[AN – Hello everyone. Glad to see those of you who started reading. I would appreciate your support.]
"Hi. My name is John. John Morgan. I'm not exactly sure why I became the way I am. But it left a void inside me. A void I've learned to fill. People fake their emotions; sometimes it looks terrible. I, however, do it constantly—and rather well."
I'm not certain I can pinpoint why I became this way.
Maybe it all started that night in the container, when the world first revealed its true nature to me. Maybe it's because I saw how a person could be broken—slowly, methodically, without a shadow of regret.
Or maybe… it isn't about the trauma at all.
Maybe it's just that I'm different.
One thing I know: there's always been something… extra inside me.
Something cold.
Something that sees people differently than they see each other.
Dexter, after our father's death, started calling his urges "the Dark Passenger." He always said it sounded poetic. Mine has a simpler name: "The Constructor." My urge is always to build new mechanisms and test them on certain types of people. These trials reveal their true nature and the emotions buried deep inside each of us. Only by truly going through these tests can someone live authentically and stray from the path of a killer.
Most people fake emotions.
I repeat them, like a well-learned language.
And I do it perfectly.
Harry saw it. He understood and taught.
Both me… and Dexter.
We are both his work.
Both products of his hopes and fears.
Both his children.
But our paths diverge.
Dexter kills those who kill.
I… put people to the test.
If someone has crossed the line, they must face the consequences.
They must understand that every action carries a price.
And if they accept the lesson—they live.
If not…
Well… then they become another example.
It's not cruelty. It's justice.
And this—that's my path.
I sat in the back row, in the shadows of the lecture hall. Tall windows with frosted glass let in a dim light, as if the day outside wasn't sure whether it should continue. The Systems Control lecture flowed steadily from Professor Lewis. I'm a mechatronics and robotics student at the Illinois Institute of Technology. Machines are more honest than people. If something breaks, you always know why. And you can always fix it.
"Mr. Morgan," Professor Lewis' voice pulled me back. "Are you ready for your project defense?"
"Yes, sir. Always ready."
The professor smiled. He often said I was "too serious for my age."
If he knew the truth, he would have phrased it differently.
The lecture hall gradually filled. People laughed, discussed TV shows, the weather, exams.
I listened, but none of it interested me.
In the front row sat a guy named Tom. Tall, loud, overconfident—cocky almost.
He often cheated, lied, schemed—all for grades.
A typical example of someone who thinks: if the system is blind, anything goes.
"Hey, Morgan," Tom waved. "You got your project perfect again, right?"
I looked at him calmly.
"I just did my part."
"Yeah, genius as always," he smirked and turned to his friends.
The joke wasn't funny, but they laughed anyway.
People laugh when they fear being less successful.
They laugh to hide their weakness.
And to avoid thinking about who they could be if they tried.
The lecture passed quickly.
Professor Lewis explained stabilization algorithms and feedback systems in mechanisms in detail. A subject I could teach myself.
But today I was less attentive than usual.
My mind drifted to the night after exams… and to Peter Holt.
Peter screamed for a long time.
A person always screams while hope still exists.
Then comes the silence—cold, deliberate.
At that moment, the person understands: the game is not a game.
It's a lesson. And a chance.
Peter missed his chance.
I felt no regret.
Regret is an emotion.
And emotions… I've learned to keep in check.
But I thought of something else.
Peter wasn't the last.
There are others. Those who cross the line.
Those who need to see the truth.
Those for whom punishment is not cruelty, but justice.
After the lecture, I went outside.
The sky was gray again, and snow slowly began to fall over the city.
I inhaled the cold air deeply. It smelled of metal, concrete, and cleanliness.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
A message from Dexter.
"Hey John. How's it going?"
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
My fingers typed the reply automatically:
"Good. You? Heard from Deb that you officially started in Forensics. How's it going?"
Sent.
Did he understand that we were both products of the same decision made many years ago, even though Harry taught us the same way?
Harry's code isn't a set of rules.
It's a path.
And each of us has our own.
The snow intensified. The city turned white and quiet.
Something in that silence reminded me of the night in the container.
I lightly touched the scar on my arm.
A thin line from wrist to elbow—a memory of the trial that once saved my life.
The drive back to my apartment took twenty minutes.
Winter in Chicago was harsh, but it helped me think. Cold always kept me alert. It allowed me to stay focused.
The apartment was small—a one-bedroom, neat, almost sterile. On the desk were neat stacks of notebooks, blueprints, and schematics related to my studies. But the lower desk shelf was actually double-layered, opening only in a special way. A passive thermosensor was built into the desk, with a wax capsule that melts strictly at 36–37°C. Upon touching with the hands, the wax melts and releases a small locking wheel inside, which has three tiny hidden latches—one in the corner, one in the middle, one on the left edge. Each is a mechanical lever. Press the wrong way, or too hard, and the mechanism locks automatically.
If someone tries to use excessive heat, drill, or forcibly remove the panel, a self-destruction reaction triggers. Inside the hidden compartment is a tiny glass vial with a chemical reagent.
When opened normally, it remains intact.
If tampered with, the levers shift, and:
The vial breaks → liquid spills → everything inside is covered with solvent.
Solvent:
— quickly dissolves ink;
— destroys paper;
— damages plastic;
— ruins tapes;
— eliminates fingerprints;
— leaves charred, wet remains in chaos.
And the smell is just like "glue" or "wood solvent." No cop would think it was deliberate. Simple and reliable.
Harry left me a small inheritance. Enough not to live on campus.
I am grateful. Even in death, he continued to guide me… direct me.
Sometimes I wonder if I would be different had he lived.
But thoughts like that are useless.
The past is a coiled spring. It has already fired.
The room was silent, broken only by the faint ticking of the wall clock.
I sat in the chair at my desk, leaning forward. Under the lamp lay a thin folder—grayish, with a dark stain on the cover. A dossier. My next "target."
The light fell so that the lamp's shadow split my face in half. One side neutral. The other shrouded in semi-darkness. I flipped through the pages without haste, as if reading a mechanics textbook, not the history of someone else's cruelty.
Name: Michael Rogers.
Age: 34.
Occupation: Truck driver.
Status: Repeatedly arrested for assaults—none of the cases reached trial.
I paused on the photograph: a man with a rough gaze, squinting eyes, dark bags beneath. The face of someone who had long ceased to fear.
"Interesting," I thought, lightly tapping my fingers on the desk. My movements were measured, almost ritualistic. "People like this always think they can get away with it. The system gives them chances again and again. But this chance… is over."
I turned the page.
Official charges:
— Spousal assault (case closed for "insufficient evidence").
— Assault on a pedestrian (no cameras; the victim refused to press charges).
— Suspicion of missing minor—not proven.
I lingered on the last line.
The silence in the room thickened.
I leaned back in the chair, tilting my head slightly.
"Suspicion of disappearance… so there was a chance to catch him. But the police failed. Dexter would say the blood doesn't lie. Harry would say—be careful. And I… I just see a man who no longer values the lives of others."
I picked up a pencil and began taking notes in the margins:
— behavioral patterns,
— frequent locations,
— nighttime routes,
— weaknesses.
The page filled with precise, neat notes.
No extra lines. No stray words.
It wasn't chaos. It was calculation.
The folder creaked as I closed it. For a few seconds, I left my fingers on the cover, as if feeling the weight of the upcoming choice.
"You will get a chance," I said quietly, almost in a whisper, without raising my eyes. "You will have a choice. I always give a choice."