The Plot Calls #34 : "Execute the Executioner"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Colby Maddox didn’t carry grief. He carried fire.

His brother’s killer walked free. The court called it justice. Colby called it gasoline.

Every jog along cracked pavement. Every gym session in crowds he ignored. Every sleepless night—his chest smoldered.

The whisper came during a midnight run. Beneath the old train bridge. Low. Voiceless. Familiar.

He stopped. The soil pulsed under rusted tracks. Black‑violet veins of light. Shimmering.

A porcelain hand rose through debris. Open. Hungry. Expectant.

Colby knelt. Took out the case file—photos, autopsy, police blotter. His last reminder. His final injustice to bear.

He placed it into the porcelain palm.

The hand closed. The soil exhaled like brimstone.

That day, the killer died. Accident, they called it. Colby didn’t believe in accidents anymore.

But as the whispers grew, so did his questions. Was that the end—or just the beginning?

The plot fed on his wrath. Colby fed it more.

He buried grudge after grudge: A cheating neighbor. A boss who stole credit. An old friend who lied. Each offering lit the soil deeper.

Every new name disappeared. Heart attacks, slips, “freak accidents.” Colby moved through the world unmolested, yet invisible.

His reflection dulled. His body withered. His fire became a hollow ember he fed endlessly.

He saw himself in burned-out mirrors. Pale. Thin veins tracing his cheeks. Hands shaking with cold even in gyms.

He didn’t cry anymore. He didn’t remember why.

He just obeyed the whisper.

The whisper called one last time.

Colby found himself at that bridge again. No purpose this time—only compulsion.

The plot pulsed. Louder. Hotter. Brighter. It demanded more.

He knelt beside it. Broke. Bone-tired.

He used the last ledger he carried: Names he wrote once. Names he burned later. But tonight, he came empty-handed.

His throat constricted. He collapsed beside the shimmering plot. Too cold. Too weak. No fire left.

That’s when the Idle Man appeared. Pale. Hollow. Idle.

He knelt beside Colby. Spoke into the darkness without voice.

“Balance is paid,” the whisper echoed beneath them.

Colby gasped and closed his eyes. Warmth fled his body. Darkness welcomed him.

The porcelain hand emerged again. It reached for Colby’s body.

It didn’t ask.

It just took him.

And then—

The shockwave of silence swallowed the night.

Colby was gone.

The soil pulsed once more. Then calmed.

The Idle Man stood. Turned. Paused.

And whispered, soft and unbroken:

“The Plot Thickens.”

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