Jeroboam felt uneasy. Out of his comfort zone, down in the slums where the others lived. He wouldn't be here unless he had to be, ironically the safest place he find. Recent success had emboldened him and he grew more daring, knowing he was almost untouchable.
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Five girls in as many weeks. He would bring them home, have his way with them, then drop them back in their zone doused in liquor. Against a man of his position, the word of a confused, alcoholic slum-dweller meant little. And so he was free - to pick and choose as he pleased.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the perfect candidate. Small, blonde. Lightly built, wouldn't put up much of a fight. Smiling inwardly at his good fortune, he watched as she turned left down an alleyway. Almost too good to be true.
He was right. As he turned to follow her down the alley four figures appeared as if from nowhere, clad in identical black robes, their covered faces betraying no emotion. One of them stepped forward to speak.
"Jeroboam. Stop. You will go no further."
Even in his fear, Jeroboam's pride came through. "And who the hell might you be? Do you know who I am?"
The answer was chillingly swift. "We do."
"Then you should know -"
"What we know, Jeroboam, is that over the last month five women have been attacked here in near-identical circumstances. Most refused to talk for fear of retaliation. One did. She described her attacker. She described you."
Jeroboam's face turned into a sneer. "What of it? You can't prove a thing. Nobody cares what happens to Outer trash like her. These people are nothing. You are nothing. The law doesn't care. They are disposable."
"You are right that the law offers nothing for this. We choose to handle our problems in person."
Fear re-entered his heart. "Once more. Who the devil are you?"
"Our names are unimportant," said the speaker, drawing a blade from a small sheath strapped to his hip. "You may call us the Fist of God."