[ WP ] You decide to become a serial killer . However , you turn out to be the worst serial killer in existence . Every time you try to kill someone , you improve their life .

With a disgruntled sigh, Jack Evans collapsed into his 2007 Ford Mustang GT, completely blacked out from headlight to spoiler, which he had done so many times before, signifying the end of his shift at the San Francisco Daily Bulletin. Each day he would struggle to cope with the constant harassment and ridicule that he experienced almost habitually. 
 
 Being the rookie journalist not only signified that he would be the butt of all jokes, but that he would be stepped on, as he never spoke up or defended himself. Everything had led up to the moment when he witnessed his boss welcome his fiancé into his office, where they exchanged conversation, and ultimately handed her a key to his hotel. Jack, immediately pent up with anger stormed into his cubicle, a small, dusty corner in the otherwise large office. He was taking matters into his own hands. No longer would he be the butt of jokes at his office, being known simply as `` Lonesome Jack''. He was going to make a name for himself, and take down everybody who lacked belief in him; all those that had stepped on him. 
 
 As he blinked out of his reflectance of the day's events, he started up the charcoal muscle car, and his headlights flickered into a bright white existence. He squinted through his windshield of a thousand tears, the usual rain pouring endlessly, as it had each night this winter. It seemed to reflect his mood, always gloomy and full of despair. His gaze paused at the bay that lay before him. He could just make out downtown San Francisco from here. That is where he would begin his hunt for vengeance. His coworkers, boss, ex girlfriends, parents, everybody, would feel his wrath and be forced to take him seriously from this moment on. 
 
 As Jack cruised across the silent, melancholy streets of downtown, he watched as civilians, potential witnesses ran for cover under haunting facades of hotels, shops, restaurants, a reminder of the history that still lived in this city. He quickly came to the realization that he would need a weapon, but simply walking into a gun shop and buying a gun would be too suspicious. So he came to the conclusion that he would hunt for them as an animal would, simply with his bare hands. 
 
 The growling engine of the Mustang fell to a silent conclusion as Jack stopped the car and opened his door slightly, as if to let the cold air into the furnace of hate that was contained in the cabin of his vehicle. He looked up at the cement tower that lay before him; `` The Roosevelt''. Specifically, the residence of his boss, the one who made him an exile at the office, who declined any attempt at him moving up in the business; the one who stole his fiancé from under him. 
 
 As he jogged into the Art Deco themed lobby of the hotel, he found the elevator opened, as if giving him an invitation to fulfill his prophecy. The numbers on the golden wall read `` 1... 2... 3...'' all the way until it stopped at `` 25...''. The doors creaked to an open position and he found himself alone, in complete silence upon the crimson carpet of the penthouse. Jack paced towards room 1990, the `` President's Suite''. To his surprise, the door lay open as well, a small crack of light escaped into the candle lit hallway. Taking this as further proof of his divine right of vengeance, Jack lust forward into the room, throwing the door open with ferocious might and made two large bounds right into the suite's master bedroom. 
 
 As he thrust the two ancient oak doors of the room open, he witnessed his fiancé holding a knife to his bosses throat, as well as three bags filled to the brim with unmarked bills, gold china, and other priceless objects near the window to the balcony and ultimately, the fire escape. In moments that seemed to live in complete slow motion, Jack analyzed each detail of the event as if he were the late Sherlock Holmes himself, tracking down precisely what was happening. As the two struggled in death's embrace, Jack jumped over the side of the immaculate drapes lining the bed and threw the woman to the ground, where she found herself soon swimming in a pool of crimson. The knife lay, 4 inches deep in her chest, where she had fallen. 
 
 In complete shock, his fiancé, whom he had nothing but anger up until now for, looked at him in the eyes and whispered `` thank you'' as she faded into an everlasting slumber. 
 
 And in this moment, Jack realized, as he looked at the knife lying on the floor, the faint words `` Phantom'' etched on the hilt, that his fiancé, who would often be gone late nights into the early morning hours was working for the mob, specifically the `` Phantom Mob''. This group of barbarians were feared throughout the entire bay area, and to his complete dismay, his own fiancé was a member. In complete disgust he turned away. 
 
 Jack's shoulders heaved up and down in animalistic spirit as he struggled to catch his breath. As he slowly looked up, fiery cauldrons of lava glowing in his eyes, he met gaze with his boss. The man lie complete fear, not even the slightest whimper escaping his pale white face 
 
 His boss, who was nothing more than an angry man in a business suit had come to realize that his life had just been saved, as this woman's mission was to end his life, and take all that he had. 
 
 And as Jack disappeared down the fire escape into the foggy San Francisco night, he came to the conclusion deep in his heart, that he would not kill for vengeance, but save those that had attempted to corrupt him from themselves.
