. He whispered to himself at night—names, prayers, apologies.
"I'm doing this for you," he'd mutter to the dark. "For Alex. For Dad. For Mom."
It was a lie. He knew it. But it kept him upright.
*Marcus* had spoken the name once in prison, long ago—spitting it through clenched teeth, whispering it like a curse:
*Harris Grant.*
A congressman, wealthy, clean, untouchable. One of the key signatures on the deal that built the waste plant. Ethan's father had tried to speak to him. Grant never answered the call.
That made him next.
Ethan researched him obsessively. Grant's routine. His estate. His family. His speeches on community, justice, prosperity—the lies dressed in smiles.
As he watched, night after night, from a distance, Ethan didn't feel rage anymore.
Just… emptiness.
He didn't fantasize about revenge like he used to. He just calculated. Plotted. Not for justice. Not even for balance. Just to finish what he started.
The weight in his chest never lifted. But movement dulled it.
So he moved.
Harris Grant wouldn't see it coming.
Ethan would make sure of it.