The auditorium was buzzing, a cavernous room filled with the restless energy of hundreds of students. Sunlight streamed in through high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing over the restless crowd. Officials in ill-fitting suits ran back and forth, checking clipboards, while the main stage was occupied by more important-looking men.
An old man finally walked up to the mic. He tapped it.
The sound, a dull _thump-thump_, echoed throughout the auditorium, catching the students' attention. The sea of murmurs quieted.
"Good afternoon everyone," the old man said. "All of you might be wondering why are we having a meeting today?"
The students listened intently.
"Well, 3 days ago, I came across a reel on Instagram criticising our infrastructure, facilities. We are an orphanage and this is the best we can offer. Right?"
The old man waited for the students to react, but none did. They were eagerly waiting for him to continue.
"We are lucky," he went on, "because this reel was noticed by a very great man, someone the city dearly admires." A pause. "And that great man has decided to donate one hundred thousand dollars for our orphanage to be improved."
The auditorium went silent.
The old man leaned in, his voice booming. "Hundred Thousand Dollars! Ladies and Gentlemen!"
The applause started slowly, then erupted. Cheering. The old man shook his head, waving his hands to quiet them.
"No, no, no. Save the applause for the man himself. I invite Mr. Damon onto the stage."
The audience erupted, the cheers deafening. They clapped and shouted Damon's name.
Damon, thirty-one now, with short, military-cut hair and a perfectly tailored black suit, moved toward the mic. His movements were gentle, respectful, and deliberate. He looked at the audience, all of them cheering his name. He smiled to himself, a politician's gesture, but the smile did not reach his eyes. They remained cold, assessing.
He addressed them. "Thank you for your warm welcome."
---
Damon sat at a dining table long enough to seat thirty people, in a room that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. The table was polished mahogany, and the twenty-eight other chairs were empty. He was shirtless. The beginnings of a powerful man's gut pressed against the table's hard edge. He was silently eating a bread omelet with a fork and knife, the sharp scrape of the silverware on the china the only sound in the vast room.
On the opposite side, so far away they were almost out of earshot, sat a family. A journalist named Allen. His face was a map of new injuries—a split lip, a darkening bruise on his cheek. His wife and daughter sat beside him, rigid with terror.
Allen finally spoke, his voice trembling. "If this is about the article I've written—"
Damon spoke, his voice devoid of any emotion. "It is."
---
The scene snapped back. The auditorium. Damon was addressing the audience.
"I donated the money because I was an orphan," he said. His voice was calm, gentle, and full of empathy. "I know the pain of being an orphan."
The auditorium was dead silent, hanging on his every word.
---
The mansion. Allen's voice was desperate. "That was five months ago, why now?"
Damon took a piece of the bread omelet, chewed it slowly, and looked up. "Are you fucking dumb?"
A pause. Realization hit Allen. "Alright. To avoid suspicion."
Damon didn't react and went back to eating.
---
The stage. Damon's tone was serious, heavy with practiced sadness. "I donated because like most of you, I don't have a last name either."
The audience listened with complete focus, connecting to his every word.
---
The mansion. Allen stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. "Then, why bring my family? Why?"
Damon looked up, amused. "Are you fucking dumb?"
A pause. Damon chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"Right," Allen whispered. "A liability."
"Nope," Damon said, taking another bite. "I brought them for fun."
Allen looked confused. And terrified.
---
The auditorium. "And one final thing," Damon said. "The world doesn't revolve around us. We need to make sure it does."
Silence.
And then, applause. The audience roared, cheering the sentiment.
---
The mansion. Allen fell back onto his chair, his hope vanishing. "Is there anything I can do to save my family?"
Damon took another bite. "There is."
Allen looked up. Damon chewed the piece, swallowed, and then spoke. "Tell them what you wrote about me is false. Someone made you do it. Some thug like Vega."
Allen blinked and shook his head horizontally, his body shaking. "I can't do that. Journalism is something I love. It's my passion, my profession."
Damon looked up at him, his gaze flat. "Killing is my sport. And your family seems to be my first priority today."
A pause. Damon took another bite.
"I'll do it," Allen said, his voice low and broken.
Damon didn't react. "Good. You can leave."
---
In the auditorium, Damon was now surrounded by a swarm of students. An official was clicking a picture. Damon smiled, a perfect, warm, public smile. The camera flashed.
---
A moment later, in his mansion, the smile was gone.
Damon walked to his balcony, still shirtless, holding a rifle. The metal was cool and heavy in his hands. He set the rifle on the low balcony wall, bracing it, and looked down the sight at Allen, who was walking with his family through the mansion's pristine, sunlit garden.
They were walking quickly, his wife and daughter terrified of what had just happened. Allen, supported by his wife, and together, they tried to cover their daughter between them.
The rifle **CRACKED**.
The sound was deafening. Allen was thrown forward, shot in the head. He fell to the grass.
His wife and daughter panicked, screaming, but a guard stepped out from the trees.
"KEEP WALKING!" the guard shouted, his lungs out. "DO NOT TURN YOUR HEADS BACK! KEEP WALKING!"
Damon, unbothered, reloaded the rifle. He added another bullet. He rested his arm, took aim, and shot again.
The wife went down.
The daughter, impossibly, kept walking as instructed. She was crying, a small, stumbling figure, knowing it was her turn next.
Damon looked at the girl, his gaze holding for a moment longer than needed. He didn't smile. He didn't react. He just stared, looking into the soul of the new orphan he had just made.
He lowered his gun.