This Life of Mine

Prologue

The Wraith

Istand with my arms folded, leaning on the concrete wall, observing the man as he loses and regains consciousness.

Fatigue starts to sink deep into my bones.

I’ve been wearing this fucking mask for hours. Hours of being someone else. Hours of hiding behind black armor and a distorted voice. Hours of pretending I’m made of something harder than flesh and blood.

People often assume the mask makes me unstoppable.

Honestly, it drains me each time I put it on.

The mask doesn’t make me powerful. It makes me necessary. And the longer I wear it, the heavier it becomes. Every choice, every name, every face is collected like stones in my pockets until I’m carrying enough weight to drown.

Every hour spent as The Wraith is another hour spent suppressing the parts of myself that possess human qualities.

The violence and detachment are easy. It’s remembering that I’m only a man underneath it all that takes work.

I roll my shoulders, sensing the ache in my neck and lower back.

The armor isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the man inside who’s tired. Tired of the lies and the secrets. Tired of carrying around a version of myself that only comes alive in the dark.

Across the room, the guy I’ve been working, groans and shifts against the restraints.

I push the exhaustion down where it belongs. After all, The Wraith isn’t the one tired.

The mask seals around my head, matte black plates locking together along the sides. The visor opaque from the outside, giving this guy nothing to focus on. No eyes. No face. No humanity. The hood over the mask hides the rest.

Inside, the display glows across the visor in razor-sharp definition. Enhanced optics turn shadows into detail. Data streams across the corners of my vision while biometric readings track the man chained to the chair.

The voice modulation system is built directly into the helmet. Every word emerges deeper, distorted, stripped of identity—as intended.

“Charlie,” I say calmly, almost pleasantly, “I owe you an apology.”

The words emerge distorted through the speaker. Deep. Unnatural. The kind of voice that sounds less like a man and more like something waiting in the depths unknown.

His head lolls forward, then back. One eye—his only functioning one—fights to stay open, rimmed red and unfocused. The other has swollen shut, a bruised testament to the evening’s progression.

Earlier, he screamed. Begged. Bargained. Now there is only moaning. Soft and broken.

“I’ve been anticipating this meeting for weeks,” I continue. “And somehow, I rushed our time. I didn’t give you the attention you deserved. So much of what I wanted to do seemed rushed. Left unfinished.”

The adapter drags a metallic edge across every syllable, stretching the sound into something unsettling.

I sigh, genuinely disappointed. “I overextended myself. Failed to be fully present. For that, I offer my apologies.”

Charlie visibly flinches. To Charlie, I’m not a man standing in the shadows. I’m a silhouette carved from darkness. A featureless shape with a distorted voice and nothing remotely human for him to connect to.

People fear the unknown. But they fear it most when it wears a shape they can’t quite call human.

Charlie’s eyes never leave me. Because right now, he isn’t looking at a man. He’s looking at every story he’s ever heard.

The Wraith.

The name drifts through the criminal underworld like a disease.

Passed from one terrified bastard to the next.

Whispered in safe houses. Mentioned in hushed conversations behind locked doors.

Spoken cautiously across encrypted networks, where men who traffic women, sell children, and order murders for profit exchange warnings with one another.

Human traffickers know it. Cartels know it. Contract killers know it. The predators who spend their lives hunting the vulnerable know exactly who the fuck I am.

Or at least they think they do.

Some say I’m ex-military. The more superstitious ones insist I’m not a man at all. That I’m something worse. A ghost. A demon. A punishment sent to settle old debts.

I never bothered to correct them. Because fear is useful. Fear spreads faster than truth ever could.

My reputation wasn’t built on rumors. Rumors don’t make hardened criminals abandon operations overnight. They don’t make men change identities, burn safe houses, or disappear without collecting millions of dollars waiting for them.

No, my reputation was built on consequences. On bodies. On the realization that some monsters don’t get away with it forever.

Entire trafficking rings have vanished. Cartel operations have collapsed. Predators who spent decades believing themselves untouchable ceased to exist.

And somewhere in the aftermath, my name always surfaces.

The Wraith…was here.

Charlie knows that. I can see it in the terror widening his one good eye. Considering for the first time in his life, he’s face-to-face with the thing men like him warn each other about.

The truth is far less mysterious than the stories. I’m not a ghost. I’m not a demon. I’m not vengeance sent by God. I’m just a man who decided monsters deserved to be hunted.

And after years of doing just that, I’ve become the thing monsters fear most.

For pieces of shit like Charlie, I’m the last thing they see when their past eventually overtakes them.

While Charlie boy sits strapped to a chair, soaked in gasoline, his body twitches involuntarily—nervous system firing through shattered fingers, splintered legs, torn nails, exposed nerves, and cut limbs.

Pain tends to vibrate through the body when you stimulate enough of it. Consciousness becomes...optional.

He’s barely awake now. Barely aware. But fear doesn’t require consciousness to survive. Fear takes root deeper than pain. Deeper than broken bones. Deeper than blood.

I may have broken Charlie too quickly. Unfortunately, time was not on my side.

“I saw your latest video,” I go on, pushing away from the wall and casually pacing before him.

“Your artistry is…impressive. Quite compelling.”

I incline my head. “For sick, demented fucks like you.”

He whimpers.

“I’ve met some deeply fucked-up people in my line of work, but recording your murders and rapes, editing them into a montage, and posting them online?” I emit a soft laugh. “That’s not only evil—that’s fucking stupid.”

I stop, crouching slightly until we’re eye level.

“You left breadcrumbs, Charlie. Breadcrumbs led me right to your doorstep.”

I straighten, rolling my shoulders. “So, thank you. Your idiocy made this very convenient.”

I pause, considering him, then observe the height of the ceiling in the warehouse.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, I can’t pretend this was my finest effort. Don’t misunderstand—I took pleasure in your pain. However, it was very much hurried. Like clocking in and out of a routine job.”

I grimace. “I hate working under pressure. It makes me careless. Carelessness is something I despise.”

I glance back at the damage I’ve done.

“Torturing monsters like you is what I live for. I pride myself on precision. On executing every step as it should be.” I sigh, dismay tugging at the edges of my composure.

“I fell short tonight. You deserved my best work. And I didn’t deliver. Not fully.”

A beat. “Oh well. C’est la vie.”

Charlie’s been on a private bounty list for three months. I happened to be in Chicago finishing another job when Reese called—excited, almost giddy. Charlie had been caught on a CCD camera down the street from me.

Pure fucking luck.

The job before Charlie had been a 54-year-old woman with a habit of killing her husbands—seven of them, actually. Twenty-two million dollars is what she’s gained in total from all of their deaths. Quite the black widow. I gained two million from her unfortunate demise.

I don’t enjoy killing women, including sadistic ones.

The outcome will be made to appear accidental, of course. She fell down the stairs. Naturally, with help.

But Charlie is the prize for tonight.

The father of the latest victim posted Charlie’s bounty—a girl he raped and murdered, then featured in his most recent video. That bounty included a bonus clause.

I’m a sucker for bonuses.

Doing what I do has its perks. I dispose of the world’s trash for cash. I travel. I work when I want. I choose my jobs and sleep like a baby afterward. When I meet the bonus requirements, I get paid extra—usually for punishments harsher than my standard fare.

What more could a guy ask for?

Of course, there are downsides. The same routine. Meals eaten alone. Training once or twice a day. No pets—though I’d like one. No relationships lasting longer than three months.

I live on the road and live for the next job.

Speaking of which, it’s time to move.

The storm that’s been stalking Chicago all afternoon is closing in. I’d watched it on the drive here—dark clouds swallowing the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised steel. The wind had picked up an hour ago, rattling loose signs and pushing drifts of snow across the empty streets.

By morning, the city will be buried beneath a fresh blanket of white. Roads will close. Flights will be delayed. Visibility will disappear. Perfect conditions for vanishing.

I glance at my watch.

The flakes are already beginning to fall outside the warehouse windows, swirling beneath the glow of distant streetlights. Tiny scouts announcing the arrival of something much bigger.

A blizzard in Chicago causes everyone to hunker down and stay put.

Unfortunately for me, I have no intention of being here when it arrives.

“Well, Charlie,” I say lightly, standing upright. “Looks like it’s time for me to get going. Blizzard’s coming.”

Blood drips from his closed eye as he lifts his head.

“Tell the devil I said hello.”

I smile behind the mask. Then I strike a match and drop it onto the trail of gasoline.

Fire races toward him—beautiful and hungry. His muffled screams erupt as flames take hold. With four murders, twelve rapes, and two counts of child molestation, I hope he endures every fucking second of it.

Two hours weren’t enough. It never is. But I have places to be.

As I walk back to grab the small camera recording my work, my phone rings.

It’s Reese.

I take the call through my mask.

“It’s done,” I say easily. “Bonus requirements met. I made sure Charlie choked on his own dick.”

Reese exhales. “Jesus, man. That’s fucked. He deserved it—but still.”

“Two-fifty bonus,” I replied. “Not letting that slip. You saw his video. He earned every second.”

“Yeah,” Reese says. “I’ll clean up the footage and send the care package. The father will be satisfied.”

“Good,” I say. “Where am I heading next?”

“Texas,” he says with a Southern drawl.

I groan. “Which part?”

“Redwillow,” he chuckles.

“Where the fuck is Redwillow?” I’ve never heard of it.

“Small town near Fort Worth.”

“And the job?” This had better be good.

“The file’s been sent. Call me after you read it.” He snickers.

The amusement in his tone raises a flag.

“What does that mean?” This better not be another shit one.

“Oh,” he says lightly. “You’ll see.”

I hang up, grab my gear, and leave the warehouse as the fire begins to rise to the rafters.

Once I’m clear down the road, I pull the rental over and open the file on my phone. The first image loads, and my breath catches.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.