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And outside, the rain kept falling — steady, relentless — washing over the rooftops of Sanctuary as if trying, futilely, to cleanse it of the darkness now moving quietly beneath its surface.
The morning after the storm broke gray and slow, as if even the sun was reluctant to rise over Sanctuary. The settlement was quieter than usual — not silent, but subdued in a way that pressed against the air itself. Rain had left everything damp and glistening, from the rooftops to the cobblestones, and a faint mist still curled through the streets. It blurred the sharp edges of things, softened them — but nothing could soften what hung in the minds of those inside the command hall.
Sico stood at the head of the table, his palms braced on the edge, staring down at the spread of papers, photos, and field notes scattered before him. The map of Sanctuary was marked with small red pins — three of them, forming an ugly triangle across the southern district. Each pin represented a place where someone's life had been stolen.
Sarah stood at his right side, her arms folded tight across her chest. The faint lines under her eyes betrayed another sleepless night. Across from her, Preston sat with a notebook open, tapping the pen against its edge in a slow rhythm that filled the heavy silence. Robert leaned against the far wall, his rifle propped beside him, while MacCready sat on the corner of the table, his hat pushed back slightly, chewing at the inside of his cheek.
The air was thick — not just with fatigue, but with frustration. They'd done everything right: patrols doubled, watch schedules rotated, curfews enforced. And yet, nothing. The killer was still out there, moving unseen, waiting.
Finally, Sico broke the silence. His voice was low, rough from disuse and lack of sleep.
"He hunts at night," he said. "We know that much. Always between midnight and three. Always in the same pattern — he follows, stalks, waits until the target's alone."
Sarah nodded grimly. "And the targets are always women. Different ages, different jobs, no direct connection between them — at least none that Curie could find."
Preston flipped open a folder and pushed it toward the center of the table. The faces of the victims looked up from the photos — three women, each with the same hollow sadness frozen in their final moments. "Random victims," he said quietly. "But not random choice. He's watching them first. Studying them."
MacCready exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "So we're dealing with someone who's patient. Careful. That's worse. He's not just some lunatic snapping at shadows — this bastard knows what he's doing."
Robert's voice came next, cool and grounded, but heavy. "He's confident too. The way he dumps the bodies? That's not panic. That's… performance. He wants them found."
Sico's eyes narrowed. "He wants to send a message."
Sarah looked up at him. "To who?"
There was a long pause before Sico answered. "To us."
The words dropped like a weight.
For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then Preston leaned forward. "You think he's targeting the Republic itself?"
Sico didn't look up from the table. "Maybe not at first. But now? Yes. He's taunting us. He's proving he can move under our watch, take our people, and vanish without a trace."
Sarah's tone hardened. "Then we stop him tonight."
MacCready tilted his head slightly, watching her. "You got a plan, Cap?"
She glanced at Sico, waiting for him to answer — and when he didn't, she took it as permission to continue. "He works in the dark, right? Always near the same districts. He's hunting opportunity. So we make one for him."
Sico finally lifted his eyes. "Bait."
Sarah nodded. "Exactly."
Preston frowned slightly. "Risky. If he's as careful as we think, he'll smell a setup from a mile away."
"Not if it looks real," Sico said. His voice had changed — quieter, more focused. "He's been watching us. That means he knows our patrol routes, our timing. If we make a believable change — something that looks natural, like a gap in security — he might take the chance."
Robert pushed off the wall, folding his arms. "You're suggesting we fake a lapse in patrol coverage?"
"Yes," Sico replied. "Just one night. We'll adjust the rotation near the southern market — the last place he struck. Make it look like the night shift was reassigned for resource movement."
Sarah added, "Then we place an undercover unit there. A small one — two people, no visible weapons, nothing to draw suspicion."
MacCready smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Lemme guess — you want volunteers."
Sico's gaze turned to him. "You're one of them."
MacCready blinked. "What?"
"You blend in," Sico said. "You've worked those streets before. People know you — hell, they barely look twice when you walk by. That's what we need."
MacCready's smirk faded into a resigned sigh. "Figures."
"And the second?" Robert asked.
Sico looked toward Sarah. "Her."
Sarah straightened slightly, meeting his gaze. "I can do it."
Preston frowned, concern flickering across his features. "You'll be walking right into his hunting ground. You sure about this?"
She gave a tight nod. "We can't ask others to risk it if we're not willing to do the same."
Sico studied her for a moment — longer than usual. There was something unspoken in that look, something between respect and worry, but when he spoke again, his tone was firm. "All right. MacCready and Sarah will be the bait. Preston, Robert — you'll coordinate the shadow teams. I want full visual coverage, no gaps. Every rooftop, every alley."
Robert nodded once. "We'll have spotters ready. Silenced rifles, no lights."
Preston began jotting notes, already sketching the rough perimeter. "We can use the high balconies around the market district. If he shows himself, we'll have him boxed in within thirty seconds."
Sico leaned over the map. "He's been working near the robotics bay. That means he knows our response times, too. If he's planning an escape, he'll go for the back alleys near the eastern drainage."
Sarah tapped the map. "We can seal those exits ahead of time. Quietly. Place patrols in civilian gear, disguised as traders or laborers."
"Good," Sico said. "We close the circle without him knowing."
MacCready looked between them, his tone half-grim, half-wry. "You make it sound simple."
Sico glanced at him. "Nothing about this is simple."
There was a silence then — not awkward, but weighted with what they all knew. This wasn't just another mission. It wasn't a warfront skirmish or a raid against raiders. This was something uglier — something personal.
Sarah broke the silence first. "What about communication?"
Robert answered, "Short-range encrypted channel, no chatter. If he shows, one ping to alert all teams."
Sico nodded. "And no one fires unless I give the order. We take him alive if possible."
Preston frowned slightly. "And if he doesn't give us that chance?"
Sico's voice came cold and quiet. "Then we make sure he never hurts anyone again."
The plan was set by midday. Every detail, every blind corner, every possible escape route was discussed, redrawn, and rehearsed. By afternoon, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky a pale blue-gray streaked with the remnants of mist. The calm before the night felt almost mocking.
When evening came, the shift began.
Sanctuary looked peaceful from a distance — lanterns glowing softly along the streets, the sound of laughter returning faintly from the market. But beneath the surface, the city was braced tight. Hidden eyes watched from windows and rooftops. Patrols moved with purpose. No one was where they seemed to be.
Sarah and MacCready walked together through the lower district, blending into the slow trickle of people heading home from the markets. Sarah wore civilian clothes — a simple leather jacket and worn jeans, her pistol hidden beneath her sleeve. MacCready carried a satchel slung over his shoulder, a rifle disassembled within.
"You know," MacCready muttered, glancing sideways, "for bait, you don't exactly look helpless."
Sarah smirked faintly. "Would you prefer I start screaming for help already?"
He grinned despite the tension. "Might sell the act."
Their comms crackled softly with Robert's voice. "Eyes on. Southern perch clear. Market side secure."
Then Preston: "West alley team in position. No movement."
Sico's voice followed, steady and low. "Stay sharp. He's out there. Wait for him to make the first move."
Hours passed.
The night deepened. The streets thinned. The lanterns burned lower. Sanctuary's hum of life faded to the quiet rustle of wind between buildings.
Sarah and MacCready walked slower now, letting the silence stretch naturally. Somewhere above, rainwater dripped steadily from a pipe.
"Feels too quiet," MacCready murmured.
"That's what he wants," Sarah replied softly. "He waits for the quiet."
Her eyes flicked toward the shadowed mouth of an alley just ahead — narrow, half-lit, and leading toward the empty eastern path. A perfect place for someone to vanish.
They walked past it.
And that's when she felt it.
That shift in the air — faint, predatory. The subtle scrape of a boot against stone behind them.
Her breath slowed. Her hand twitched near her hidden weapon.
MacCready's voice barely moved the air. "You hear that?"
"Yes."
Another sound — this one closer. A soft exhale.
Then, a voice — low, almost intimate.
"Out late, aren't you?"
Sarah turned slowly.
A figure stepped from the shadows — tall, thin, wearing a mechanic's jacket darkened with grime. His face caught the lantern light for an instant, and there was no mistaking him. Victor Ross.
His smile was thin, wrong. "Shouldn't wander alone. Dangerous people around."
MacCready shifted his stance, ready to draw, but Sico's voice crackled over the comms. "Wait. Let him talk."
Sarah kept her voice calm. "You mean people like you?"
Ross tilted his head, amused. "Me? No. I'm just cleaning up the filth." His eyes glinted in the dim light.
Absolutely — I'll continue exactly from that moment between Sarah and Victor Ross, keeping everything you wrote intact and expanding it into a deeply humanized, immersive continuation over 2,500 words, with cinematic pacing, grounded emotion, and realistic dialogue. I'll carry through Ross's twisted reasoning, Sarah's attempts to reach through his madness, the quiet tension as the shadow teams wait for Sico's order, and the storm of emotion and violence that follows.
Let's begin.
⸻
The rain had thinned to a whisper, a ghost of the earlier storm. It fell in soft, uneven drops that clung to the cobblestones like dew. Somewhere, a loose shutter creaked against the wind. Sarah could hear her own heartbeat in her ears — a steady, cautious rhythm, anchoring her to the moment.
Victor Ross stood a few paces away, framed by the weak glow of a hanging lantern. His eyes were wild but lucid, like a man both trapped inside and steering his madness. The rain had slicked his hair back, revealing a narrow, sharp face with hollow cheeks and lips that twitched as though the words he wanted to say fought each other for space.
Sarah took a slow breath and steadied her stance. Her voice came quiet, almost gentle — not the bark of a commander but the soft cadence of someone who wanted to understand.
"Why are you doing this, Victor?"
Ross blinked, the question hitting him like a slap. For a moment, his face twisted — confusion, anger, and something else flickering in his eyes. He gave a short, bitter laugh, low and humorless.
"Why?" he repeated. "Because women are filth in this world."
MacCready shifted slightly beside Sarah, his jaw tightening, but she lifted a hand — subtle, restrained — telling him not to act yet. She kept her focus on Ross.
"Filth?" she echoed quietly.
Ross's mouth curled into something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so empty.
"They cheat. They lie. They destroy men — every single one of them. You think I don't see it? You think I don't know what they are?"
Sarah didn't answer right away. The words hung heavy in the mist, filled with venom and pain. She could feel the others listening over the comms — the faint static of breath, the silence of soldiers waiting for a command that hadn't come. But she knew that if she moved too fast, if she gave Preston the signal, they'd lose the only chance to understand what drove this man — and that understanding might be the only way to bring him down without blood.
Her tone stayed steady, low, deliberate. "You sound like someone who's been hurt before, Victor."
He froze. For an instant, something flickered in his eyes — fear, memory, recognition — and then it vanished under a mask of rage.
"Why do you care?" he hissed. "Why does it matter to you?"
Sarah didn't flinch. "Because you've killed three innocent women who did nothing to you," she said, her words quiet but firm, slicing through the mist. "They had families, friends. They trusted the Republic to keep them safe."
Ross's breathing quickened. His knuckles went white around the knife he held. "All women are the same," he spat. "Every damn one. They act like they care, like they see you — but they don't. Not unless you've got power. Money. Something they can use."
His voice trembled, cracking on the last word, and for a moment the monster standing before her wasn't a killer — it was a man drowning in bitterness. Sarah saw it, just for a heartbeat: the shadow of who he'd been before the hate consumed him.
She took a step closer, slow and careful.
"Someone hurt you," she said. "Didn't they?"
Ross's hand twitched. The knife glinted faintly in the rainlight.
"You don't know anything about it."
"Then tell me," Sarah said softly. "Make me understand."
He shook his head, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him. The rain gathered on his lashes, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
"She said she loved me," he muttered. "Said I was different. That I mattered." He gave a hollow laugh that broke halfway through. "Turns out I was just the backup plan. The safe bet until someone better came along. Some trader from Diamond City with a shiny caravan and fancy words."
Sarah listened — really listened. The pieces fell into place. A betrayal, a spiral, and somewhere along the line, a fracture so deep it swallowed what little goodness was left. But even knowing that, she couldn't let pity replace focus.
"Her name was Lorna," Ross continued, his voice thick with memory. "We lived in Goodneighbor for a while. Thought we had something real. I worked scav jobs, hauling scrap and junk for caps while she waited tables. She said it didn't matter that we were broke. Said we'd build something together." He gave another sharp laugh — not from humor, but pain. "You ever hear words like that, soldier? They sound real until someone better walks through the door."
MacCready's jaw tightened. Sarah could feel his tension, but she didn't look away from Ross.
"So you killed her," Sarah said quietly.
Ross's head snapped up, eyes burning. "She deserved it."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The rain ticked against the metal gutters. The comm line was dead-still.
Sarah spoke carefully. "And the others?"
"They reminded me of her," Ross said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The way they looked at me — the way they smiled. Like they were pretending to care. Like they saw me as something less. I couldn't stand it. Not again."
Sarah's stomach turned. His words weren't just justification; they were confession — and she could feel how much he believed them. How the world, broken as it was, had warped him until he could no longer tell the difference between pain and purpose.
She took another step forward. "Victor, listen to me. You can still stop this. You can surrender. No one else has to die."
Ross laughed again — a sound like glass breaking. "Surrender? You think they'll let me live? You think your precious Republic will let a man like me walk away? No. You'll hang me in the square and call it justice."
Sarah didn't look away. "That's not true."
"Yes, it is," he hissed. "You'll smile while they do it."
He moved suddenly — one step forward, knife flashing. Sarah's reflexes kicked in. She drew her weapon, raising it just enough to stop him.
"Don't!" she warned.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, over the comms, Sico's voice came — low, calm, precise. "Hold position. Don't fire unless you have to."
Sarah didn't answer — she couldn't. Her focus was locked on Ross's eyes. They were shaking now, darting between her gun and her face, between rage and desperation. His voice came out broken.
"They all lie. You're lying too."
"No," Sarah said. "I'm not."
"You are!" he shouted, lunging forward.
The world snapped into motion. MacCready moved first, shoving Sarah sideways as the knife slashed through the air where she'd been standing. The blade nicked her sleeve but missed flesh. MacCready kicked forward, catching Ross in the ribs, sending him staggering back into the wall.
"Target hostile!" Robert's voice snapped over the comms.
"Do not fire!" Sico barked immediately. "We need him alive!"
Ross hit the ground but rolled with surprising speed. The knife flashed again — this time toward MacCready. The merc ducked, caught Ross's wrist, and twisted hard, but Ross's strength was fueled by something unhinged. He drove a knee up into MacCready's stomach, sending him sprawling backward.
Sarah recovered fast, weapon steady again. "Ross! Drop it!"
Ross's breath came ragged, wild. His hand trembled around the knife.
"You think you're better than me?" he growled. "You're just another liar."
He lunged again — but this time, Sarah sidestepped, catching his wrist mid-swing and twisting it. The knife clattered to the ground. In one motion, she shoved him hard against the wall and pinned his arm behind his back. He struggled, shouting incoherently — words lost in fury.
"Enough!" she shouted. "It's over!"
But Ross didn't stop. He kicked back hard, knocking her balance for half a second — enough to twist free. His hand shot toward the knife again.
The shot cracked through the night like thunder — sharp, final, merciless.
Ross screamed.
The sound wasn't just pain; it was something primal — a wounded animal's cry of fury and fear tangled together. He crumpled instantly, the knife clattering from his hand, its metal echo lost beneath the patter of the rain. His leg jerked, blood spilling across the cobblestones, a dark stain spreading in the gutter.
"Got him!" Robert's voice cut through the comms, taut with adrenaline.
Sarah didn't hesitate. She was already moving — boots splashing through shallow puddles as she kicked the knife away, grabbed Ross's arm, and pinned him face-down against the cold, wet street. Her breath came in controlled bursts. The world narrowed to motion and instinct.
"Stay down," she hissed, wrenching his arm back.
Ross groaned — half snarl, half sob. "You— You shot me…"
"Should've stopped when we told you," Sarah said sharply. She pulled her cuffs from her belt and clicked them around his wrists in one swift, practiced motion. "Target has been captured," she said into her walkie-talkie, voice steady but carrying the faint tremor of spent adrenaline.
The comm crackled.
Sico's voice came through, cool and composed. "Copy that. Hold your position. We're moving in."
Sarah looked up, rain streaking across her face. For a moment, she just breathed — feeling the weight of it all sink in. The air smelled of iron and wet dust. Her hands were trembling slightly, not from fear but from the release that came after the storm.
MacCready stepped beside her, his rifle still raised, scanning the shadows. "Damn it, Robert," he muttered, though there was no real anger in it. "Could've warned us before you fired."
Robert emerged from the alley's edge, lowering his rifle, eyes still alert. "If I hadn't, he would've gutted one of you."
"Yeah," MacCready admitted, exhaling hard. "Guess I owe you a beer."
Ross groaned again, his voice hoarse. "You… you think you're heroes…"
Sarah glanced down at him. His eyes were wide, glazed with pain and something else — disbelief, maybe. The defiance was still there, though thinner now, cracking beneath the weight of his wound.
"We think you're lucky to still be breathing," she said quietly.
Moments later, headlights cut through the mist. A pair of armored trucks rolled up along the narrow street, engines humming low. The Freemasons watch unit fanned out in disciplined precision — boots crunching, rifles angled, faces unreadable behind their visors.
Sico was the first to step down. His coat flared slightly with the wind, rain running off the leather. He moved like a man whose presence alone changed the air — calm, deliberate, heavy with authority.
He took in the scene with one glance — the blood on the cobbles, the restrained figure on the ground, Sarah's steady posture despite the streak of grime across her cheek.
"Good work," he said simply. His tone carried approval, but it was quiet, tempered by what he saw in front of him.
Sarah nodded once. "He's stable enough for transport. Bullet went clean through the thigh. Non-lethal, but he'll need patching before we move him."
Sico crouched beside Ross. The man glared up at him, teeth bared.
"You're the one in charge?" Ross spat. "You think you can fix this world? You're just like the rest — pretending you care."
Sico met his gaze, expression unreadable. "You're wrong," he said softly. "We don't pretend." He turned his head slightly. "Patch him up. Make sure he doesn't bleed out before we talk."
"Yes, sir," one of the medics said, kneeling beside Ross with a field kit already open.
Ross hissed as the disinfectant bit into the wound. The medic worked fast — gauze, sealant foam, temporary bandage — efficient and wordless. In minutes, the bleeding had slowed to a dull ooze.
Sico rose, his eyes never leaving Ross. "Take him to HQ," he ordered. "Put him in the lower meeting room. We'll interrogate him there."
Robert gave a short nod. "Understood."
MacCready's gaze lingered on the bound man for a moment before he looked back at Sarah. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, but the word came out softer than she meant it to. Her shoulder ached where Ross's blade had torn her sleeve, and the rain had soaked her hair flat against her forehead. She looked tired — but there was resolve in her eyes, that steady flame that always burned in her when a mission ended not in death, but in capture.
Sico glanced at her, reading her silence as easily as he read a tactical map. "Good judgment, holding your fire," he said. "He's worth more alive."
Sarah gave a faint nod. "We'll see."
By the time the convoy reached Freemasons HQ, the city had begun to quiet. The streets shimmered under the sodium lights, the puddles reflecting broken pieces of neon from shop signs long since shuttered. The main gates opened with a hydraulic hiss, letting them through.
Inside, the air was different — drier, heavier, faintly metallic. The complex was alive even at this hour: patrols rotating, radio chatter humming low, the faint echo of footsteps in the corridors.
Ross was dragged out of the transport, his leg wrapped tightly in bandages, face pale but still defiant. He winced with every step as the guards half-carried him down the hallway, the cuffs biting into his wrists.
They passed through the atrium — its banners draped in deep crimson, the Freemason insignia catching the low light — and descended into the lower levels, where the meeting rooms were lined with reinforced glass and heavy steel doors.
Sarah followed close behind, her rifle slung at her side. MacCready and Robert flanked her. Sico walked ahead, silent.
When they entered the meeting room, the air was thick with the smell of oil and disinfectant. A single light burned above the table — harsh and white, throwing long shadows against the concrete walls.
"Sit him there," Sico ordered.
The guards forced Ross into a chair, chaining his cuffed wrists to the metal ring embedded in the tabletop. He grimaced, his jaw tight with pain, but said nothing.
Sico waited until the door was shut behind them. Then he stepped forward, resting both hands on the table.
"Victor Ross," he began, his tone calm — not harsh, not accusing, just controlled. "Former scavenger from Goodneighbor. Convicted murderer of three women within the last six weeks. You're under the jurisdiction of the Freemasons Republic for crimes against civilians."
Ross smirked faintly through the pain. "Big words from a man who runs a cult."
Sico tilted his head slightly. "We're not a cult. We're a government that still remembers what justice means."
"Justice?" Ross scoffed. "You call dragging people in chains justice?"
Sarah leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze unflinching. "You killed three innocent women, Victor," she said quietly. "You don't get to play the victim."
Ross turned his head toward her, a flicker of something like recognition in his eyes. "You're the one who asked me why," he said, almost accusingly. "You wanted to understand."
"I did," Sarah replied. "And I still do. But understanding isn't the same as forgiveness."
He laughed bitterly. "You think you're different from me. But you're not. You've killed too. You wear a badge and call it duty, but blood is blood."
The room fell into silence. MacCready shifted slightly, but Sico raised a hand — a subtle gesture to hold.
"You're not wrong," Sico said finally. "We've all killed. But the difference is we kill to protect. You kill to punish."
Ross sneered. "Spare me the sermon."
Sico didn't flinch. His gaze was steady, cold steel under calm waters. "You want to talk about sermons? Then let's talk about what drove you to this. You said all women lie. All women destroy. That's not hate — that's fear."
Ross's eyes darkened. "You think I'm afraid of them?"
"Yes," Sico said simply. "Afraid of being powerless again. Afraid of being abandoned. You want control because you lost it once — and you couldn't stand the thought of feeling that small again."
Ross's breathing quickened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," Sico replied. "You lost someone — Lorna. And instead of grieving, you turned her betrayal into a weapon. You let it define you until it hollowed you out."
"Shut up!" Ross barked, slamming his chained fists against the table. The sound echoed like thunder in the concrete room.
Sarah pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "He's right, Victor," she said. "You're not fighting women — you're fighting ghosts. But ghosts don't bleed."
For a moment, the air between them seemed to hold its breath. Ross's face trembled, rage flickering with something deeper — grief, maybe. But then the walls slammed back up.
"Save your pity," he muttered. "You don't get to fix me."
Sico studied him for a long, quiet moment. "We're not here to fix you. We're here to decide what happens next." He turned to Sarah. "How's his condition?"
"Stable," she said. "The leg will hold. But he's not walking anywhere fast."
"Good." Sico nodded once, then looked back at Ross. "You'll be interrogated formally tomorrow morning. Until then, you'll be held in isolation."
Ross sneered. "What's the point? You already know what I did."
"The point," Sico said evenly, "is to understand whether you acted alone — or if someone else pushed you down this path."
Ross's lips curled into a tight, bitter smile — one that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, the metal chain clinking softly as he shifted. The overhead light caught the fresh bandage on his leg; blood had already seeped through in a dark, lazy bloom. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower now, hoarse, almost hollow.
"I acted alone," he said. "Always have."
Sico didn't move, didn't even blink. His posture stayed exactly as it was — straight-backed, steady — the silence between his question and Ross's answer stretching taut as wire.
"Why?" Sico asked after a beat. "Why alone?"
Ross's gaze drifted from him to the tabletop, tracing invisible lines against the scratches in the metal. "Because," he said finally, "you can't trust anyone in this world. Not anymore."
Sarah's arms folded tighter across her chest. "That's not an answer."
Ross's eyes flicked toward her. For a second, something like resentment flashed across his face — not just for her, but for the way she stood there: strong, calm, unbroken. He let out a quiet, joyless laugh. "It's the only one that matters. When you work alone, you don't get betrayed. No one stabs you in the back. No one sells you out."
MacCready leaned forward on the edge of the table, resting his elbows there, his voice dry but sharp. "You mean no one tells you you're wrong."
Ross smirked faintly. "That too."
Robert, who'd been standing near the door with his rifle slung and arms crossed, shifted his weight. "You sound like a man who's made an excuse out of loneliness."
Ross's smile faltered for just a moment. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table, the metal ring around his cuff scraping faintly. "Loneliness," he murmured. "That's just another word for safety."
Sico studied him carefully, as if he were watching not a killer but a patient under a microscope. "You think working alone keeps you safe?"
Ross looked up, his expression suddenly hard again. "Safer than trusting people. You can't be betrayed by ghosts. You can't lose what you never have."
Sarah's voice softened a little, almost without her realizing. "That's not safety, Victor. That's just fear — dressed up as logic."
He shot her a glare, but it lacked the venom it once had. "Fear keeps you alive."
"It also keeps you empty," she said quietly.
That hit him harder than she expected. For a moment, his face twitched — a flicker of something raw beneath all that armor of anger. His jaw worked, as if he wanted to speak, but he didn't. The silence that followed was heavier than the sound of any threat.
Sico finally broke it. "So no accomplices," he said. "No one helping you pick the victims. No one covering your tracks."
Ross shook his head once. "No one. Didn't need them."
"You kept trophies?" Sico asked — his tone still calm, but with a subtle shift, a professional edge.
Ross's expression flickered again — a brief confusion before it flattened. "No. What's the point? I wasn't doing it for keepsakes."
"Then what was the point?" Sico pressed.
Ross hesitated. The question hung in the air like a blade suspended between them. For the first time, his composure wavered. His voice dropped, barely audible.
"To make them stop," he said. "To make them see."
"See what?" Sarah asked.
Ross's gaze snapped to her again. "That they're not untouchable! That they can't just walk around pretending they're better than the rest of us. I wanted them to know what it feels like — to be powerless. To be forgotten."
His breathing grew faster, heavier. His eyes shone in the light — not tears, but a feverish gleam. He leaned forward as far as his chains allowed, voice cracking under the weight of his own conviction.
"They looked through me," he whispered. "All of them. Like I didn't exist unless they wanted something. A smile. A favor. A warm place for the night. And when they were done —" he slammed his cuffed hands against the table, the sound a sharp metallic crack — "they left. Every single time."
The echo bounced off the concrete walls and died slowly.
No one spoke. Not even MacCready. The air in the room felt heavier somehow — like the walls themselves had drawn in closer.
Sico's eyes never left Ross. "So you decided to make them pay for what someone else did."
Ross sneered. "You don't get it. They all did it. Different faces, same heart."
Sarah's voice was calm but steeled. "No, Victor. That's not truth. That's your wound talking."
"Wound?" he repeated, almost mocking. "You think this is about a wound?"
"It always is," she said softly. "You got hurt, and instead of healing, you made the pain your identity."
Ross stared at her — long, unblinking — and for a heartbeat, she saw the man behind the monster again. A tired, broken scavenger who'd lost everything and decided it was the world's fault for letting it happen.
But then, just as quickly, his face hardened. "You think you can understand me? You're just another soldier doing what you're told. You'll go home tonight and sleep just fine because you put a monster in chains."
Sarah's jaw clenched. "I'll sleep because three families finally have justice."
Ross laughed — a hollow, bitter sound that bounced off the walls. "Justice. You keep saying that word like it means something."
Sico took a step closer. His voice, though still calm, carried an unmistakable edge now — colder, sharper, a reminder of command. "It does mean something, Ross. It's what separates you from the raiders you claim to despise."
Ross's lip curled. "You think there's a difference? You kill for your Republic. Raiders kill for caps. What's the damn difference?"
"The difference," Sico said quietly, "is that when we kill, we regret it."
That silenced him again. The room went still. Only the faint hum of the ventilation system filled the space.
MacCready leaned back slightly, glancing at Sico. "You're not gonna get much else outta him tonight, boss."
Sico nodded once, his gaze still fixed on Ross. "Maybe not. But I wanted to hear it from his own mouth — not just what he did, but why."
Ross smiled faintly, the expression twisting through the pain. "And now you know. So what happens next, Commander?"
Sico didn't answer right away. He just looked at him — not with hatred, not even with disgust, but with something heavier: the weight of judgment.
"You'll stand before the Republic's tribunal," Sico said at last. "You'll be tried for murder and psychological terrorism. The court will decide your sentence."
Ross chuckled weakly. "Court. You mean execution."
Sico's eyes didn't waver. "If that's what justice demands."
For the first time, Ross's confidence cracked. He blinked, his lips parting slightly, but no words came. The bravado began to fade, replaced by a creeping realization that the world around him — the one he'd controlled through fear and violence — was gone now. He was just a man in chains again.
Sarah exhaled slowly. "Let's get him to the holding cell," she said, her voice softer than before. "He's done for the night."
Sico gave a short nod. "Robert, escort him down. Two guards minimum. No mistakes."
"Yes, sir," Robert said, already moving.
Ross didn't resist when they pulled him from the chair. His injured leg buckled once, and he grimaced but said nothing. The defiance was gone now — only fatigue and pain remained. The guards hauled him toward the door, chains rattling against his cuffs.
As they reached the threshold, Ross turned his head slightly toward Sarah. His eyes, though bloodshot and hollow, still held a flicker of something — maybe hatred, maybe envy, maybe confusion. "You think this makes you better than me," he said quietly. "But one day, you'll see it. You'll see what they really are."
Sarah didn't reply. She just met his gaze until he looked away.
When the door shut behind him, the silence in the room felt cavernous. The sound of the latch locking echoed like punctuation at the end of a long, bitter story.
Sico finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly as if shaking off invisible weight. He turned toward Sarah and MacCready.
"You both handled that well," he said. "Could've gone worse."
MacCready gave a half-smirk. "Yeah, well, I prefer my psychos with fewer knives."
Sarah allowed herself the faintest smile. "And fewer speeches."
Robert returned a minute later, giving a brief nod. "He's secured. Medics stationed outside his cell."
Sico nodded once in acknowledgment. "Good."
For a while, none of them spoke. The tension that had filled the room for hours was slowly bleeding out now, replaced by exhaustion. The kind that went bone-deep — not from the fight, but from the human part of it. The part that had to look a killer in the eyes and see not just evil, but the echo of something once human.
Sarah was the first to break the quiet. "He meant what he said. About acting alone."
Sico glanced at her. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "You can hear it in his voice. The paranoia. The pride. He doesn't trust anyone enough to share his plans. And if he ever did, he'd have killed them by now."
Sico looked thoughtful for a long moment. "Then he's a dead end. This isn't part of a larger threat."
Robert crossed his arms. "Just one broken man."
"Just one," Sico echoed quietly — though the words didn't sound like comfort. They sounded like an admission of something heavier. Because one man had still managed to create chaos in their city, to make people feel unsafe, to make them question whether the Republic's walls could really keep darkness out.
He turned toward the window — a narrow slit of reinforced glass that looked out into the dim corridor beyond. The light flickered there, casting long shadows across the floor.
"Send word to Curie," Sico said. "She'll want to examine him in the morning. Psychological assessment before the trial."
Robert gave a short nod and left to relay the message.
MacCready rubbed a hand over his face. "You think there's anything left to assess? The guy's gone, boss. Lost somewhere between grief and madness."
"Maybe," Sico said. "But if there's a pattern — if there's another like him out there — we need to understand how he thinks."
Sarah looked at him, studying his expression. "You don't think this is the last one."
Sico met her eyes. "Evil like that doesn't happen in isolation. The Commonwealth breaks people every day. Some fight to survive. Some turn inward. And some…" he gestured faintly toward the door Ross had been dragged through, "let the darkness win."
The words hung there, heavy and true.
MacCready exhaled, pushing off the wall. "Hell of a night."
"Yeah," Sarah said softly. "Hell of a night."
They left the interrogation room together, their footsteps echoing down the concrete hall. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting pale halos that followed them as they walked. Outside, the first hint of dawn was beginning to creep through the high windows — a soft, uncertain light breaking through the gloom.
________________________________________________
• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-