Saturday night, or perhaps the early hours of Sunday? The exact time was perhaps the least important detail.

  A man, dressed in a dark trench coat and a hat, walked along one of the lonely, dangerous streets of Bukrasma, in the country of Korabia. As he turned a corner, his presence caught the attention of three teenagers who decided he looked like easy prey.

  "Hey, that guy's not from around here, is he?" asked the first-scar on his cheek, shaved on the sides, long hair trailing in the back.

  "No. I've never seen him before," replied the second, wearing dark sunglasses. His head was shaved on the sides as well, the rest of his hair tightly braided.

  "Then let's go get him," said the first with a wide grin. Easy prey.

  "I don't think this is a good idea," muttered the third, the youngest of them, short hair with a lifted fringe.

  "Well then, you can stay behind, princess," sneered the one with the sunglasses.

  The first two rushed after the mysterious man, the third following behind, hesitant.

  "Hey, dude! Stop right there!" shouted the scarred one.

  "Are you talking to me?" the man replied, turning just enough to show part of his face. His gaze was calm, yet deeply unsettling.

  "Let's get out of here. There's something off about this guy..." said the youngest, his voice trembling with a shiver.

  "Shut it, scaredy-cat!" barked the one with the sunglasses. Then, turning back to the man in the trench coat, he threatened, "Hand over whatever you've got."

  Both pulled out knives.

  "Please, boys... don't do this. Go find someone else to bother. I don't wish to waste even a second unnecessarily... you're nothing but scum," said the man, serene, his expression unchanged.

  "Well, this son of a bitch asked for it," spat the scarred one. They both lunged forward with intent to stab him, while the third stood frozen, unable to move.

  "So this is how it shall be, then," the man in the hat murmured.

  In his right hand, as if conjured out of thin air, appeared two simple pencils.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  The delinquents burst into laughter.

  "Ha! Look at this idiot! What's he gonna do, draw us to death?"

  In a single, fluid motion, the man hurled the pencils. They flew with surgical precision. One pierced through the skull of the scarred one, splitting it in two. The other lodged into the eye socket of the one with sunglasses, shattering bone and brain alike. Both dropped dead instantly.

  "Trash. Worthless. Without purpose," the man said, turning away to continue his path.

  The youngest stared at the lifeless bodies of his companions, now drenched in blood.

  "Brayan... Byron... they're... they're dead!" he whispered, voice shaking. Fear twisted into rage. He pulled out a revolver.

  "Don't move, bastard! You're not leaving!" he cried, tears running down his cheeks.

  The man stopped.

  "Why is it that the younger we are, the more foolish we become?" he asked, not fully turning back. "You know that won't work... don't you?"

  "Let's find out!" shouted the boy, pulling the trigger.

  The bullet sped through the air, but the man raised his hand and caught it between his thumb and index finger, as though plucking a speck of dust.

  "Tell me your name. I believe you can see something that surrounds me. Am I correct?"

  The boy staggered back, horrified.

  "What kind of person can do something like this?"

  "Answer the question," the man insisted, rolling the bullet between his fingers.

  "M-my name is Andrés. And yes... I see something strange around you. Like a glow... something moving..."

  He could no longer hide his fear, nor his tears. He realized staying had been a fatal mistake.

  "Andrés, it is my duty to cleanse this world of people like you. You had choices in life, and you chose the wrong ones."

  The man flicked the bullet, now enveloped in that strange glow. It struck Andrés's head, exploding it into countless fragments.

  "And that is how filth is cleansed... or at least how I shall see it done," the man said, resuming his walk.

  Minutes-or perhaps hours-later, the authorities arrived.

  "Jesus... this was a massacre," muttered an investigator in dark glasses and a black jacket, staring at Andrés's corpse.

  "Sir, look at these two. Their skulls were destroyed as well," added another officer.

  "Any weapons? This one had a revolver... looks like he fired it, but only one bullet's missing. And a single bullet doesn't do this kind of damage..." noted the superior.

  "Sir, that's the strange part. The only things we found with the other two were a pair of knives... and two pencils. Covered in blood and brain matter."

  "You're suggesting these two were killed with pencils? That's absurd!" the investigator snapped. Yet something deep inside him knew it was possible.

  In the distance, among the gathered onlookers, a small group whispered:

  "Was this done by the one we're looking for?"

  "Are we sure it's him?"

  "But... wasn't he dead?"

  "Report this to..."

  "Whoever it is, we must find him."

  "If what he used really is..."

  "Then he must know the possibility exists..."

  Miles away, the mysterious man walked out of the city. A young woman, just a few streets away from him, answered a call.

  Ring ring.

  "Hello? What's going on?"

  "We're not certain... but it could be him," said the voice on the other end.

  "I understand... goodbye," she replied, hanging up. A tear slid down her cheek.

  "Why are you doing this? Don't you want to come back? How long has this been going on...? It hurts so much to remember."