Voss is strong, unpredictable, and thrives on dominance. But every predator has a weakness—pride.
Callum understands that Voss doesn't avoid conflict. He welcomes it. He believes no one would dare challenge him. That arrogance? Callum uses it.
The plan begins with a whisper—a rumor passed through Voss's circle, a carefully constructed lie placed in the right ears.
"Callum Blackwood has been asking questions about you."
"He says you're weaker than people think."
"Word is, he's looking to settle things."
Voss hears it. He smirks. He doesn't ignore challenges.
Callum isn't just baiting him—he's making it feel like Voss is the one hunting.
Voss is rarely alone. He surrounds himself with people who enable him, who fuel his violence. Callum can't strike with witnesses. So he systematically removes them.
One of Voss's crew gets distracted—deliberately pulled into a separate confrontation. Another is manipulated into leaving town for the weekend—an anonymous tip about a job opportunity. A third is given false information about Voss's location, sending them somewhere else entirely.
By the time Voss arrives at the designated location, he's alone—exactly where Callum wants him.
Voss steps through the warehouse doors at midnight. The air is stale, filled with dust and echoes. Dim lighting casts long shadows against cracked concrete.
He expects a fight. He doesn't expect silence.
"Where are you, kid?" Voss mutters, voice low, amused.
Callum watches from above—a vantage point hidden in the rafters. Patient. Unmoving. Waiting.
Every detail of this space is controlled. Every element designed to strip Voss of his advantage.
The ground is uneven—certain parts rigged to collapse under heavy pressure.
Mirrors placed at deliberate angles distort depth perception.
Metal beams creak when walked upon, creating false movement in the shadows.
Voss believes he's hunting.
Callum knows he's already trapped.
Callum doesn't strike immediately. That would be reckless. Instead, he lets Voss unravel himself.
A sound—but not from where Callum is.
Voss turns, scanning the darkness. A trick of acoustics.
A sudden shift in lighting—a momentary flicker designed to distort vision.
Voss doesn't feel powerful anymore.
Callum smirks. Now the hunt begins.
Voss grips his fists, frustration mounting. The space around him is wrong—every step feels uncertain, every shadow stretches too far.
"Enough with the games, Blackwood!" he snarls, voice echoing through the warehouse.
Callum watches from above, still waiting. He doesn't answer.
Because Voss isn't ready to fall yet.
Instead, Callum lets Voss tear himself apart.
A sudden flicker of movement in the corner—but nothing is actually there.
A metal beam creaks above—but Callum isn't standing on it.
Voss grits his teeth, eyes darting wildly. For the first time, he isn't in control. And that realization? It eats at him.
Voss moves toward the exit, realizing too late that it's been rigged. The structure is deliberately unstable—Callum has already weakened the foundation at critical points.
One step.
Two.
And then—collapse.
The flooring gives way slightly—not enough to injure, but enough to make Voss lose balance.
Callum descends.
Silently, quickly—like an arrow loosed from a bow, landing just outside Voss's reach.
"You relied on strength," Callum says calmly, watching Voss push himself back up. "But strength alone never wins."
Voss snarls. "You think you can beat me with tricks?"
Callum tilts his head. "No. I beat you the moment you walked in."
Voss charges, rage clouding his judgment. Callum doesn't dodge outright. Instead, he redirects—shifting weight, controlling movement, making Voss stumble into his own downfall.
A precise strike to the side—targeting the weakest structural point in the human body's stance.
Voss buckles.
Callum stands over him now. Calm. Unshaken.
"This isn't revenge," Callum murmurs. "It's retribution."
And for the first time, Voss understands what real fear feels like.
Callum never believed in revenge. Revenge was emotional. Revenge was messy.
Retribution, though—that was perfected justice.
He had dismantled Voss, stripped him of dominance, left him alive—not out of kindness, but because Voss needed to feel his own insignificance.
But Callum had underestimated one thing.
Voss's need to feel powerful again.
Voss didn't retreat after his defeat.
He burned.
His pride, his identity, his very existence had been shattered.
He couldn't accept it. He wouldn't accept it.
And when a man built on violence loses his grip, he finds something else to destroy.
Joseph Blackwood was the first target.
The man who had controlled Callum, the man who had once believed he was untouchable.
Voss made sure Joseph understood true helplessness in his final moments.
And Maria?
She never stood a chance.
Her cries barely echoed through the house before silence swallowed her whole.
The house is empty now—except for Voss. He waits.
Sitting in the wreckage of Callum's past, surrounded by blood that isn't his own.
He knows Callum will return.
Because even the most calculated hunter has one weakness—unfinished business.
And this?
This is the final game.
~~~
Callum left his psychology class with one thing on his mind.
Ending Joseph Blackwood.
He thought to himself, "This is my retribution!"
Callum walked to a coffee shop near Bradford University He pulled out his laptop and started planning the best spot to ambush his own families house.
He opened a the satellite view of his city and started plotting.
He knew where everything was but he fully visualized his actions on the map.
Plotting every step. Every action. Every p0ossible reaction. Until he was fully prepared to make a move.
Multiple hours passed by the time he was done planning.
It was now past sundown when Callum packed up his stuff. Finished his cold cup of coffee and left.
He started his journey to his parent's home.
"My Father will pay" He thought. "He does not belong in this world. He is a demon. He preys on everyone around him. I wouldn't be surprised if he started beating my mom while I've been gone." Callum's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. "He must die. Who gives a d*mn about retribution? He deserves death. I will have unfinished business!"
Callum walked for just a short time arriving at his parent's home. He could see the old door cracked open.
That irked him.
"This isn't normal" He pulled a small knife our of his pocket and started walking to the door.
Is feet as light as could be.
His ears perked.
He was ready to face anything.
His plans went out the window as he opened the door.
The sight before him was horrifying.
Blood was everywhere. His eyes traced the room looking for the cause.
A chair was sitting in the middle of the room with a single man sitting in it.
Callum heard a chuckle. "Hahaha, He finally showed up!"
Callum knew that voice, "Damian... How the h*ll did you get in here?!" He shouted. "What did you do!!"
"Please," Damian high on bloodlust, "One question at a time, I just came to finish the job you so desperately wanted. So quite down and thank me already, b*tch"
"You have no right to be here" Callum was in shock. Not sure what to do. His eyes were scanning the room looking for leverage.
"You are the weak one now!" Damian adjusted in his chair noticing Callum distracted by his own thoughts. He lunged forward throwing his fist straight into Callum's gut.
Callum let out a guttural scream, "Ahhhhhh!"
He fell to the ground gripping his stomach.
Coughing up blood.
Damian walked to his body and picked up his knife from beside him. "I am going to" His voice became cold, "kill you!"
Callum was in too much pain to fight. His liver exploded from Damian's hit. He was already going to die and he knew it. "Please..." He muttered.
Damian had already brought the knife above his head ready to bring it down onto Callum.
"Shut your pathetic mouth!!" Damian shouted. Damian kicked Callum in the side causing him to cough up more blood. Jolting his body causing more pain.
"You have made me look bad too many times! Everyone hates me now. They think I'm weak! So you must pay! You call it retribution I call it payback!"
Callum's body was already getting cold. He didn't last long with internal and external bleeding.
Damian didn't care.
He brought the knife down onto Callum's body. The blade easily penetrating his flesh. Over and over and over again. If Callum wasn't dead before he was now.
Damian took Callum's Family out of the world and now removed Callum too.
~~~
Callum felt at ease.
For the first time in his life, there was no weight pressing on his mind, no tension gripping his chest. He existed, but without pain, without thought, without memory.
A radiant light enveloped him—not harsh, not blinding, but comforting, wrapping around him like something ancient and familiar. It wasn't heat; it was something deeper—warmth, the kind he had never known.
He floated, untethered from the world. His body, his mind, his past—all distant, dissolving into the quiet.
He was free.
Free from his failures.
Free from his father's shadow.
Free from vengeance, from rage, from the weight of control.
For the first time, he felt whole.
Then—
It was ripped away.
The warmth shattered. The light fractured.
He was falling.
Not the slow, drifting descent of a dream—real falling, gaining speed every second, gravity wrapping its claws around him.
Air should have rushed past him. But there was no air. No pressure. Just momentum, just motion that shouldn't exist, as if the very laws of physics had abandoned him.
His body plummeted through the void—no sky, no earth, just nothing.
Then, impact.
Not pain.
Not destruction.
Just transition.
Everything Callum knew disappeared.
~~~
He gasped—lungs burning, breath stolen from him.
Sound crashed into his ears, overwhelming—too sharp, too alive, too much.
Cold. Warm. Touch. Pressure. Sensation.
He wasn't dead.
But he wasn't him.
He was small—weak, unfamiliar, new.
His limbs refused to obey, their proportions wrong, foreign. His muscles, his bones—not his own, as if they were borrowed, reshaped into something that didn't belong to him.
He tried to speak.
Nothing.
Only whimpers, broken noise with no meaning, no thought, just reaction.
Then—crying.
But not because of sadness. Not because of fear. Because his body demanded it.
Instinct. Pure, raw, involuntary.
His thoughts were fractured, instinctual—no memories, no past, nothing to cling to except the fragments of knowledge without identity.
He blinked—flashes of information, cascading like a malfunctioning algorithm.
Equations. Scientific laws. Physics bending but never breaking. Chemical reactions structured perfectly. Theories of energy. Computation. The mechanics of existence.
He knew them.
He understood them.
But he didn't know why.
There were no emotions tied to the knowledge, no recognition of personal experience. Only facts, pure and absolute.
A mind without a name. A body without a history.
He was no longer Callum.
But that thought meant nothing, because Callum didn't exist.
There was no sense of loss. No mourning for a past erased.
Only presence. Only now.
The air was different. The room was unknown. The noises surrounding him were not data—they were real, tangible, pressing in on him.
His priority was not to figure out who he was.
His priority was to process.
To understand.
To adapt.