The house in yonkers

Two weeks.
Fourteen long days of white walls, whispered nurses, suspicious detectives, and the constant perfume of antiseptic. David healed faster than anyone expected, but the bruises ran deep. Not just in his body — in his mind.

When the discharge papers finally printed, David felt something close to relief. Not happiness. Just freedom.

A nurse adjusted the sling around his arm. “You’re lucky, David. You made a full recovery.”

David gave her the same fragile, harmless smile he’d practiced for days. “Yeah… lucky.”

Detective Cross stopped him at the exit. “If your memory comes back, call us.”

David nodded. “Of course, sir.”

He walked past the officer with the calm of a predator pretending to be prey.

His grandmother, Marion Johnson, lived in an old brownstone in Yonkers — far enough from Manhattan for peace, but close enough for vengeance.

She opened the door with her cane tucked under one arm. “David? Oh my Lord… baby, get inside.”

He stepped in. The smell of old books, dusty carpets, and peppermint hit him like a wave of childhood memories. She touched his cheek gently.

“What happened to you?”

David looked down, voice soft and broken by design. “I… don’t remember, gran. They said I washed up near the pier.”

She shook her head, muttering. “This city’s gone rotten. You stay here. Heal. Rest. Whatever you need.”

He hugged her — lightly, carefully — and whispered, “Thank you.”

She patted his back. “Your room’s still upstairs. I’ll make tea. Sit down, baby.”

As soon as she shuffled away, his face changed. The softness vanished. His eyes sharpened like knives.

This house would become his base.
A quiet place.
A place no one would think to check.

This was perfect.

In his room — small, dusty, untouched for years — David locked the door.

He sat on the old wooden chair and took out his grandmother’s ancient laptop. Slow. Blocky. Outdated. But capable of accessing the one place he needed.

The dark web.

He typed quietly, fingers steady despite the healing wounds.

Encrypted browsers.
Hidden forums.
Anonymous markets.

The glow of the screen lit his face, making his eyes seem even colder.

He browsed medical supply vendors first.

Sutures. Bandages. Numbing agents. Antiseptics. Tools. Needles.
Not for healing others — for patching himself when he came back from the night, bloodied and bruised.

Then burner devices:

Three burner phones. Two SIM cards. External drives. Bluetooth signal blockers. VPN scramblers.

Then clothing:

Hoodies. Gloves. Masks. Boots with soft soles.

All shipped to drop boxes around Westchester County.

As he clicked “confirm purchase,” he whispered:

“It begins.”

A knock startled him.

“David? You want tea?”

He closed the laptop instantly. “Yeah — coming!”

He opened the door, face soft again.

She handed him a mug. “Chamomile. Helps with nightmares.”

David smiled politely. “Thanks, gran.”

She sat down, lowering herself slowly. “I’ve been worried sick hearing about the city. Murders, corruption, missing kids, all sorts of darkness… I don’t want you mixed in with anything dangerous.”

David stared at the tea’s steam rising. “I won’t be.”

“Good. You’re too young to be carrying heavy things on your shoulders.”

He sipped the tea and murmured:

“Not anymore.”

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing, gran. Just the tea’s hot.”

She patted his hand, stood up with effort, and shuffled away.

The moment she left, his expression hardened like stone.

That night, David sat at the desk again, the old lamp casting shadows across his walls.

He opened a new browser window.
Typed slowly:
“Pier 47 surveillance footage.”

He found nothing public.
Then he typed again:
“City surveillance purchase – restricted.”

A locked server.
He leaned back, whispering, “I’ll get in eventually.”

He wasn’t a hacker, but on the dark web, everything was for sale — even access to crime footage.

Then his burner phone vibrated. A message:

Package 1 ready for pickup — Locker 12.

Already? Faster than expected.

He put on his hoodie, slipped down the stairs quietly.

His grandmother called from her room, “David? Where you going so late?”

“Just for a walk, gran! Need some air.”

“You be careful!”

“Always,” he lied.

The locker facility in Yonkers was quiet, dimly lit. David stepped in, scanned the code on the burner phone, and Locker 12 opened with a click.

Inside was a brown box.

He opened it on the spot.

Inside:

Black hoodie.
Black gloves.
Plain black mask with no features.
A compact first-aid kit.
Two burner phones.

His tools.
His identity for the night.
His new skin.

He ran his thumb along the mask.

“This is who I am now.”

His grandmother was asleep when he returned. He locked his room and laid everything on the bed.

He inspected each item like a surgeon examines scalpels.

Hoodie — thick, concealing.
Gloves — rubber inside, leather outside.
Mask — smooth, cold, emotionless.
Phones — encrypted, disposable.

He whispered to himself:

“One step at a time. Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.”

He sat down, the mask resting on his knee.

“First… I need names.”
“Then… locations.”
“Then… the order I’ll kill them.”

His voice was calm, almost meditative.

“They took everything from me.”
“So I’ll take everything from them.”

He leaned forward, fingers steepled.

“Soon.”