The rain taps against my window, a quiet reminder that the city never truly sleeps. Its breath is cold and restless, much like mine. I stand before my cracked mirror, staring into eyes that have seen too much yet never enough. The faint glow of neon outside splashes its colors across my black hair, wet from the night I just left behind. The gloves are off now, tucked into the pocket of my coat, but the trace of red on my skin lingers a silent signature of what I've done. I don’t regret it. I never do.I am Andromeda Sylvaris and 28 years old. People often describe me as delicate, eyes gray like the first before dawn and hair spun a golden brown. To some, I’m a ghost, a myth whispered under breath 'The Saint of Shadows'. To others, I’m nothing but a monster. But I only kill monsters. The ones society pretends don't exist or chooses to ignore. I hunt the evil that walks in daylight, cloaked in power and sins hidden beneath layers of respectability.People say you become who you are because of your past. For me, it’s true. My father’s fists were the first monsters I knew, and the system's cold indifference was the second. By the time I was a teenager, I had learned one undeniable fact: justice is a lie told by those with privilege. I vowed to rewrite that lie, one name at a time.I grew up in a town where silence was safer than words, where kindness was just a disguise for survival. My father taught me how darkness looked. The courthouse taught me how easily evil slipped through cracks. I wasn’t broken by it. I was forged. A weapon shaped by pain and purpose.

My first kill was far from elegant. His name was Garrett Halloway. A man who smiled in courtrooms and left scars on the broken. The law let him go after he assaulted a young girl. That night, I hunted him with nothing but a trembling resolve and a knife sharpened on cold resolve.I followed him for weeks, learning every habit, each lie he told himself and others. When I finally confronted him in a shadowed parking garage, I saw the surprise, the disbelief that anyone had the nerve to hold him accountable. I whispered the frightened girl’s name as the blade found its mark. I never claimed to be innocent, but his end was justice.

Every target I choose is a story of failure ,the ones the system discarded. I’m not reckless; I’m precise. My work as a forensic psychology consultant for the Metropolitan Police grants me access to data no vigilante should ever have. I collect evidence, study the patterns, and when the files grow cold, I bring them back to life in red.Tonight’s target was Malcolm Kerrigan, a judge who freed a killer because money shielded him from guilt. He let the son of a corporate titan walk free after strangling his girlfriend. The headlines barely lasted a day, and the victims’ names were erased from memory. But I remember. I see. And I act.I watched Kerrigan for weeks, learning his schedule, his arrogance, his vices. When he exited his favorite restaurant tonight, dripping with his own sense of invincibility, I was waiting. The syringe in my hand held a slow poison, mercifully swift. I told him I forgave him as his eyes fluttered shut not because I felt mercy, but to remind him of what he lacked.

Back in my apartment, I light a candle, its scent a mix of jasmine and cedar something steady in the chaos. Against the wall, hundreds of faces stare back at me from printed photos pinned with red thread a web of sins and forgotten victims. Each photo is a story left incomplete by corrupt laws and crooked judges. This is my map; this is my creed.Some might call me unhinged for what I do. Detective Icarus Altair he is three years older than me and works alongside me, believes in clear binaries, good versus evil, right versus wrong. But I know better. They are not opposites. They are two currents feeding the same dark ocean. I am just the tide pulling to shore what others have sunk beneath indifference and fear.