Chapter 342

He thought about it often, how the world seemed to settle itself in neat little categories, like the way the sky separated the day from the night. He had no patience for things that blurred the lines.

That was how it worked in his head, anyway—everything with a place, everyone in their rightful spot. So when he saw something wrong, something that just didn't belong, he knew what he had to do. It was all about restoring balance, keeping the line straight, the way it was supposed to be.

Jack spent his days working in the back of a small grocery store, mostly stocking shelves and helping customers with whatever mundane task they needed. The customers didn't know much about him—didn't care much about him, either. He wasn't the type to talk much, even when he was in the mood. And that was the way he liked it. He was a man of little words, and that suited him fine.

He'd seen them. People like him. Always out there, mingling, laughing, embracing. It disgusted him. Every smile, every touch. The affection they shared was a crime in his eyes. How could people live that way? And the way they flaunted it, parading their weakness as if it was some virtue.

He couldn't stand it. But the thing about Jack was that he never acted on it, at least not until now. There were too many of them. Too many to confront all at once. But Jack had learned. He'd learned how to be patient.

It started small. He found his first target in a small bar near the edge of town. He'd been sitting at the counter, sipping a cheap beer, when two men walked in—hands held together, strolling casually as if they were the only ones in the room. Jack's fingers tightened around his bottle. His stomach twisted in disgust.

They took a booth in the back, whispering to each other like they didn't even care who heard them. Jack's mind went to work. He knew this place. It had a bathroom with a window, an air vent that led to the kitchen. He had seen the cooks passing things through there before, seen them carry trays, cleaning supplies. It wouldn't be hard. He'd been watching them for weeks.

He waited until the two men had finished their meal and stood to leave. As they passed, Jack made his move. He grabbed the bottle of cleaning supplies from under the counter, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous amount into their cups—enough to make sure they'd never know what hit them.

The disinfectant would mix with whatever they had left in their drinks. It wasn't exactly the most elegant solution, but it would work. There was no need for finesse when he was so sure.

By the time the men reached the door, they both began to cough, choking on something invisible in the air. One of them fell first, stumbling onto the floor, his hands clutching his throat. The other collapsed seconds later. No one in the bar moved. They all just watched, dumbfounded. Jack smiled.

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Days passed. The news talked about the deaths. Authorities said it was a bad batch of food, something in the ingredients. Jack didn't care for the details. He just knew he had to keep going. It was a start, a sign of something greater. No one was safe.

The next target came at him in the form of a young woman at the grocery store. She wasn't anything special, just another regular who came in to buy her lunch, but she had been a little too friendly with the new girl who worked the registers.

He caught it in the back of his mind—she smiled too wide, laughed too much. When they were in the break room, Jack had seen them share a touch. No. This wouldn't do.

He planned it out methodically, just like the first time. He bought the same cleaner, the same chemicals, and waited for the opportunity. The moment she turned her back to him, he slipped something into her sandwich—just a drop of the clear liquid.

It was tasteless, odorless, and most importantly, it worked. It wasn't meant to kill, not right away. It would take time. By the time anyone realized what had happened, it would be too late. It always was.

When she took a bite of the sandwich, Jack couldn't help but feel a twinge of something close to satisfaction. He knew she wouldn't make it. The seconds stretched longer than they should. Her face contorted in confusion first, before she grabbed her stomach, rushing for the bathroom. She didn't make it.

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He killed two more before the weight of it started pressing against his chest. The more he did it, the more he felt the anger inside him building, like something gnawing at his bones, twisting deep within him. It wasn't enough.

He was doing this for something bigger, something more than just revenge. They needed to pay. They needed to understand. So, he kept going.

One of them came into the store late one afternoon, a man with a bright smile and an unmistakable gait. Jack could tell right away. He was one of them, and Jack had never felt so sure of his purpose. He spent the next few hours watching the man, calculating, waiting for the right moment.

When the man went into the restroom, Jack moved quickly. He had already laced the man's drink with poison—the same as before—but he made sure this time it was stronger. He wanted to see the man's eyes roll back, to watch the struggle before he finally gave in.

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But it wasn't long before things started to unravel.

People began noticing. Someone was always sick. A few deaths here, another there. It wasn't just isolated incidents anymore. Word got around. Suspicion grew. They started looking for patterns, started talking about someone targeting people—poisoning them, slipping something into their food or drinks. The authorities began investigating. They had no idea who they were after, but Jack knew it wouldn't take long before they connected the dots.

He grew paranoid, watching every corner, hearing every whisper. His heart raced with every glance in his direction. But it wasn't enough. He needed more. He couldn't stop. Not yet.

But then, there was something Jack didn't count on. It wasn't the authorities. It wasn't even the people he'd targeted. It was something much worse, something that had been growing inside of him for weeks, festering and eating away at his insides.

He sat in the back of the store one night, staring at the bottles in front of him. His hands shook. His mind was a mess. He was slipping. He could feel it.

The bell above the door rang, and Jack looked up, startled. The new girl walked in—her smile wide as always, her eyes bright. She didn't notice him at first, didn't see the way his hands trembled. She just grabbed a bag of chips, like it was any other night.

But then she stopped. Her smile faltered as her eyes met his, studying him with something that felt too sharp, too knowing.

"I heard what happened," she said, breaking the silence. "People are talking."

Jack's throat went dry.

"What... what are you talking about?"

She didn't answer immediately. She just stared at him, and in that look, Jack felt the world shift. It wasn't a look of fear. It wasn't a look of pity. It was something else. It was knowing.

And in that instant, he felt it—the thing inside him, the thing he had been running from, the thing he had been poisoning everyone else to hide from—it turned on him.

His hands clutched his chest as he stumbled backward, gasping for breath. His vision blurred. His knees hit the ground.

She didn't move. She just watched.

Jack's last breath came in a wheeze. His body hit the floor with a soft thud.

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The store went quiet again, and the new girl returned to her work like nothing had happened. She didn't even glance at him. She didn't need to.