The next morning, Elara desperately sought something ordinary to ground herself and escape the stress from her work the day before. She decided to tend to the flower beds, a chore she had neglected all spring. Digging in the dirt felt wonderfully simple compared to the unsettling calculations regarding her perfect son.

Finn was already hard at work, as expected. He knelt by the porch, wearing clean gardening gloves, and his movements with the trowel were precise and methodical. He didn't just plant the petunias; he carefully measured the distance between each hole, referring to a small diagram he had printed out. He resembled an impossibly perfect suburban statue.

Elara knelt a few feet away, gently loosening the soil around some wilting tulips. She glanced at him and said, "You don't have to get them spaced perfectly, Finn." She tried to infuse her voice with a sense of calm, motherly reassurance.

He looked up, his face placid beneath the morning sun. "Order is visually appealing, Mother. And it will facilitate better nutrient absorption." He smiled, that too-gentle, unsettlingly calm smile. "It's important to maintain order."

Just as Elara was about to argue for the beauty of natural chaos, a loud, rattling noise broke the morning peace. A beat-up sedan, its speakers blaring distorted music, squealed to a stop by the curb. Three teenage boys, older than Finn, leaned out the windows, their laughter loud and derisive.

"Look at the Prince of Darkness doing yard work!" the one in the driver's seat yelled, pointing a mocking finger at Finn. "Yeah, nice apron, Finn!" the boy in the back snickered, referencing the ridiculous cartoon apron Finn had worn the day before. "You look like a human garden gnome!"

Finn paused, his trowel still halfway to the soil. He didn't react with anger or sullenness, but with stilled, focused attention. His eyes, normally vast and unreadable, fixed on the boys with the intensity of a machine analyzing a bug.

Elara felt the familiar wave of protective anger surge, replacing her fear. This was her problem, the normal kind. "That is enough!" she snapped, scrambling to her feet. She strode toward the curb, putting herself squarely between the teenagers and Finn."You three get out of here right now!" she said, her voice shaking but firm. "I know your mothers. If you don't drive away this instant, I will call every single one of them and tell them exactly how you spend your free time. Go!"

The threat of parental intervention was instantly effective. The boys exchanged irritated glances, the bravado draining slightly. The driver flipped her a lazy salute. "Whatever, Mrs. Hayes. Take a chill pill." The car's engine roared, the tires spitting a few pebbles, and they sped off down the street.

Elara stood there for a moment, breathing hard, feeling a fragile victory—a normal one. She turned back to Finn, ready to laugh off the incident.

Finn was no longer kneeling. He stood over the newly-turned earth, holding the trowel. He was looking at the empty spot where the car had been, his placid smile gone. His expression was flat, his eyes deeply, utterly focused.

He turned to Elara, and his gaze was no longer just attentive; it was acknowledging. "They caused you stress, Mother," he stated, his voice quiet, almost an observation. He held the gaze, and the message was clear, chilling Elara to the bone: they were a problem now. And Finn, the perfect son, would soon take care of them. Elara looked at her son and said, trying to shake off the chill, "I know, but don't worry; they won't be a bother to us anymore. Let's head inside." She stood up and glanced at her son, who was giving her his usual smile. "Of course, mother," he said calmly as they both walked into the house. Meanwhile, Finn looked back at the street and the direction the boys had taken off in. "They won't bother us anymore," he said, a plan beginning to form in his mind.

Late at night, the park was a canvas of deep shadows and hushed whispers, punctuated by the raucous laughter of three figures huddled by a beat-up sedan. Brad, Mort, and Otis were sprawled on the hood and trunk of their car, passing a bottle, their voices carrying easily across the deserted expanse. The car's windows were down, a faint thrum of bass escaping the speakers, barely audible above their chatter.

Unbeknownst to them, a deeper shadow detached itself from the line of trees. Finn, clad in a black hoodie that swallowed the meager moonlight, moved with an almost ethereal silence. He approached their car, not directly, but like a phantom, circling the vehicle. His hands moved with an unseen purpose near the wheels, then under the chassis, a silent, meticulous dance. Whatever he was doing, it was swift and left no trace. Once his work was done, he melted back into the deeper gloom, waiting.

The punks enjoyed another round of drinks, sharing a joke that ended in a burst of snorts and guffaws. Then, a sharp snap echoed from the darkness—a twig breaking. Their laughter died.

"The hell was that?" Mort muttered, peering into the inky blackness beyond the streetlights.

"Who's there?" Brad said while turning his head left and right in the darkness, desperate to see who was here.

A figure emerged from the trees, walking towards them. It was Finn, his face obscured by a plain, white, featureless mask that reflected the faint light like a skull. He moved with an unnerving, steady gait.

"Who the hell are you?" Otis said, while fear was tinted in his voice.

"What do you want?" Brad shouted, trying to sound tough, but a thread of unease already wound through his voice.

Finn didn't respond. He just kept coming in a calm pace while his arm was behind his back.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, man. What do you want?" Brad repeated, his voice growing sharper, more insistent. Still, Finn remained silent, an unmoving, masked enigma. Brad felt a prickle on the back of his neck. This wasn't some rival gang. This was... something else. He slid off the car, Mort and Otis reluctantly following, drawn by a morbid curiosity and a false sense of collective bravado, getting closer to Finn while making distance from their car.

"What's your problem, man?" Brad demanded, stepping forward, his hands clenching.

Before any of them could react, Finn moved with chilling speed. The glint of a switchblade appeared in his hand. He lunged, a silent, deadly blur. The blade plunged into Brad's shoulder, a sickening thud, and Brad screamed, a raw, piercing sound that ripped through the quiet park. Finn didn't stop there, slashing again, opening a deep, ragged wound on Brad's leg.Otis and Mort stood stunned, frozen by the sudden, brutal violence. Brad staggered back, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his face contorted in agony and disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" he shrieked, his voice choked with pain.

Finn ignored him. His masked face remained utterly devoid of expression as he advanced, the switchblade gleaming ominously in his hand. His pace was slow, deliberate, a predator savoring the hunt.

"Brad, we've got to get out of here!" Otis cried, his voice cracking with panic. "This dude's crazy!" They rushed to Brad, grabbing his arms, trying to support his weight. As they did, they saw Finn accelerating, his silent approach now a terrifying, gaining speed.

Terror flooded them. The trio stumbled towards their car, a desperate sprint fueled by pure adrenaline. They threw themselves inside, fumbling with the keys, Brad crying out as Mort shoved him into the passenger seat. The engine roared to life, tires squealing as Brad floored it, peeling out from the curb.

He glanced in the rearview mirror as they sped away, his breath hitched. Finn was standing exactly where they had left him, a still, black silhouette against the distant streetlights, watching them go.

Mort let out a shuddering sigh of relief. "We lost him. We actually lost the crazy son of a bitch."Brad, gripping the steering wheel, still shaking, tried to focus on the road. The park entrance was behind them, the dark trees giving way to the familiar, if deserted, suburban street. He saw a red light ahead and the unmistakable, growing bright glare of a truck's headlights approaching fast from the cross-street while its horn blared in the air.

"Red light!" Mort yelled.

Brad slammed his foot on the brake pedal. Nothing. The pedal went limp, offering no resistance. "Dude, stop the car!" Otis yelled to Brad in fear that they would crash. The car continued to hurtle forward, engine roaring. "I'm trying!" Brad shouted, his voice laced with pure terror, while he continuously slammed his foot on the brake in desperation. "The brakes are broken or something! They're not working!"

Panic exploded in the car while the three screamed in panic and terror. The truck's horn blared, a desperate, deafening wail. But it was too late. Before they could react further, before a single coherent thought could form, the massive truck collided with their car. The impact was deafening, a sickening crunch of tearing metal and shattering glass. The sedan spun, crumpled, a mangled mess of twisted steel. The world dissolved into a cacophony of screeching tires, smashing glass, and the horrifying, final screams of Brad, Mort, and Otis, instantly snuffed out in the devastating crash that left them all dead. Finn was seen on the sidewalk, witnessing the crash as he began to walk home. Before leaving, he turned to look at the crashed car one last time, acknowledging his work and resuming his walk back home as if nothing had happened.