By Ben Lucas

Writing a villain is easy. Writing a good villain—one that stays with the reader, unsettles them, maybe even makes them nod in agreement before recoiling—that’s where the fun begins. And if that villain happens to think he’s the hero? You’ve got the foundation for something special.

That’s where Elijah came from.

In The Smoke Eater, Elijah isn’t your garden-variety criminal. He’s not twirling a metaphorical mustache, gunning for power simply because he’s bad. He’s dangerous, yes. Ruthless, absolutely. But he’s also deeply principled, operating within a code that—at least to him—makes sense. His sense of purpose isn’t driven by greed or chaos, but by belief. Conviction. A vision he sees as just and necessary. And that’s what makes him so terrifying.

Let me take you into how I built him.

Starting with Questions, Not Traits

I didn’t start with Elijah’s hair color or a tragic backstory. I started with a question:

What if the antagonist genuinely believed he was sent to save people, and every violent act he committed was, in his mind, righteous? And what if his biblical belief were hardening his own criminal code?

That question opened the door to a villain whose menace would stem not from evil, but from his certainty.

From there, Elijah began to take shape. He wasn’t a madman. He was devout. He wasn’t angry.

He was focused. And his target wasn’t just power—it was a corrupt world that he believed needed cleansing. In his eyes, the town of Hillfort was rotting from within. The drugs, the politics, the compromise—it all had to go. He would bring order. Painful, yes. Bloody, absolutely. But order nonetheless.

Oh, he’s not doing it for what he sees as good. He’s wiping out his enemies to make the boss back east happy. But Elijah believes in judgment. And he believes he is the one chosen to deliver it.

Religion, Fire, and the End Times

Early on, I anchored Elijah in religious imagery—not the soft kind with choirs and stained glass, but the Old Testament kind. Plagues, wrath, sacrifice. A fire-and-brimstone theology shaped his worldview, one forged in desperation and reinforced by survival. He doesn’t quote scripture so much as he wields it.

But I didn’t want him to be a cliché. I wanted him to look at himself as a necessary evil that mankind needed.

There’s a fine line between unsettling and cartoonish. Religious fanatics have been overdone in fiction, so I had to dial it in. Elijah’s religion isn’t based on any one tradition. It’s a patchwork belief system made from scraps—bits of the Bible, personal trauma, apocalyptic rhetoric, and street philosophy. It’s what you get when a man lives on the margins long enough to build his own theology.

He’s not a preacher. He’s not a cult leader. But he could be either—if he wanted.

What makes Elijah especially dangerous is that he wraps his actions in the language of salvation. When he speaks, he’s calm. Measured. Even charismatic. He’ll tell you that your sins are heavy—but he says it gently, as if offering relief. He’ll speak about “The Fire” like it’s a cleansing act. Not a weapon, but a form of mercy.

Charm, Stillness, and the Smile You Don’t Trust

One of the tools I gave Elijah is stillness. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t raise his voice unless it’s calculated. He watches. And that silence? It makes people nervous.

He smiles a lot—but it’s never for your benefit. It’s because he knows something you don’t. And that grin? It’s never because he’s amused. It’s because your reaction is playing out exactly how he imagined it would.

There’s a moment in the novel where Elijah sits across from Police Chief Jim Harris. He’s just delivered a veiled threat—a blackmail laced with scripture—and Jim is trying to hold his ground. Elijah doesn’t argue. He doesn’t shout. He waits. He lets the silence do the heavy lifting. And when Jim falters, Elijah leans in with a soft voice:

“We will both be careful—don’t mistake mercy for weakness, Chief. I offer the fire to purify, not to punish. But if punishment is what’s required…” He smiled again—gently, like a man offering grace. “Then so be it.”

That smile? That tone? It’s worse than a shout. Because he means it. Because he thinks he’s helping.

Giving Him a Code

Elijah doesn’t kill randomly. He doesn’t tolerate chaos within his ranks. He has standards. Rules. His code is what sets him apart from the low-level thugs around him—like Kiefer and Jones, who are more heat than light. They’re useful, but they don’t understand. Elijah, though? He sees the bigger picture.

When he takes over the local drug trade, he doesn’t want it to expand. He wants it to be contained. Controlled. Systematic. “This town needs order,” he says. “We’ll give it order, or we’ll burn it down trying.”

It’s that blend of control and moral conviction that makes Elijah feel real. People like him exist. Not always in criminal empires, but in politics, in pulpits, in movements. People who believe so fully in their vision that they become immune to contradiction. Immune to reason.

Writing the Dialogue: Voice is Everything

Writing Elijah’s dialogue was like writing for a man from another century. His cadence is slower. His words carry weight. He uses metaphor where others use bullets. He’s not theatrical, but he’s deliberate—like someone who’s delivered the same sermon a hundred times and has pared it down to its sharpest form.

One of my favourite lines of his comes during a confrontation, when he’s challenged for being violent:

“You want peace, but you never earned it. You bought it with silence. Compromise. Rot. I’m just pulling back the curtain. I’m not your villain—I’m your mirror.”

That line stuck with me. Because it’s not just a threat. It’s a thesis.

Letting Him Win (Sometimes)

A villain like Elijah only works if he wins—at least in part. He can’t be easily outmaneuvered or dismissed. His presence has to change the balance of power. In The Smoke Eater, Elijah shows up and immediately makes the town nervous. He brings something bigger than himself: The Network, the threat of escalation, the idea that the system itself is rotten.

He knows how to twist people’s weaknesses. He uses guilt, pride, fear—whatever the situation calls for. That doesn’t mean he wins forever. But it does mean he wins enough to make the heroes scramble. That tension is key.

Readers don’t want a villain who monologues and dies in the third act. They want a villain who could maybe be right. Who might even have the answers—if only his methods weren’t soaked in blood.

Real-World Inspiration (Without Getting Preachy)

Some of Elijah’s traits were inspired by real people I’ve met—mostly people who talk in circles, quote philosophy or scripture to justify the unjustifiable, and who are so good at sounding reasonable that you almost miss the madness underneath.

I also pulled from history—revolutionaries who believed violence was the only way to force change. People who used righteous language to justify dark actions. The line between liberation and destruction is paper-thin when viewed through the right lens.

I didn’t want Elijah to teach a lesson. I wanted him to reflect a truth: that sometimes, the most dangerous person in the room is the one who believes they’re saving it.

Final Thought: He’s Not the Devil—He’s the Fire

If there’s one thing I want readers to walk away with after meeting Elijah, it’s discomfort. Not because he’s a monster, but because he isn’t. Because there are shadows of him in people we know. In ideologies we hear. In systems we accept.

He’s not the devil. He’s the fire. And sometimes, fire feels warm—right up until it burns everything down.

Want to Read More?

The Smoke Eater is coming soon – September 25, 2025. Keep an eye for updates and release announcements. If you’re interested in gritty crime fiction, morally complex characters, and villains who think they’re saving the world—this one’s for you.