When I was a child, my mother used to lock me in the closet when she had men over. She cheated every chance she could. She called it keeping me safe. The door would shut, the light would vanish, and I would sit in the dark with my knees pressed to my chest, listening to sounds I wasn't supposed to understand. I learned early how to make myself small. How to breathe without making noise. How to exist without being noticed.
That was where Theo came from.
I told myself I had a brother. His name was Theo. He stood between me and the dark. He didn't shake when footsteps passed the door. He didn't cry when voices got loud. When I was punished, I told myself Theo was the one taking it—not me. When hours passed and no one came back for me, I imagined him counting the seconds, keeping track so I didn't have to.
At first, he was just a story I told myself so I wouldn't break.Then my father started hitting me.
Not for anything big. For crumbs on the counter. For answering too slowly. For looking at him wrong. That's when Theo stopped waiting for permission. I would feel myself drift—my thoughts going fuzzy, my body heavy—and when I came back, the pain felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Theo could endure what I couldn't. He learned quickly. He learned how much force a body could take. How anger moved through fists. How fear smelled. He remembered everything so I wouldn't have to. For a long time, that was enough to keep me alive. Then one night, Theo didn't give control back.
I was asleep when it happened. Or maybe I wasn't. I don't know. There are pieces of that night missing, like someone tore pages out of a book and left the spine behind. What I know is what they told me afterward—that my parents were dead. That it was brutal. That there was blood everywhere.
They said I was found wandering barefoot up the street, soaked in it, staring straight ahead like I couldn't see anyone standing in front of me. I don't remember the killings. Theo does.
They sent me to a group home after that. A place for broken kids. Kids who flinched at sudden noises. Kids who stared too long at nothing. That's where I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. They said my mind had split to survive.
They said Theo was part of me.
My doctor was kind. That almost made it worse. She didn't call Theo a monster. She didn't try to lock him away. She said he was a protector that never learned restraint. A guard dog that had tasted blood and didn't know when to stop biting.
She gave me a pair of glasses and told me to think of myself like a superhero with a secret identity.
When the glasses were on, I was Theodore—the part of me that could think before acting. The part that understood consequences. When they were off, Theo took over. He was faster. Sharper. He didn't hesitate. He didn't feel guilt the way I did. Theo handled threats. We made a deal, Theo and I. Rules. Boundaries. I stay in control unless things get bad.
The problem is… Theo and I don't agree on what bad means. And once he takes over, he never believes he's wrong. After the group home came training disguised as help.
Therapy sessions. Behavioral programs. Medication trials that dulled me and irritated Theo. They tried to teach me coping mechanisms. Breathing exercises. Grounding techniques. They taught me how to pass as normal. Theo learned something else. He learned patterns.
He watched how staff moved through rooms, how keys hung from belts, how doors were checked—or weren't. He noticed which kids lied well and which ones didn't. Which counselors flinched when voices rose. Which ones looked away when rules were broken.
Theo understood power long before anyone explained it.
When I aged out, the world didn't soften. It just stopped pretending to care. I drifted—jobs that didn't last, places that didn't feel safe. Trouble had a way of finding me, and when it did, Theo stepped forward. At first, it was small. A man who followed me home didn't anymore. Someone who put their hands where they shouldn't learned quickly not to try again. People backed off without quite knowing why.
Theo was precise. Efficient. He didn't waste effort. Eventually, someone noticed. He didn't call it murder. He called it work. He said there were people who deserved to be removed—men who hurt women, trafficked kids, sold pain for profit. He said the world didn't punish them fast enough. He said I already knew that was true.
I didn't argue.
Theo met them in quiet places. Empty stairwells. Abandoned buildings. Cars parked too far from the light. He learned how to end things quickly, cleanly. How to leave without being seen. How to erase himself.
I would come back with time missing. Sometimes hours. Sometimes days.
There were signs I tried not to look at—bruises I didn't remember earning, weapons cleaned and returned to places I didn't recall storing them. News stories that made my chest tighten for reasons I couldn't explain.
Theo never bragged. He believed what he did was necessary. He refined himself. Learned anatomy. Learned how bodies failed. Learned how much pressure was enough—and when restraint was smarter than force. He studied surveillance systems, response times, human error. He treated killing like a craft.
Like something sacred. I told myself I didn't know. That I wasn't responsible for what happened when I wasn't present. My doctor warned me about that kind of thinking. Said dissociation didn't absolve me of consequence.
Theo disagreed. He said I was the reason he existed. He said I didn't get to be innocent and protected. He said the world only made sense when someone was willing to do what others wouldn't.
Over time, the line between us blurred. I kept the glasses on more often. Theo took them off more frequently. We still had rules—but rules bend under pressure. And Theo believed pressure was everywhere. By the time I realized what we'd become, people were already calling him something else.
An urban legend.
A ghost.
A solution.
Theo didn't mind the name they chose. He never cared what they called him—as long as they were afraid. The only person that did not fear Theo was my boss, Mr. St.Claire.