There was a special kind of silence after a scream died. A hush so thick it tastes like sin on the tongue, like the last breath stolen from a throat too fragile to fight.

I revel in it.

The world is rotting, and men-the worst of them-are the maggots feeding on its decay. They slither in the dark, masked as lovers, fathers, leaders, protectors. But I see them. I see what they really are. Predators, parasites, filth. And I? I am the fire that will burn them to the ground.

They call me a monster.

They whisper my name in dimly lit interrogation rooms, their voices shaking over bloodied crime scenes where men-important, powerful men-are found stripped of their power, their dignity, their ability to ever hurt a woman again.

They call me unhinged.

I call it justice.

Because this world was never built for women. It was built on their bones, their screams, their silence. And I refuse to let it stand.

Tonight, another one falls.

I watch him struggle, eyes bulging, body convulsing beneath me. His blood stains my gloves, warm and slick, a confession in crimson. He is afraid. Good. Fear is the only language men like him understand.

I lean in, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, "Do you remember her?"

He gasps, chokes. His body is failing him. I smile. They always forget. Until it's too late.

The moment his pulse fades, I sit back, exhaling a satisfied sigh. The room reeks of death, and yet, I feel nothing but calm.

Because this? This is necessary.

A single drop of blood trickles down my wrist. I lift my hand, watching it slide over my skin before bringing it to my lips. The taste is metallic, sharp. Final.

The world doesn't need another savior. It needs a goddamn executioner.

And I am more than willing to oblige.