A few days later..

I laid down on my couch, recovering from my injuries with Jordan. My primary doctor had patched me up with a few stitches and prescribed antibiotics. In a few days, I'd be in prime condition again. As I rested, I decided to pass the time by scrolling through Allison's social media posts. She’s the most vain person I've ever met, and it's working for her. Her bio is all about wanting to bring goodness into the world. You lying...

Her posts are full of happy moments with her friends, and I scrolled down a bit further. There are some posts about the gym as well. What's up with her musculature? That wouldn't be out of place on a top-level male bodybuilding stage. Anything about the cult? Each image is taken in a normal place with nothing off. Popular places, even, meaning people can be seen in the background. I don't see anything related to the cult here. She might use another account for stalking and gathering new targets. This page, though, is immensely popular. Probably due to the fact she's attractive and seven feet tall. She's going for that 'muscle mommy' aesthetic that some downtrodden individuals like. She isn’t a slut, though. She hides most of her cleavage and makes it clear in her bio that she will never post that kind of content.

I sighed and continued scrolling, noting the effort she put into maintaining her image. Her followers seemed captivated by her every move, showering her with likes and comments. Her carefully curated persona was both impressive and unsettling. The juxtaposition of her seemingly perfect life and the dark reality I knew lurked beneath the surface made my skin crawl. Yet, no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find any hint of the cult activities she was involved in. It was as if she led a double life, flawlessly separating her sinister side from her public persona.

After Jordan's and Tom's death, she hasn't posted anything. She's grieving right now. A new notification extended down from the top of my screen, telling me to refresh the page. A new post! I clicked the button, and a new post appeared. The caption read: Just going through something right now. Won't post again for a few weeks. It showed her hiding her eyes behind her forearm and some tears. Why are you making a post crying on social media? This is what's wrong with influencers. I put my phone away and sat up. There's no need to stalk her anymore. If she or any of the cult members knew what I did, they would've made their move. The police too. In the back of my mind, I was very worried that I might've missed something, but it seems like I got away with it. To get revenge on the next three, I will only need two more months. Despite the anxiety gnawing at me, I took a deep breath and tried to refocus my thoughts.

My phone rang with an alarm, jolting me out of my thoughts and reminding me of a task I needed to complete. I stepped out of the house, the crisp morning air hitting my face as I pocketed my phone and wallet. I walked over to my car, the gravel crunching under my feet, and opened the door, the familiar creak of the hinge echoing in the quiet neighborhood. It was time to take care of my appearance.

I slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against my skin, and inserted the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I eased the car out of the driveway. As I drove down the street, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt provided a soothing backdrop for my thoughts. I mulled over the entire plan, my mind racing with the details. First, I would get a new haircut—something sharp and unrecognizable—and then, I would start actually implementing a beauty routine. A bit weird, but follow me.

It would take all of my willpower, but I was determined to join the cult. I needed to know their ins and outs. My goal was to stay under the radar as a low-level recruit, blending in to avoid drawing attention while I observed their activities. I wanted revenge on those four, but I knew that alone wouldn’t destroy the organization. To dismantle it entirely, I needed to gather concrete evidence of their wrongdoing and submit it to the police. This plan was risky, but it was the only way to bring them down and achieve justice.

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There's one flaw in this plan, however. They've killed and hurt many people. Maybe in the dozens. This means someone is covering for them in the police. I know a man whose justice-oriented though, one who is certainly not the connection. The detective who talked to me back then. He gathered evidence to put Arnold behind bars. If he was the connection, he wouldn't have pursued Arnold like that. The fact that the other two did not get convicted angers me immensely. It is not his fault, but self-control is not a skill I have. As I steered and parked on the street side, right in front of the barber shop, the weight of this target bore down on me. Would I be able to pretend for that long? The barber shop's neon sign buzzed faintly, flickering sporadically as if mirroring the tumult in my mind. Inside, I could see the usual crowd of regulars, chatting away, oblivious to the turmoil brewing just outside their door. The smell of aftershave and freshly cut hair wafted through my nose.

I entered and saw many barbers of different styles and fashion cutting hair. The building was large, with at least ten chairs for customers. There was also a backroom, probably for people who bought the VIP package. The air was filled with the hum of clippers and snippets of conversations about local gossip and sports. I spotted my barber, an older bald man in his sixties. He wasn't what you'd typically envision when seeking to look your most attractive, but you'd be wrong to doubt him. His reputation was built on skill and an eye for detail.

I waved to him, and he responded with a warm smile, "Come here, Damon." I strolled over, and he pulled out a black blanket. "Sit down, and we can discuss what you want." he said. I settled into the black leather chair, the creak of the seat grounding me momentarily. He draped the blanket over me, a ritualistic gesture that always marked the beginning of our sessions. "How are you doing?" he asked, his voice carrying concern. Haven't visited this guy since her death. I responded quickly, lying, "I'm great, thanks." The truth was more complex; I felt a grim satisfaction from recent events, but my mind was far from at peace. He complimented me, "Man, you look different. Your hair's a bit worse, but your body.. man. I wish I had a body like that in my youth." I thanked him, "Thank you.. I put in a lot of effort." He moved on, "Well, what type of haircut do you want? You certainly are due for one." His eyes studied my face, searching for clues about my mood. I looked back at him, trust evident in my gaze, "Can you make me look as attractive as possible?"

He wore a face of surprise but soon smiled, "Of course, man. You won't hate it if I choose what was attractive in my time, right?" There was a twinkle in his eye, a hint of nostalgia. I told him point-blank, "As long as I look great, you can do whatever you wish." He started to go through his tools, the metallic clink of scissors and combs a comforting sound. "I'll make you look snappy," he promised.

The next thirty minutes flew by in a flash. I closed my eyes the duration of the cut, not wanting to spoil the surprise of what he was doing. I knew, however, that he cut off my large bang in front of my eye. I'd been moving that around during my fight with Jordan, foolishly pushing it towards my dominant eye. It didn't cause me to mess up, though. He finished, putting away most of his tools. "Uh, open your eyes." he instructed. I opened my eyes, the light cascading in. He held up a mirror behind me, and I viewed myself. I looked amazing. My hair was touched up with some products, taking on a new style. It was much shorter, with a part in the middle, reminiscent of Moses parting the sea. I quite like this look. "Wow, this is what was popular back in the two thousands? Why don't people like it now?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He launched into a rant, "Well, this generation, son. You're good, of course, but the generation at large is lost. I thought my generation was ba—" I raised my hand to stop him, "Okay, save me that for now. I agree in some ways, but yeah. How much?" I took the blanket off and stood up. He took out his credit card reader, "Uh, forty bucks." I pulled out my wallet and inserted the card into the reader. It read my chip, and I paid him. "Oh my God, I forgot," I said, realizing I hadn't tipped him. I clicked fifteen percent on the tip choices, and he smiled appreciatively. "Thanks. Anyways, come back again for that. I can do that specific cut like I do wome—" This guy, always on about something. I wiped myself off, "Alright, I'm going. See ya, Kyle." He nodded, and I took measured steps towards the door. As I opened it, my thoughts turned dark.

Allison... I will make you fall in love with me. Then, I will break your heart and your bones!