When Samuel returned, he found the orphanage garden drowned in the sound of weeping. He ran toward the center of the crowd, his heart sinking. There, in the middle of the grass, lay Father Brown's lifeless body. His wife was cradling his blood-stained chest, her cries piercing the air. Samuel stood frozen, his voice trembling as he asked, "Mom... how did this happen?"
The orphanage was the only home Samuel had ever known. To him and the other children, Father Brown wasn't just a guardian; he was "Dad." Seeing the jagged knife wound in his father's stomach, fourteen-year-old Samuel felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Mrs. Brown looked up, her face a mask of agony. "Michael's goons... they killed him, Samuel! They tried to take your sister, and he died trying to protect her. Please... you have to save her!"
The moment the words left her lips, Samuel's world fractured. He dropped his school bag into the dirt and began to run. He knew Michael—the younger brother of Texas's most feared crime lord. Michael had been obsessed with Samuel's nineteen-year-old sister, but she had humiliated him by rejecting his advances. For a man backed by the shadow of the underworld, rejection was an insult only blood could wash away.
Samuel ran toward Michael's secluded estate in the wilderness. The house was notorious, a place people avoided at all costs. Without a second thought, Samuel kicked the front door open. He tore through the ground floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the rooms were empty. As he stormed toward the stairs, voices drifted down from the first floor.
"Hey Rony, go downstairs and check if someone's there," a voice barked.
Panic flared in Samuel's chest, but it was quickly eclipsed by a dark, rising heat. He ducked into the shadows beneath the staircase, his fingers closing around a heavy glass flower vase on a side table. Rony descended, a pistol equipped with a silencer gripped in his hand. The moment he stepped past the stairs, Samuel lunged. He swung the vase with every ounce of strength he possessed, shattering it against the back of Rony's skull.
As Rony slumped to the floor, Samuel didn't hesitate. He snatched the suppressed pistol from the man's limp hand and fired a cold, calculated shot into the back of his head. The muffled thud was followed by the frantic footsteps of three more men rushing down the stairs. Samuel didn't hide. He stood his ground, pulling the trigger again and again. Three shots. Three bodies tumbled down the steps.
He waited, his chest heaving, his heart drumming against his ribs like a trapped animal. Silence followed. Clutching the cold metal of the gun, he began his ascent. Every step felt like walking through a nightmare, but the thought of his sister pushed him forward.
As he reached the top, a door across the corridor creaked open. Samuel crouched behind the balustrade, his eyes narrowing. Michael stepped out, panting, his hands fumbling to button his disheveled white shirt. The realization of what had happened inside that room hit Samuel like a physical blow. The heat in his blood finally boiled over.
He stepped out of the shadows and fired. He aimed for the head, but his trembling hands sent the bullet into Michael's gut. The man collapsed, his white shirt blooming with a deep, visceral red. Michael clutched his stomach, his arrogant sneer replaced by animalistic whimpering.
Samuel ignored the pathetic cries and stepped into the room. What he saw would be burned into his retinas forever—a haunting vision that would chase away sleep for the rest of his life.
His sister lay half-naked on the bed, her skin a map of jagged cuts and bruises. He ran to her, shaking her, screaming her name, desperate for a blink, a breath, anything. But she was cold. The air had left her lungs for the last time.
Samuel stopped crying. A strange, terrifying stillness settled over him. He checked the magazine of the pistol—three bullets left.
He walked back into the corridor. Michael had managed to crawl toward the stairs, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him. Samuel grabbed him by the legs and dragged him back, the sound of Michael's skin scraping against the floor filling the hall. Samuel pinned his head down and pressed the barrel of the gun directly against Michael's right eye.
The first shot was for his father. The bullet tore through the eye socket, splattering the wall in crimson. Michael's screams turned into a guttural moan.
The second shot was for his sister's dignity. The left eye vanished in a spray of gore. Michael's body jerked violently before going still, his face a hollowed-out mask of ruin.
There was one bullet left. Michael was already dead, but Samuel's "Wrath" wasn't finished. He forced the barrel into Michael's open, blood-filled mouth. His hands began to shake—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the monster he was becoming. Questions raced through his mind, but they couldn't stop the inevitable.
He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.