They said my daughter was next

The night air was heavy. We were walking back from my daughter’s school recital, holding hands, cutting through a shortcut I had taken a thousand times. Then, shadows detached themselves from the wall. Four men. Maybe five.

They grabbed me. I screamed at my little girl: "Run!"

She hesitated, crying, but she ran. That was all that mattered. While she escaped, they tore at my clothes. I fought like a cornered animal, biting and scratching, until a heavy rock crashed against my temple. The world went black. The last thing I heard was an old man’s voice shouting that he had called the police.

I woke up in a hospital. My daughter was safe. But the justice system is a bad joke. A "lack of evidence," and the men walked free, laughing as they left the courtroom. Three days later, the old man who saved me was found dead. Pinned to his chest was a note: "The girl is next."

Something inside me snapped. I sent my daughter to her grandmother’s house. I didn't heal. I studied. I tracked them.

The First One. He stopped at a red light on a deserted road. He woke up zip-tied in a warehouse. I didn't say a word; I just clicked the igniter on a blowtorch. I aimed the blue flame at his left eye. The smell of cooking meat filled the room before his screams did.

One down. Five to go.

The Second One. He had a habit of drinking from a secret bottle of gin in an alley after work. I swapped it. He took a long gulp and the industrial acid erased him from the inside out. I watched his shadow thrash against the brick wall until it went still.

Two down. Four to go.

The Third One. I found him at his favorite underground club. He woke up in a damp garage, strapped to a workbench next to a hydraulic pipe expander. He had spent his life forcing his way into places he wasn't invited. I showed him what "forced expansion" truly meant, one turn of the handle at a time.

Three down. Three to go.

The Fourth One. The leader. He was waiting for me in his living room. He swung an iron rod, breaking my ribs. As I crawled through the pain, I kicked the burning logs out of his fireplace, setting the curtains ablaze. While he was blinded by the smoke, I reached into my pocket and drove a sharpened pencil deep into his groin.

I didn't stop until he was broken. The sirens were wailing in the distance. I was too tired to run, but I wasn't finished. I turned on every gas knob on the stove. The hiss was like a lullaby. I struck a match and watched the fire take the ceiling.

By the time the police arrived, the house was an inferno. No evidence. No more "lack of proof." Just ashes.

The girl is safe now. Because there are no more numbers left to count.