Orphan. Nun. Vigilante.
Nadine Singh used to pray for justice. Now she delivers it. After leaving the convent, an accidental killing forces her to hunt down the sole witness to save herself. But when she finds him, she discovers a monster: a child predator.
Suddenly, the mission changes. Nadine realizes some sins can’t be forgiven—they must be punished. With no badge and no backup, she stalks the city’s darkest corners, taking on the predators the law can’t touch. She is the judge, jury, and executioner for a world that has forgotten how to pray.
Orphan. Nun. Vigilante.
Nadine Singh spent years kneeling on cold stone floors, praying for a world without pain. But after leaving the convent to find her own path, she realizes that some prayers require a closed fist. Raised in the foster system and hardened by a past she tries to forget, she walks the razor’s edge between sinner and saint.
Her true transformation begins with a desperate mistake. During a violent altercation, Nadine accidentally kills a man. Terrified and exposed, she flees the scene, but she leaves a loose end: a lone witness who saw her face.
Driven by a primal instinct for self-preservation, Nadine hunts him down. She intends to bargain for her freedom, or perhaps even intimidate him into silence. But when she uncovers the truth about the witness, her objective shatters. The man holding her fate is a monster—a prolific child predator operating in the shadows.
Suddenly, saving her own skin feels irrelevant. Nadine realizes that legal justice is a fantasy for the victims this man hunts. To save them, she must embrace the darkness she once fought to suppress. Now, she operates where the police cannot go. With no badge, no backup, and no rules, Nadine Singh is no longer running. She is hunting. She is the judge, jury, and executioner for a world that has forgotten how to be good.
THE COLD NIGHT pressed against the windows of the ’65 Mustang like a warning.
Nadine Singh hunched over the wheel, her knuckles bone white. She hadn’t eaten in two days. Maybe three. Her mouth tasted like copper pennies and desperation. But it wasn’t hunger gnawing at her. It was the fear.
Not fear of dying. That would’ve been easy. This fear was deeper. The kind that whispered: you’ve crossed the line now—and there’s no going back.
The sign blinked to life in the distance like a curse: BENNY’S LIQUOR. A clown with a cracked smile clutched a bottle like a weapon.
To the world, she was Maria Santos. No one knew her real name except the nun who had named her. There was something holy about that name: Nadine Singh. One day she’d use it.
But for now, she didn’t want it associated with what she’d become over the last six years, or what she planned to do in the next six minutes.
She killed the headlights and coasted into a shadow. For a long moment she just sat there, fingers locked on the wheel. Then she reached for the glovebox.
THE PISTOL WAS still there. Matte black. Just a tool. She picked it up, the weight of it both familiar and foreign. From the passenger seat she grabbed her disguise: a faded gas station ball cap and a pair of scratched aviators. She leaned into the rearview mirror, her reflection fragmented by a crack in the glass.
The disguise didn’t matter. Not really. Not with those eyes. Eyes that had seen too much in too short a time.
"Okay," she whispered to her fractured reflection. "Let's do it."
The door to the liquor store jingled as she stepped inside, a sad little sound like a wind chime in a morgue. The place smelled of stale bleach and floor polish. Behind the counter stood a guy who looked like he belonged at a gym, not a register. Muscles too big for retail, he didn’t even glance up from his phone.
"Can I help you?" he mumbled.
"I’m looking for the Red Rock Café," Nadine said. Her voice calm. Even. Practiced.
He snorted without looking up. "Wrong part of town, lady." She pulled the gun.
HE LOOKED UP. Now she had his full attention. The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the counter. His gym-built confidence drained away.
"Empty the register," she said. No tremble in her voice. No echo of guilt.
He hesitated. That was his mistake. He opened the till with shaking fingers and pulled out a meager stack of bills.
"That’s it?" she asked.
"Two hundred ten bucks," he said, his voice thin. "That’s all we got, I swear."
"Open the safe."
"There’s no safe." Too quick. Too defensive.
"Don't lie to me."
"I swear on my mother’s grave. Corporate takes the cash every night."
She stepped forward. "Try again."
His eyes darted to the side. Quick. Involuntary. She saw the subtle movement of his left hand under the counter.
Silent alarm.
A shriek of sirens erupted, cutting straight through the nerves. Red lights began to spin above the door, casting the room in flashing blood.
He lunged.
She fired.
The gun kicked in her hand. The sound shattered the air, louder than thunder. He staggered back—expression frozen in shock—and fell in a heap behind the counter. A sound. A scream. High-pitched and terrified.
Nadine turned.
A man—balding, wearing a rumpled suit—dropped a wine bottle that exploded against the floor. His hands shot into the air, useless shields against a threat that had already moved past him.
Their eyes met.
And in that second, she knew—he would remember her. Every detail. The shape of her jaw beneath the fake nose. The way her hand didn’t shake even after killing a man.
One shot. That’s all it would take. Clean up the loose end.
Silence the witness.
She raised the gun.
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