The photo came after midnight.
Nate wasn't surprised. Important things always seemed to happen in the quietest hours, when most of the city lay dead asleep and the only people awake were those who had reasons not to dream.
He sat in the back of a black Mercedes parked in a forgotten lot off Alameda Street. The car smelled faintly of leather and smoke. Outside, the glow of downtown bled through the tinted glass, turning the night into long streaks of neon.
He was leaning back, eyes half-lidded, when his phone buzzed once against the seat beside him. Reaching for it lazily like a man who already knew what waited for him.
And then, there she was.
The picture wasn't sharp, a little grainy, captured from across a café table. But her face burned through every flaw. She was smiling. Not just smiling, laughing. Head tipped back slightly, hair falling over one shoulder, eyes crinkling with some private amusement.
It was an ordinary image of an ordinary moment. But it slammed into him with the force of a car crash.
Nate smirked. Slowly, as though his lips remembered what to do before the rest of his body did. His thumb traced the edge of her image on the screen, lingering, as if he could reach through the glass and feel the warmth of her skin.
"She thinks she's safe," he whispered, voice uneven and low.
For years he had forced himself to stop searching. To bury her name, her face, her voice. He told himself obsession was weakness, and weakness was something he couldn't afford. He'd tried to starve the hunger.
But hunger doesn't die. It waits. And a single glimpse was enough to feed it again.
He had seen her first in high school, how her hair flipped from side to side, her angelic face shining into his eyes like a blinding light, as she majestically walked out from her class during lunch hour.
It was love at first sight for Nate.
Her pink crop top stopped just above her navel, blue skinny jeans, and white sneakers. She's so beautiful, he thought.
A black handbag dropped on her shoulder. Strange, he hasn't seen a girl her age with a handbag. Every student walked around with a backpack. She must have a unique taste. He wondered.
From that day on, he made a silent vow. "If I can't have her, then no one will."
The driver shifted nervously up front. A small sound, but Nate caught it. His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror, locking on the man's reflection.
"Did you see something?" Nate asked. His tone was casual, almost polite.
The driver shook his head too quickly. "No, sir. Nothing."
"Good." Nate slid the phone into his pocket, the smile thinning into something sharp. "Because if you did, you wouldn't have lived long enough to regret it."
The car went silent. Even the hum of the engine seemed to retreat.
Nate pressed his fingers together, a small, private ritual he'd carried since childhood. He closed his eyes. And, as always, the memories came.
(Flashback Begin)
The night of the accident.
Rain hammered down, relentless, each drop exploding against the windshield until the world blurred into streaks of silver.
His Maserati roared beneath him, the engine a beast barely leashed. He gripped the wheel tighter, pushing harder, faster, daring the storm to match him.
In his mirror, her headlights shone bright ahead
when the bend in the road loomed, he didn't hesitate. He swerved across the lane, cutting her off, forcing her toward the rail.
The sound was exquisite. Tires shrieking. Metal screaming. Her headlights spun in wild circles before they vanished into the river.
For a long, perfect moment, the world went quiet.
He had thought it was finished. Done. A mistake erased, buried under rain and night.
But quiet never lasts.
(Flashback Ends)
Nate's phone buzzed, pulling him back. He opened his eyes and answered.
"Mathias," he said flatly.
"Report," came the cold, familiar voice.
"She's alive," Nate murmured. He leaned back again, gaze on the car ceiling.
There was a pause. Then, colder: "That was your mistake the first time."
"Not this time, I'll finish it," Nate promised. His tone carried no heat, only steel. "Permanently."
Another pause. Then Mathias spoke: "Do it."
The line went dead.
Nate lowered the phone and opened the glove compartment. His hand found the pistol waiting inside. Matte black, cool to the touch, solid. He loaded the magazine with practiced ease, the click echoing inside the car like a countdown.
He rested the gun across his lap for a moment, running a finger along the barrel. The weapon had always felt less like an object and more like an extension of himself. Reliable. Silent. Final.
"Santa Monica," he told the driver.
The man nodded, Adam's apple bobbing, and pulled out of the parking lot.
The city is unspooled around them. Empty streets, glowing signs, stray figures drifting along sidewalks like ghosts. Nate barely saw any of it. His eyes were open, but his mind was locked on her.
Her face. Her voice. The way she screamed as her car spun away.
He could almost hear it again, raw and desperate.
Stop? No. He wouldn't until her memory was wiped from existence.
His hand drifted to the pistol again, brushing the grip, feeling the weight press back. He imagined her face when she saw him walk into that café or wherever she was now.
The shock. The fear. The flicker of recognition when the past clawed its way out of the dark.
He wanted to see it. Needed to.
The car slid onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The city shrank behind them, the ocean unfolding on the left, vast, black, and endless. Waves crashed violently against the shore, the sound carrying even through the glass.
Nate watched the horizon. His chest was tight, not with fear but with anticipation.
"She's laughing again," he muttered, almost to himself. "But not for long."
The driver risked a glance at him in the mirror. Nate met his eyes, and the man flinched, fixing his gaze back on the road.
"Do you know what happens to people who forget?" Nate asked suddenly.
The driver shook his head without looking.
"They get reminded." Nate's smirk curved again, cruel and certain. "And reminders can be… painful." he chuckled.
The man didn't reply. He didn't need to. His silence was answer enough.
The highway curved, carrying them closer to the coast. Lights flickered in the distance, Santa Monica's glow bleeding into the night sky.
Nate slipped the pistol into his jacket, the weight against his chest was heavy. He leaned forward slightly, watching the horizon grow sharper with each passing mile.
He could already see it in his mind. Her eyes widening, her breath hitching, the café's laughter choking into silence. He could almost hear her voice breaking as she realized.
This time, there would be no accident. No chance for fate to play another trick on him.
This time, he would watch.
The car surged forward, its headlights cutting through the dark.
And Nate, calm and merciless, smiled like a man coming home.