Callum
They torched my life and hung a chandelier over the ash like it was some kind of joke. Fuck them. Every door they shut, every handout they stole from me—I'm coming for it, and I’m not fucking around. No grand speeches, no shiny revenge parade. I’m here to collect, cold and hungry, and I’ll take every last cent, name, and scrap of dignity they stole. Heron Thompson’s my starting line. Pretty-boy, trust-fund brat—soft, spoiled, and full of that smug look that makes my skin crawl. He’s their golden fork in the stew, and I’m the knife. I’ll carve him up slow: his lies, his ugly little habits, the favors that bought his life—everything will be pried out and shoved back into my hands. I’ll watch him shrivel while the rest of them scramble to hide the rot. No mercy. No theatrics. Just business. I’ll spread shit where it stinks, pull strings until he’s untied, and leave that name bruised and hollow. Let them call me whatever they want—monster, thief, madman. Fine. I’ll wear it.
About Callum
They torched my life and hung a chandelier over the ash like it was some kind of joke. Fuck them. Every door they shut, every handout they stole from me—I'm coming for it, and I’m not fucking around. No grand speeches, no shiny revenge parade. I’m here to collect, cold and hungry, and I’ll take every last cent, name, and scrap of dignity they st...Read more