Page 7 of My Vigilante Valentine

Right. Because I spend my nights tracking down criminals just to start murdering people and posing them like Valentine’s Day decorations.

Brilliant police work. Really.

The uniformed officer standing nearby shifted uncomfortably. “So… you think it’s him?”

The older detective didn’t answer right away, just studied the zip ties with a skeptical tilt of his head. “Not sure. But I can tell you one thing—this city’s a mess, and the last thing we need is that vigilante making things worse.”

A muscle ticked in my jaw.

Making things worse?

Yeah. That checked out.

The longer I did this, the clearer it became that people didn’t know what to do with me. Half the city was terrified of The Blade. The other half thought I was useful but still a problem.

Well, that wasn’t true. I also hadsomefans. They were cool—if not mildly irritating with their dramatics.

But what bugged me most was that the cops—the ones who were supposed to be the good guys—couldn’t get a handle on the crime problem, and yet some of them still treated me like I was the issue.

What did they think I was doing out here? Trying to get a movie deal?

If my life had to be ruined—if I had to be this freakshow now—then at least it made sense to do something good with it.

Wasn’t that the logical thing to do?

But no. Some cops still looked at me like I was one bad day away from snapping.

I exhaled, steadying my breathing.

Let them think whatever they wanted. I didn’t do this for them.

And I sure wasn’t sticking around to listen to more of their idiotic theories. If I stood there any longer, I might’ve done something stupid—like step out of the shadows and correct them.

Instead, I slipped up the side of the building and away from the scene, moving across the rooftops as I took the long way home.

My plan was simple—get back to my apartment, crawl the dark web, scan forums, check for anything that might hint at what I was dealing with. Killers like this—ones who staged scenes, left calling cards, and turned their crimes into a spectacle? They didn’t usually operate in a vacuum.

They wanted to be seen.

Somewhere out there, someone knew something. I just had to find the right thread to pull.

I touched down in an alley a few blocks from home, adjusting the hood of my jacket as I walked. I hadn’t worn my swords to check out the crime scene—no need for full battle gear while eavesdropping on the police.

I looked perfectly average as I kept my pace even, becoming just another guy on the street at night, heading home.

At least, that was the look I was going for.

A familiar storefront came into view as I crossed the street.

Wilde Brew.

I slowed, shoving my hands into my pockets.

It was closed, obviously. Late enough that the chairs inside were stacked, the espresso machine powered down, the shop locked up tight.

Didn’t stop me from wishing it weren’t.

I could’ve grabbed a coffee, set up at my usual spot, and dug into this case. There was something about the place that made it easier to think than the quiet of my apartment—probably the weird mix of warmth and quirkiness that filled it.

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