They say that killing is illegal.
I say sometimes it's a necessity.
I'm not a killer, I'm a judge. A judge for people, whom the law couldn't reach. I am a judge, maybe unusual but one nevertheless.
𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗮 𝗵𝗶𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.
They call me a murdere...
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🪐𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐🪐
🪐𝚅𝚘𝚝𝚎&𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝🪐
🪐𝙴𝙽𝙹𝙾𝚈🪐
⏳ ᯽ ⏳ ᯽ ⏳
"Promises are only as strong as the person who gives them."
⏳ ᯽ ⏳ ᯽ ⏳
[Y/N's POV]
Sprinting out of the back entrance, I drink in a drowning man's breath as the icy air ignites a blazing fire within me.
"Breathe," a small wisp of breath escapes my cracked lips, rising in a white vapor in the bleak midwinter air. I bring my shaking hands to my face, feeling how my fingertips and the rough material of the bandages gently slide over the outlines and edges of my features. A simple touch, yet it feels like a luxury now.
My vision focuses through my fingers but the silvery moonlight that makes the moist asphalt look black remains only a backdrop to the chaos that takes the central stage. I lean back on the cold brick wall, fluttering my eyelids close. My head lolls from right to left as if trying to shake off the voices in my head that overpower the roaring sound radiating from the club. "Just breathe."
I've put a good number of people in the ground during my reaping days, made loads of foolish decisions, and even more enemies. But never once in my life, I regretted any of them. Because that's what real life always was for me.
Life: It's not the easy days of youth or the trivial worries of adulthood, not the ever-diminishing black space that the majority of people float in. It's the feel of danger, the sensation of chasing trouble, the thrill of being one decision away from death. That's what real life is for me. But this, this gruesome feeling that controls my being isn't the vibrant thrill of adventure. No, it's an entirely different thing, something I haven't experienced in a while.
It's the dreadful terror that numbs my feelings. That eerie dread of a horrid monster lurking in the shadows that used to make me crawl under my blanket in childhood. It's fear. A woman who has throttled men, put bullets into women, guided bombs towards elderlies is scared. And that says something.
I wish I could say my eyes played a trick on me but It was him. In his full glory my brother, the only person who was capable of breaking me throughout the years, was sitting there next to a foe who I mistakenly considered a friend.
It hits me like a tide, the full gravity of the situation. The blood freezes in my veins and I can feel myself grow pale, as breathing becomes awfully difficult. Suddenly I'm painfully aware of my own existence and my role in this fiasco.
