Callum never hunted for sport—he hunted for balance. That's what his father had taught him. The wilderness was brutal, but it was honest; predators didn't mock their prey, they didn't revel in suffering. Yet, the halls of Bradford University were different. Here, power wasn't earned—it was taken. Bullies wore expensive watches, talked with sneering smiles, and drowned their victims in laughter. And no one stopped them.
Callum had seen enough.
Travis Carter, the self-proclaimed god of campus, ran his empire from the shadows of privilege. He ruined reputations with a whisper, turned friends against each other with a smirk. His crew—Matt Parker, Ashley Reese, and a few nameless followers—were extensions of his cruelty.
Callum wasn't afraid of them.
But he was sick of them.
Callum didn't believe in justice. That required a system. What he did believe in was calculated suffering—the kind that made the strong feel weak, that made the powerful feel helpless.
One evening, he watched Travis corner Liam in the art department. The room smelled of turpentine and desperation.
"These look like garbage, man," Travis said, flipping through Liam's sketches with mock curiosity. "You think this makes you special? Nah. You're just another loser pretending to be deep."
Matt laughed—because that was his job.
Ashley leaned in, voice like poison. "Maybe if you spent less time drawing and more time, I don't know, being interesting, people wouldn't ignore you."
Callum exhaled slowly. He stepped into the light.
"You talk too much," Callum said.
Travis turned. "Excuse me?"
"You fill the air with bullsh*t because silence scares you. You think if people stop listening, you'll disappear," Callum continued, his voice even. "And maybe you should."
Travis laughed, but Callum saw it—the flicker of hesitation.
"You've got some nerve, dude," Travis said, stepping closer. "You think you're better than me?"
Callum leaned in, voice like steel. "I know I'm better. Because unlike you, I don't need an audience to feel alive."
Silence. Pure. Unbroken.
Then Callum smirked—the hunter enjoying his first real strike.
Callum didn't stop at words. He planned. He studied. Travis thrived on control, on the illusion that no one could touch him. So Callum designed the perfect undoing.
One week later, Travis arrived at a campus party—the kind that decided social hierarchies. The music was deafening, the alcohol relentless. Callum stood at the edge of the room, watching.
And then it happened.
Phones buzzed. Faces shifted. People whispered.
A video spread through the crowd.
Travis Carter—caught sobbing in a bathroom stall, begging for help after failing an exam.
Callum had pieced it together from security footage, silent and devastating. The king had crumbled. His power was an illusion, and now everyone knew.
Travis staggered back, eyes wild. "This is fake," he hissed.
But no one believed him.
Callum walked past, close enough to whisper, "You're done."
And Travis felt it—the hunt was over.
Liam's art thrived. Ashley disappeared into obscurity. Matt faded.
And Travis?
He stopped existing. His name became a warning, a lesson.
Callum had never needed fists. He only needed patience. Because, in the end, every predator became prey.
Callum never had the luxury of childhood. There were no bedtime stories, no warm reassurances, no lazy Sundays filled with laughter. His home was built on shattered glass and cold threats.
His father, Joseph Blackwood, was a man who never spoke when hitting could suffice. Hands like iron, eyes like judgment. He didn't just hurt—he controlled. The house belonged to him, the fear belonged to him. And Callum? He was just another possession, another thing to be shaped by fists.
His mother, Maria, drowned herself in liquor and regret. She loved Callum in the only way she knew—by forgetting him. The bottle was her refuge, the silence her excuse. Some nights she cried, whispering apologies that meant nothing. Other nights, she laughed—empty and bitter, mocking the son who looked too much like his father.
Callum learned early: love was conditional. Power was absolute.
He tried. God, he tried.
When he was ten, he thought if he stayed out of the way, if he acted right, he could avoid the rage. He learned to move silently, to disappear when Joseph's mood darkened. But it didn't matter. There was always an excuse—a failed grade, an untidy room, a look that lasted too long.
"You think you're better than me, boy?" his father snarled one evening, whiskey clinging to his breath.
Callum didn't answer. He had learned that words only made things worse.
The slap came fast—sharp, practiced.
"Speak when you're spoken to," Joseph growled, before taking another drink, already forgetting his son existed.
Maria sat on the couch, staring at the TV, ignoring the scene like it was just background noise.
Callum didn't cry. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
And that's when he knew.
Bullies weren't just kids with bad attitudes. They weren't just cruel for fun.
They were people like Joseph Blackwood—men who needed to own something to feel alive. People who thrived on control, on breaking others just to remind themselves that they weren't the weakest.
Callum never wanted revenge. Revenge was for people who wanted justice.
He wanted retribution.
He wanted to make sure bullies never felt untouchable.
Because he knew what power felt like. He had lived under its boot.
And he wasn't ever going to let someone else feel that helpless again.
The first time Callum understood fear, he was five.
His father stood over him, belt in hand, eyes blank with fury. The walls of their small house trembled beneath the weight of his voice. His mother was somewhere in the background, silent, pretending the scene wasn't happening.
Callum had spilled juice on the kitchen counter. That was all.
But the punishment had nothing to do with the mess.
It had everything to do with control.
His father unbuckled the leather strap, slow, deliberate.
"You think accidents make you innocent?" The words were measured, like he was speaking a law into existence.
Callum didn't answer.
His father nodded, like that confirmed something.
The first strike landed across Callum's back, sharp and unforgiving. He didn't cry. His father hated weakness.
Another hit. Then another. Then another.
This wasn't discipline. It was something else.
Callum learned the most important lesson of his life that night: pain was predictable. It could be controlled.
So, he controlled it.
By the time he was ten, Callum had perfected invisibility.
He made no noise when he walked. He never questioned. Never demanded. Never argued.
Joseph Blackwood liked obedience.
Maria Blackwood liked indifference.
Callum became both.
But inside, something burned.
He started watching—the way people moved, the way his father's anger came in patterns, the way his mother's avoidance had a rhythm. He understood that survival wasn't about enduring—it was about anticipation.
The real predators weren't just strong. They were smart. They calculated every hit, every insult, every manipulation.
So Callum learned their game.
He memorized his father's routine. 6 PM: home from work. 6:15 PM: whiskey. 6:45 PM: irritation. 7:00 PM: rage.
He learned his mother's weakness. She drank when she felt guilt. She felt guilt when she saw the bruises.
Callum became a shadow—watching, studying, waiting.
The first time he held a knife, he was eleven.
His father had dropped it after dinner—just for a moment.
Callum picked it up.
He turned it in his hand, feeling the weight, the sharpness.
Joseph never noticed.
But Callum did.
That night, he sat in his room, staring at the blade. He understood something dangerous.
Power wasn't about size. It wasn't about anger.
It was about precision.
It was about knowing when to strike.
That night, he whispered to himself. A promise. A law.
"No one will ever control me again."
Callum's hatred for bullies didn't come from playground scuffles or schoolyard taunts. It was written into his skin, carved into his childhood.
Bullies weren't just cruel.
They were weak men trying to be strong.
And Callum?
He had spent his whole life watching weak men break.
The House Hasn't Changed. But Callum Has.
It's been years since he walked through that door. The chipped frame, the stale scent of whiskey in the air—it's all the same.
But he isn't.
Callum stands in the doorway, eyes scanning the room like a hunter assessing terrain. His father sits in the old recliner, beer in hand, oblivious—until Callum speaks.
"You knew I'd come back, didn't you?"
Joseph Blackwood glances up. For a second, there's hesitation. He sees something in his son's stance—a stillness he doesn't recognize.
"I don't have time for your shit," Joseph mutters, taking another drink.
Callum steps forward, slow, controlled. "No. You never did."
The air tightens.
Callum watches every movement—the way his father grips the bottle, the way his shoulders tense. Years of observation tell him what comes next. That twitch in the wrist? He's deciding whether to throw it or hold on.
But Callum already knows. Because Joseph is predictable.
Because Callum has studied this man like prey.
"You've never been strong," Callum says. His voice is calm. Unshaken. "You relied on fear. That's not power—that's desperation."
Joseph scoffs. "You think you can talk down to me now, boy?"
Callum takes another step.
"I don't think. I know."
Joseph rises, shoulders squared, drunk courage filling the gaps where real strength should be.
Callum sees everything—the imbalance in his stance, the slight shift in weight from old injuries. He knows exactly how his father moves. Exactly how he breaks.
Joseph lunges. Callum doesn't move.
Not until the last second.
A pivot. A turn. His father stumbles past him.
"Slower than you used to be," Callum murmurs.
Joseph growls, fists clenched. "You always needed a lesson in respect—"
Callum steps forward, cutting off the space between them. "Respect? No. That's not what you wanted." He tilts his head. "You wanted control. But you don't have that anymore."
Joseph swings.
Callum deflects. Effortlessly.
Joseph stumbles again. But this time, Callum doesn't let him recover.
A strike—fast, calculated. Not to hurt. To prove a point.
The pressure on Joseph's wrist is precise, angled just enough to make the bones scream.
Not broken. But close.
Joseph exhales sharply. Shock. Fear. Disbelief.
"You spent years making people afraid of you," Callum murmurs, leaning closer. "Tell me—how does it feel now?"
Joseph snarls, but there's nothing behind it.
Because for the first time in his miserable existence, Joseph Blackwood is afraid.
Callum lets go.
Joseph stumbles back, shaking his wrist. His breathing is uneven. Weak. Vulnerable.
Callum turns toward the door, walking away without a second glance.
"You'll never touch me again," he says without looking back.
And Joseph Blackwood?
He doesn't stop him.
Because his reign is over.