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- Murder is like potato chips, you can't stop with just one

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- Murder is like potato chips, you can't stop with just one. -
Stephen King

CW: violence, blood, mention of rape and murder, knives, guns.

One year earlier.

Does killing someone makes you automatically a bad person?

Or is it the reason behind the killing?

Some may say it's a fine line that defines what's good or bad.

But to win something, you also have to make sacrifices. Nothing comes for free, and by nothing, the world isn't certainly going to be a better place.

To do something is better than doing nothing.

That's what George Barnes told his son from the very beginning, perhaps not the killing part, but James would learn about that part when ready. Which he'd been since the day he turned sixteen and was told he was going to take over the role as the owner of the family business when his father was ready to retire. George never pushed his son. It was James himself who wanted to walk the same path as him. He looked up to his father more than anything else. He admired how hard he worked to keep the city in shack. How much he validated the citizens safety, just as much as he did with his own family.

Sure, it was a bit harsh when turning sixteen and founding out about the secret part of the law firm. A side so wicked and dark you may wonder why they even worked as lawyers. They were meant to give people their trust and justice, to simply help others.

They still did, but when they couldn't give the victims what they truly deserved, the lands law were to weak in their eyes. James father took that mission in his own hands.

Their special clients were their main reason to their success, though the incoming money wasn't as satisfying as seeing the light inside their missions eyes being put out.

The main reason of starting G Barnes Law wasn't to become lawyers. It was only a facade to hide the real reason about what was happening behind concrete walls.

To hide the blood that seeped from the walls, to muffle the screams from the torturing. The bodies of people who wished they were never born, to wish they were dead before knifes sliced their body parts apart or teeth being pulled out.

Hell was surely a place on earth. More
specifically behind those steel walls.

James currently stood in front of another mission in the skyscrapers basement, watching the man's body like a hawk as he sat tied up on a chair. He had just opened up his eyes after being unconscious for a while, caused by a hit he'd received back in his apartment. His whimpers were muffled under the duck tape that covered his mouth, his long hair damp and stuck onto his face.

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