ENFORCER’S REVENGE

CHAPTER THREE

Abby’s POV

I woke up with a groan, my head pounding like someone had dropped a brick behind my eyes. A sharp throb radiated from the back of my skull, and for a split second, I thought I was in my room—safe, in my bed, maybe recovering from a strange dream.

But as my gaze focused, the realization struck me like cold water.

This wasn’t my room.

The ceiling above me was higher, painted a deep charcoal gray. The air smelled sterile—like pine, leather, and something faintly metallic. The sheets were dark blue, unfamiliar. The furniture was sleek, minimal, almost cold.

I wasn’t home.

I sat up slowly, wincing from the headache that bloomed with every movement. My arms were free, but when I tried to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, I stopped short.

My ankles were tied.

Panic surged through me like a lightning strike.

Thick rope bound my legs to the bedposts—not tightly, but enough to keep me from running. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at them. He hadn’t tied my hands. Just my legs.

Why?

With trembling fingers, I worked at the knots. They came undone easily—almost too easily, as if he hadn’t intended to keep me here for long. Or maybe… he knew I wouldn’t leave.

I rose shakily to my feet, my legs stiff and unsteady, and crept toward the door. My heart thundered in my chest as I wrapped my hand around the knob and slowly turned it.

Unlocked.

I eased it open, revealing a dimly lit hallway stretching out in both directions. The walls were painted steel gray, and framed photographs of forests and city skylines lined the corridor—normal, almost eerily so.

I padded forward in bare feet, the floor cold beneath me. My ears strained for sounds—voices, footsteps, anything. But the house was silent. Too silent.

At the end of the hall, I turned a corner and entered a spacious living room. Black leather couches. Dark curtains. No personal touches. Just… function. Like a temporary space made to look permanent.

I didn’t linger.

Something caught my eye—a staircase leading upward.

I hesitated, then moved toward it, the wooden steps groaning faintly beneath my weight. When I reached the top, a narrow hallway revealed itself with four doors. I tried the first one.

Locked.

Second.

Also locked.

Third—no luck.

My heart sank… until I turned the knob of the fourth door and heard a soft click.

It creaked open slowly.

At first, it looked like any other room. Dim. Windowless. But then I stepped inside… and froze.

It wasn’t a bedroom.

It was a room of pictures.

Dozens—hundreds—of them. All of me.

Me at the bakery. Me locking the shop. Me standing by the counter, laughing. Serving cupcakes. Smiling. Carrying flour.

I stumbled backward, my hand flying to my mouth.

What the hell…?

The walls were covered edge to edge, not a single space left bare. Photos spilled onto the floor, scattered like confetti. I had to step over my own face just to move deeper inside.

One photograph caught my eye.

It was from just yesterday—me handing a cupcake box to him across the counter. The angle was distant, almost like it had been taken through a window or camera lens from far away.

My knees went weak.

He’d been watching me. For how long?

I backed out of the room, heart hammering, and shut the door with a loud thud—but before I could even process what I’d seen, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then shut.

My breath caught.

I turned toward the stairs, feet moving on instinct, descending slowly.

And there—at the base of the steps, about twenty feet ahead—stood a figure in a black hoodie, his back to me. He crouched beside a table, calmly dismantling a long sniper rifle and tucking its pieces into a black duffel bag.

He moved with a precision that sent chills down my spine.

As if he had done this a hundred times.

Then, as if sensing me, his head snapped up—and our eyes met.

I froze.

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

“W-who are you?” I finally whispered, my voice shaky.

He stood slowly. His movements were smooth, unhurried. He set the bag down and reached up to the mask covering the lower half of his face.

And pulled it off.

I staggered back.

“You—” I breathed. “You’re the guy from the bakery.”

He smiled—calm, quiet, confident. “I’m glad you’re awake, my love. Forgive me for not being here when you opened your eyes. I had a mission to complete.”

My gaze dropped to the weapon still partially visible in the bag.

“A mission?” I repeated numbly.

He took a step closer. “You might want to sit down for this.”

But I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, my mind reeling.

His eyes flicked toward the stairs. “You’ve been exploring, haven’t you?”

He took another step up toward me. And then, with surprising gentleness, he reached out—and took my hand.

And somehow… I let him.

He led me back up the stairs, back to the hallway, and stopped in front of the first door—the one that had been locked.

He pulled a key from his pocket and turned it.

Click.

“Go ahead,” he said softly.

I stepped inside, breath held tight in my throat.

The room was colder. A workroom—lined with maps, notes, photographs, red string. It was like walking into the center of a conspiracy.

But not just any targets.

I recognized every single person on the wall.

The CEOs of some of the country’s biggest companies.

Graham. Michael. George. Javier. Grayson. Stanford. Jack. John. Mary.

Ten names.

Nine men. One woman.

And on one photo—Mr. Graham’s—a red circle was drawn around his face.

“He was assassinated,” I whispered. “Yesterday. He was giving a speech—”

My voice died in my throat as I looked at the sniper rifle again.

“You killed him,” I said, slowly turning to face the stranger.

He met my eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

His expression shifted—just slightly. The calm slipped, revealing something darker. Sharper. Older.

“It was for a reason,” he said quietly. “I may be a killer. An enforcer. But I don’t do it for power or money. I do it because they’ve done things the law won’t punish them for. Things no one sees—except me.”

I stared at him, my pulse thundering.

“What did they do to you?”

His gaze darkened. His jaw clenched.

“Not me,” he said after a pause. “My father.”

I took a step forward. “What did they do to him?”

But he didn’t answer.

“Not now, my love,” he said softly. “I’m late for my next mission.”

And just like that—he kissed the back of my hand, turned, and walked out the door.

I stood there, frozen in that eerie war room.

Five minutes later, I heard the front door open.

Then close.

Then… a lock clicking into place.

⸻

I didn’t bother trying the door.

I knew it would be locked.

Instead, I turned back to the wall of names.

Graham. Michael. George. Javier. Grayson. Stanford. Jack. John. Mary.

Nine names left.

And for the first time, I noticed—Mary.

The only woman.

I shivered.

He had no intention of sparing her.

He would kill her just like the rest.

Unless someone stopped him.

One name was already crossed out.

And I was caught in the middle of something I didn’t understand—a web of revenge, justice, and blood.

What have I gotten myself entangled with?

~•~

The silence in the house pressed against my skin like static.

He was gone. I’d heard the door shut. I’d heard the lock click. But somehow, I still didn’t feel alone.

My gaze returned to the room around me—the photographs, the lists, the files stacked in perfect columns across a wide wooden desk. It was a control room. A war room. Every name here belonged to someone powerful, untouchable… until he made them bleed.

I stared at the name circled in red.

Mr. Graham.

Dead. Confirmed.

And he’d killed him with the same hands that had held mine so gently.

I backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind me. The hallway loomed before me, darker now. I couldn’t just sit still and wait for him to return. I needed to know more. I needed to understand what kind of nightmare I had fallen into.

And—if there was any hope—I needed to find a way out.

I tried the second door on the hallway again. Locked. So was the third.

Only two rooms remained unchecked.

I turned and headed back downstairs, careful to make as little sound as possible. My feet padded softly across the polished floor. The house felt colder now. Bigger. Like its walls were listening.

The living room was still empty, his duffel bag gone. The curtains were drawn, but no light seeped in. I crossed toward the dining area and noticed a door I hadn’t seen earlier—half-hidden behind a standing bookshelf.

I opened it slowly.

It creaked.

Stairs.

A basement.

Everything inside me screamed don’t go down there, but curiosity—reckless and quiet—dragged me forward.

The light flickered as I descended. One bulb hung overhead, casting long shadows on concrete walls. The air was thick with dust and… something else. Age. Memory.

The basement was larger than I expected. One side was lined with weapons—knives, small arms, even a second disassembled rifle laid out on a metal table with surgical precision.

But the far end of the room… that’s what made my skin crawl.

Stacks of black journals. Dozens of them. Each labeled with initials and dates.

One of them read:

R.H. — May 2013

Another:

C.D. — Oct 2018

I reached for the third:

F.M. — June 2020

Flipping through it, I found handwritten notes. Surveillance logs. License plates. Names of victims. Meeting locations. And next to each name: a verdict.

Guilty

Guilty

Unforgivable

I slammed it shut, my breath catching. These weren’t just journals. They were… execution files.

I backed away slowly, my knees weak, and ran back up the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

I had to get out.

I tried the front door again. Tugged. Yanked. Nothing. It was deadbolted with a key I didn’t have. I searched the living room, the kitchen, even beneath couch cushions. No spare keys. No back doors.

Even the windows were sealed shut. Reinforced.

Who does that?

The house wasn’t just private—it was a prison.

And I was the only inmate.

I returned to the hallway upstairs, pacing quietly, and tried the third door again. This time, I noticed something: faint scratches around the doorknob. A lock that had been forced before.

I slid a hairpin from my curls and bent it.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Inside was a guest room—neatly kept, untouched. But what caught my attention wasn’t the bed or the bookshelf.

It was the desk drawer.

Inside were photographs. Old ones. A man and a little boy—on a boat, in front of a house, in a faded bakery. The boy couldn’t have been older than eight. The man… he had the same sharp jaw as the Enforcer. Same eyes.

His father.

The last photo was different.

Charred edges. Torn. It showed the boy standing alone in a field of burned rubble.

On the back, written in bold block letters:

“They took everything. But I’ll take it back. One name at a time.”

My throat tightened.

I put the photo down gently and left the room, closing the door behind me.

Back in the hallway, I stared at the locked doors, the bare walls, the hidden truths buried in every corner of this house.

And for the first time since waking up here, I felt something worse than fear.

I felt sorry for him.

But pity wouldn’t save me.

Not if I was still here when he came back.

Not if I became the only loose thread in his perfect plan.