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She stares at the wall like it owes her an apology.

She hasn’t touched her phone.

Mine has over twenty sent messages now.

I leave a bag of her favorite snacks at her doorstep that night, knock once, and disappear before she can even think of answering.

NIGHT THREE

This one has a camera rig with him.

He’s live streaming.

Twitch handle plastered across his shirt like a promo.

He says, “Yo yo, what’s up stream, we’re about to do some recon on LydieLIVE.”

I tackle him mid-sentence.

Drag him by the hair into the alley between her building and the fence.

He fights.

So I give him a fight.

I break his collarbone first, snapping it with a heel strike to the top of his chest. He screams.

I punch his ribs until I feel one give under my knuckle. Use my elbow to open a split above his eye. When he goes limp, I keep going.

Because I imagine he’s Patrick.

Every fucking punch is a word.

For.

Hurting.

Her.

You.

Fucking.

Coward.

By the time I zip-tie him to a light pole and shove his cracked phone into his mouth, he can’t even cry anymore.

The cops pick him up thirty minutes later.

I watch from my car with blood on my gloves and a smile I don’t bother to hide.

NIGHT FOUR

No creeps.

Just silence.

Stillness.