Him

He has no name. At least, not one anyone knows. He is not known. He is unknown. Him is his moniker—bestowed by those too terrified to ask for something more personal. He has blood on his hands. A body count. Some of them owed money. Some of them thought they were clever. Others were simply unlucky enough to breathe in his direction on the wrong day. People who didn’t pay. People who got away with it. People the police couldn’t find—because, frankly, the police didn’t want to find them. He is silent. He is deadly. He is dangerous. His forest-green eyes shine with an unsettling brightness, like the glint of a knife in low light. No one knows where he came from. No one knows where he sleeps. He has no past—at least not one anyone survives knowing. The stories about him spread in whispers. A man who once saw Him’s shadow swore it was smiling. Another claimed he heard Him humming as he worked, like it was a pleasant afternoon chore. No one tells these tales loudly. Not unless they have a sudden lack of interest in breathing. And yet, despite the fear, despite the mystery, there’s an odd comfort in knowing Him exists. Like a cosmic janitor, cleaning up life’s nastier messes—only his mop is a little sharper. The only thing certain about Him… is Him. They call him Him. And for everyone’s sake, that’s probably enough.