February 17, 2019 — 10:42 p.m.
"He wore a smile to fool the sun,
And fed his lies to everyone.
Shadows clung where he would tread,
Hiding the fear that children shed.
But every mask meets the night,
And every predator fears the quiet."
He was the kind of man everyone called uncle. The one who brought sweets, told stories, and wore a gentle smile. But I saw the cracks behind it — the flinches of children, the way laughter faltered in his presence. Some see innocence; I saw imbalance.
The world protects men like him. They call it reputation. I call it a mask — one that eventually must come off.
I followed him for days, noting how easily he pretended to care. His laughter arrived a fraction too late, his gestures too careful, rehearsed. I didn't need witnesses. I needed balance.
The night he met me, the rain stitched silver threads across the empty streets. He walked, humming softly, oblivious to the stillness behind him. I didn't need to strike loudly. Silence itself has weight, and it can teach lessons no one else will.
When it was over, I didn't look at his face. The quiet told me enough. The wolf had been caught in a forest of its own making.
The next morning, the world whispered that he had simply disappeared. Some noticed. Some didn't. That didn't matter. What mattered was that balance had returned.
The Wolf — proud, cunning, and dangerous. Even the cleverest predator eventually faces the forest's shadow.