“You organized it. You’re the leader.”
Vic pulled out a heavy tool.
“For every bruise on her body, for every sleepless night, for her coma—you’re going to pay in full.”
Vic made him go through every circle of fear and physical suffering. He worked methodically, hour after hour, stripping away Oliver’s arrogance, his health, and his very life. The reckoning was long. Vic ensured that every moment of pain matched the weight of the guilt this man carried.
Oliver begged for mercy, pleaded for it to stop, but the factory was empty, and his screams were swallowed by the industrial wasteland. It was a long night of calculated punishment, where every action was an answer for Ellie’s broken life.
By morning, Oliver had stopped fighting. His body couldn’t handle the stress, the pain, and the sheer terror. The work was done.
Vic prepared the room, dousing everything in gasoline to erase any trace of his presence. He struck a match. The fire flared up instantly, consuming the evidence.
He climbed out through a broken window. He got on an old motorcycle he’d stolen the day before and vanished into the morning mist. A few hours later, firefighters would find only ashes.
The investigation would record a kidnapping and a murder. There would be no suspects. All the evidence was gone.
Gerald Sterling wept at the funeral, swearing to find the killer. But he knew whose hands had done it. And he knew that proving it was impossible.
Vic went to the hospital and sat by Ellie’s bed. He took her hand and whispered:
“It’s over, baby. It’s all over. They’ll never hurt anyone again. Now, please, come back to me.”
The monitors beeped rhythmically. Ellie didn’t move. But Vic believed. He’d done everything he could. Now it was her turn.
To fight for her life. Gerald Sterling was no fool. The CEO of a chemical giant with massive connections understood everything.
Vic had eliminated his son. The work of a perfect vigilante. But understanding and proving are two different things.
On June 7th, Captain Brooks came to Sterling’s office. He was no longer the head of the precinct.
“Gerald, I’m sorry,” Brooks said. “We’re doing everything we can.”
Sterling poured drinks into two glasses.
“The experts say it was a pro. Who could do this?”
Brooks pulled out a folder:
“Victor Miller. Silver. The girl’s father.”
Sterling gripped his glass so hard his knuckles turned white:
“Prove it. Put him away. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“The problem is the evidence. On the night of the incident, Miller was at home. His mother confirms it. Neighbors saw him at 10:00 PM. At 3:00 AM, he was at the hospital with his daughter. The security logs match. His alibi is ironclad.”
“He bought the witnesses!” Sterling spat.
“Maybe. But there’s no proof of tampering. He’s smart. Old-school.”
Sterling slammed his fist on the desk:
“Fabricate a case! Plant evidence!”
Brooks sighed:
“I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
A week later, a young, ambitious detective named Miller (no relation) came to see Vic.
“Victor Miller? I have some questions about the Sterling case. Come with me.”
The interrogation lasted six hours. They pressured him, threatened him. Vic answered calmly, in short sentences. He repeated his alibi word for word, naming the witnesses.
“You hated Sterling,” the detective pressed. “His friends were all hurt. Too many coincidences.”
