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Epilogue - Heaven's a Lie, But You're Real.

She just gave the smallest nod before slipping under.

In the kitchen, my mother was making something warm, something Frankie loved. She'd keep her company while I was gone.

"Going out, son?" Her voice pulled me back as I stood there, still staring at Frankie.

"Yeah," I said, ushering her from the room. "Last-minute Christmas shopping. Taking Ben."

Mom's knowing eyes softened. "Go. I'll be here if she needs anything."

I kissed her cheek in thanks, grabbed Benedict's coat, and stepped outside, calling for my son. He came running, Irving on his heels.

"Where are we going, Daddy?" he asked, his little hands reaching for me as I helped him into his coat and gloves.

Fuck. That word. Daddy. It still didn't feel real.

"To get Mommy a Christmas present," I said with a wink.

His whole face lit up.

And I smiled back.

Because tonight, my son would sleep easy.

And by dawn, the monster who haunted him would be nothing but a memory soaked in blood.

I pulled up to Goat's old apartment, the engine rumbling low as I cut it off. Logan was already outside, waiting.

"Basement," he said, nodding toward the building. "Tied up. Ready for you."

I exhaled slow, rolling my shoulders back. Good.

"Stay with Benedict," I told him. "I'll be quick."

I stepped inside, the air thick with dust and something damp, rotten. The place hadn't been touched in months. I made my way down the steps to the basement, and the second I opened the door, I heard him.

That pathetic, muffled whimper.

The bastard was tied to a rusted metal chair, duct tape slapped over his mouth, wrists bound behind him. His face was already a mess—Logan must've had some fun before I got here. But now, he was mine.

I dragged another chair in front of him, turned it backward, and sat down, resting my arms on the top.

"You know why I'm here."

His breathing turned frantic, chest heaving, eyes darting around like he could find a way out. But there was no way out.

I reached forward, peeled the tape off his mouth slow.

"Please—"

My fist snapped his head to the side, his breath choking in his throat.

"You don't get to fucking beg," I murmured. Another punch—harder. A sick crunch. Blood splattered the floor. Not on me, though. I was careful. Real fucking careful.

He sobbed, spitting out a tooth.

"You think I'd let you live after what you did to my son?" My voice was low, dark. "After what you let that woman do to him?"

"I-I didn't—"

I kicked the chair out from under him. He hit the floor hard, a sharp cry escaping as his ribs cracked on impact.

"Shut the fuck up," I growled, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the concrete. Again. Again.

By the time I was done, his breathing was ragged. Wet. Gurgling.

He tried to speak but I didn't fucking let him.

I pulled my knife from my coat, flipping it open. I crouched beside him, grabbing a fistful of his bloody hair, yanking his head back so he had to look at me.