《No Mercy In The Dark》


 Chapter One

    The house sat at the end of a quiet, dead-end street, nestled beneath the shadow of tall, swaying trees. A modest two-story home with white fences by the side that had faded to a dull gray over the years. The front porch sagged slightly, and the windows, though clean, were old, framed by chipped paint and warped wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cooked meals, worn leather, and the faintest trace of Emma''s lavender perfume.


    Emma stood in the kitchen, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, strands of it escaping and outlining her flushed face. She wore a simple green dress, wrinkled from the day''s wear, her feet bare against the cold tile floor. The dress was old, comfortable, the kind of thing she wore when she wasn''t expecting visitors, but it suited her. There was a time when Martin loved seeing her in it, but now, it was just another part of the life they had built¡ªa life that felt like it was crumbling.


    The argument had started like many others. A spark from something small¡ªdishes left in the sink, an unfinished conversation from days ago, something trivial that wasn¡¯t really the point. However, the tension between Martin and his wife, Emma, had been building for weeks, like pressure behind a dam, waiting for the right moment to burst.


    From the kitchen, Martin¡¯s eyes darted around the living room outside, taking in the details without really seeing them. The dishes in the sink, the way Emma¡¯s cardigan was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair¡­ the shadow that moved just outside the house.


    Was he imagining that?


    She was in front of him now, her face twisted in frustration, words tumbling out of her mouth faster than she could control them. He could hear the venom in her voice, the anger that mirrored his own. But tonight, something felt different. The air crackled with something darker, something neither of them had ever acknowledged.


    "You never listen, Martin!" Emma shouted. "It''s like you''re not even here anymore! Where are you, huh? What happened to us?"


    He didn¡¯t respond. His hands, large and calloused from years of work, trembled. He refused to answer, because he knew if he did, it would only make things worse.


    But Emma wouldn¡¯t let it go. She stepped closer, her eyes burning with anger. "Look at me! You can¡¯t just shut down every time we have a fight!" He tried to walk away but she clearly wasn¡¯t having it, "You think you can just walk away?"


    She reached out, grabbing his arm, and that¡¯s when it happened. A split-second decision he didn¡¯t remember making. He turned away, yanking his arm free, but the anger still buzzed, a live wire. Without thinking, his hand shot out, not to hurt, just to push her away¡ªuntil it hit her chest, too hard, too fast.


    Emma stumbled backward, her eyes wide with shock. Her foot caught the edge of the table, and she fell, her head striking the corner with a gut-wrenching crunch. The sound reverberated through the room, louder than it should have been, louder than anything he had ever heard.


    Then silence.


    For a moment, Martin just stood there, his mind struggling to catch up with what had happened. Emma lay on the floor, her green dress fanned out around her, her hair splayed across the tile. Her chest didn¡¯t rise or fall. The reality of it hit him like a freight train. His breath snagged, momentarily stuck in his chest, as he stumbled toward her.


    "Emma¡­?" His voice was a whisper, a plea for her to move, to say something, anything. But she didn¡¯t. Her vacant stare remained glued to the ceiling, as if searching for something beyond. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he reached for her broken neck, searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn¡¯t find.


    As expected, there was nothing. Just the coldness of her skin seeping into his very bones.


    The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing in as the pressure of what he¡¯d done squeezed the air out of his lungs. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself, but he swallowed hard. He couldn¡¯t break down. He had to think. He had to fix this.


    The police. The thought sent relief through him, and his first instinct was to grab his phone and call for help. But then his mind caught up with him. He wasn¡¯t just anyone. He was a man of authority, the one who was supposed to handle situations like this, not create them. If he called the police, if they found out what had happened, there would be no explaining it away. No mitigating circumstances. Just the fact that he murdered his wife.


    He looked down at Emma again, her face pale and still, and something inside him cracked. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he forced them back. Martin stood slowly, his mind racing. He needed to hide her and fast. His heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled toward the bedroom, his mind blurred by fear and panic. He grabbed a bed sheet from the linen closet, the soft fabric feeling heavy and wrong in his hands.


    Returning to the kitchen, he knelt beside her again, carefully wrapping her in the sheet. He tried to avoid looking at her face, tried to ignore the growing chill in her skin as he worked. But as he pulled the sheet over her head, the wind howled through the small crack in the kitchen window, lifting the edge of the sheet as if mocking him. Her face was exposed again, pale and lifeless, eyes staring blankly into the void.


    Martin recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. He quickly covered her face again, the image burned into his mind. He couldn¡¯t unsee it. Couldn¡¯t undo it.


    With trembling hands, he lifted her body, struggling under the weight of it, and carried her down the narrow staircase to the basement. The darkness swallowed them both as he descended. The air reeked with the smell of damp concrete and old, forgotten things. He set her down in the corner, delicately arranging the sheet around her so that nothing was exposed. The basement felt like a tomb, cold and silent, and the thought of leaving her there made his stomach churn.


    But he had no choice. He couldn¡¯t let anyone find her. Not until he figured out what to do.


    He climbed back up the stairs, closing the basement door behind him, and collapsed onto the stairwell just outside the door. His breaths were shallow and uneven, dragging painfully his lungs, and the sobs he had been holding back finally broke free. He buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking as he wept.


    What had he done? How had it come to this?


    Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time had lost all meaning. As he sat there, all he could hear was the sound of his own sobs, the consequence of his actions pressing down on him with a suffocating intensity.


    Then he heard it.


    The sound of the living room door creaking open.


    He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sobs stopped instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping fear that wrapped itself around his spine. He listened, straining to hear over the pounding of his own heart. The wind whispered through the crack in the window again, but this time it wasn¡¯t just the wind.


    There was someone in the house.


    Martin stood slowly, his knees shaking, and reached for the doorknob to the basement. He turned it, locking the door with a soft click, and then made his way cautiously toward the living room. The door was wide open, the cold night air blowing in, sending a shiver down his spine. He scanned the room, but there was no one there.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    However, there were footprints. Muddy, wet footprints, leading from the door toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom.


    Martin¡¯s heart felt like it might burst. He didn¡¯t call out, didn¡¯t make a sound. Whoever was in the house, they didn¡¯t know he was here. He could use that to his advantage. Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped down the hallway, his eyes on the footprints that led toward the bedroom.


    The door was ajar. Inside, he could see the edge of his bed, and just beyond it, his shotgun, propped up against the wall. His head filled with possibilities, trying to piece together what was happening. Was it a break-in? Had someone seen him?


    He couldn¡¯t take any chances.


    Martin walked closer to the bedroom, careful to keep his footsteps light, and peered inside gently. Nobody was inside. He slowly picked up his shotgun and weighed it in his arm. He needed to get out of here. His eyes flicked toward the back exit of the house. He could slip out; avoid whatever was waiting for him in the rest of the house. Better safe than sorry.


    But as he locked his bedroom door and turned away, something cold and heavy clamped down on his shoulder. A giant hand. Strong, unyielding. The strength from that hand alone was enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder.


    Martin¡¯s breath hung in his throat like a trapped bird, panic burning in his chest as his mind flashed back to the moment he had turned away from her. Could it have been different? Was there a moment, a split second where he could have changed it all? The what-ifs were endless, and they clawed at his sanity.


    He tried to pull away or use his shotgun, but another hand, equally massive, covered his mouth and nose, pressing a handkerchief against his face. The chemical smell filled his nostrils, sharp and overpowering.


    His vision blurred. The shotgun fell to the floor. The room began to spin, and then everything went dark.


    When Martin came to, his head was pounding, and his body ached in ways he didn¡¯t understand. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was the ceiling above him¡ªwhite, sterile, with a single bare light bulb dangling from a wire.


    He tried to move, but he couldn¡¯t. His arms were pinned to his sides, his legs bound. Fear flowed through him as he realized he was tied to a table, his body held in place by thick leather straps.


    A shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he turned his head as much as he could. A man stood over him¡ªa giant of a man, with pale skin and cold, almost white eyes. He wore a surgeon¡¯s mask and gloves, his bald head glistening under the harsh light.


    Martin¡¯s breath came in short, panicked gasps. He tried to speak, tried to plead, but his throat was dry, and no sound came out. The man didn¡¯t seem to notice. He was focused on something in his hand¡ªa long, sharp knife that glinted in the light as he slowly sharpened it.


    The sharp sound of the blade scraping against the stone filled the room, a sound that sent shivers down Martin¡¯s spine. He struggled against the restraints, but they held fast.


    The man finally looked up, his eyes locking onto Martin¡¯s. There was no emotion there. No recognition of Martin as a person. Just cold, detached calculation.


    Martin managed to croak out a single word. "Please¡­"


    But the man didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t even blink. He simply stepped closer, raising the knife.


    The first cut was shallow, a thin line of fire across Martin¡¯s cheek. He screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room, but the man didn¡¯t react. He just continued, the knife moving with surgical precision, peeling back layers of skin as if he were carving a piece of meat.


    Martin¡¯s screams grew louder, but no one came. No one heard. The man worked in silence, his face expressionless as he flayed Martin alive, stripping away his skin piece by piece, layer by agonizing layer.


    Time lost all meaning. Martin¡¯s world became an endless cycle of pain and terror. He begged for it to stop, for the pain to end, but the man just kept going, as if he were performing a routine surgery.


    At some point, Martin¡¯s soul finally gave in. The pain became too much, the terror too overwhelming, and the darkness swallowed him again. This time, it didn¡¯t let go.


    Four days later, Vanessa Ross knocked on the front door of Martin and Emma¡¯s house. She had been worried. She hadn¡¯t seen them in days, and they hadn¡¯t answered any of her calls. It wasn¡¯t like them to disappear without a word.


    When there was no answer, Vanessa tried the door. It was unlocked. She hesitated for a moment, and then pushed it open, stepping inside.


    "Hello?" she called out, her voice ringing through the empty house. "Martin? Emma? Is anyone here?"


    She walked further inside, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. The house was unnervingly quiet, the air heavy with a strange, metallic smell that made her wince. She didn¡¯t know what she expected to find, but it wasn¡¯t this.


    She reached the living room and froze.


    Martin was there, lying on the couch. But he wasn¡¯t Martin anymore. His skin was gone, peeled away, leaving only raw, red flesh behind. Maggots had already begun to appear on as many areas of decomposing, skinless, flesh they could find. Blood was everywhere, soaking the couch, pooling on the floor, staining everything in sight.


    Vanessa screamed.


    The sound reverberated through the empty house, carried away by the wind that whispered through the open door.


    Vanessa''s hands trembled as she fumbled for her phone, dialing 911. She kept glancing back at Martin¡¯s body, lying on the blood-soaked couch, his skinless form like something from a nightmare. She couldn¡¯t stop shaking. She couldn¡¯t get the image out of her mind.


    "9-1-1, what¡¯s your emergency?"


    "They¡¯re dead," she managed to whisper to the operator. "Both of them¡­ I think¡­ Please, hurry."


    The minutes that passed before the police arrived felt like hours. Vanessa stood frozen near the door, too terrified to move, too afraid to leave Martin¡¯s corpse alone. When the first squad car pulled up, she practically ran outside, desperate to escape the horror that had taken over her neighbors¡¯ home.


    Officer Daniels was the first on the scene. He entered the house with his partner, scanning the room with trained eyes. The smell hit him first, thick and metallic, the unmistakable stench of blood. His partner gagged but held it together as they approached the living room.


    "Jesus Christ," Daniels muttered under his breath as he saw Martin¡¯s body on the couch. "What the hell happened here?"


    They moved through the house cautiously, checking each room. They found no signs of forced entry, no muddy footprints, and no blood trails¡ª nothing that indicated anyone else had been in the house. It was as if Martin had just¡­ died there, in some horrific, inexplicable way.


    Then they found the basement.


    Officer Daniels discovered the hidden body of Emma, delicately wrapped in a sheet and tucked away in the corner. He radioed his superiors while ordering the crime scene to be taped off, his voice tight with shock.


    As the crime scene quickly became more crowded with officers and two homicide detectives, Detective Thompson and Detective Lewis Lawrence arrived. Lewis had a pale and tense look on his face. He knew this house all too well¡ªMartin was his brother after all.


    He walked through the living room, trying to control the rising bile in his throat. Martin¡¯s body, flayed and mutilated, was unrecognizable. His brother. His own flesh and blood. But he couldn¡¯t let that emotion cloud his judgment. He had to stay sharp.


    Lewis headed down to the basement, where officers were examining Emma¡¯s body. He stared at the sheet-wrapped form, taking in the details. His mind worked quickly, piecing together the timeline, the clues¡ªor lack thereof. He spoke with Officer Daniels and reviewed the scene repeatedly, something gnawing at him.


    Then it hit him.


    "Martin killed her," Lewis said, his voice flat, though the realization tore at him inside. "He wrapped Emma up and hid her in the basement."


    Detective Thompson, who had been standing nearby fidgeting with a rubber band, turned to him. "How¡¯d you figure?"


    Lewis took a deep breath, forcing himself to think clearly despite the conflicting emotions he felt. "Look at the way she¡¯s been hidden. The sheet, the delicate placement. This wasn¡¯t the work of a stranger or someone in a hurry. It was someone who cared about her, who didn¡¯t want to just dump her body. Whoever killed Emma knew her. Knew her well."


    Thompson¡¯s focus remained on the rubber band he was twiddling with. "What about your brother? You¡¯re saying that when he killed Emma, someone else did this to him?"


    Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes. The killer wasn¡¯t here for Emma. They were here for Martin. But first¡­ Martin killed her. Something happened between them. Maybe an argument that got out of control. He didn¡¯t call for help. He didn¡¯t try to get her medical attention. He hid her. That¡¯s the action of a man who knows he¡¯s responsible." Lewis¡¯s voice tightened as he continued to force his words out. "The killer showed up after Martin had already done it. It could have been minutes later, hours even¡­ but Martin¡¯s death was deliberate. Torturous. Someone wanted him to pay."


    Daniels nodded grimly. "So the Butcher got him? Seems like his style."


    "The Butcher?" A rookie officer, fresh to the city, looked up. "Who¡¯s the Butcher?"


    Daniels¡¯s expression turned dark. "The Killers¡¯ Killer. He targets serial murderers, terrorists, rapists, the real monsters out there. When he finds them, he sends them to hell in the most brutal ways imaginable."


    The rookie¡¯s face paled, but Thompson, chimed in, shaking his head. "I¡¯ve studied the Butcher for years. He targets criminals, sure, but this¡­ this is different. The Butcher never flays his victims. Flaying requires patience¡­ precision. This was something else."


    Lewis turned to Thompson, his heart sinking. "What¡¯d you mean?"


    Thompson slightly shrugged, still fiddling with the rubber band as he looked around the house with eyes that were reminiscent of that of a young child. "I¡¯m saying¡­ Martin was punished for killing his wife, yes. But this wasn¡¯t the Butcher. This was something much worse."

 Chapter Two

    It was night again, and a cold breeze swept through the streets, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Donald McCallister sat at the bar, nursing his favorite bottle of whiskey, his eyes fixed on a petite, beautiful young woman seated across the room. She was delicate, with soft brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and a nervous energy that made her even more intriguing to him.


    Donald took another swig from his bottle, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, when a dark-skinned man slid onto the barstool next to him, signaling the bartender for a drink. The man was tall, with a lean but muscular build, and a commanding presence.


    "Rough night?" he asked, glancing at the bottle of whiskey in front of Donald.


    Donald took a swig, nodding slightly. "You could say that."


    The man chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink as it arrived. "Let me guess. You¡¯re thinking about the Butcher?"


    Donald glanced at him, then back at the girl. "Aren¡¯t we all? City¡¯s been on edge since the first murder five years ago. And now he¡¯s flaying them like a goddamn work of art."


    The man chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to reverberate through the bar. "Yeah, I hear you. But I hear he¡¯s got a code¡ªonly goes after the ones who¡¯ve got it coming?"


    Donald kept his eyes on the girl, watching her every movement, every flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "That¡¯s what they say. Still, I wouldn¡¯t want to be on his list." His gaze darkened, a predatory glint flashing in his eyes. "If you are, then you might want to start praying."


    The man followed Donald¡¯s line of sight, noticing how he stared at the girl. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "She got you thinking, huh? Go talk to her. Worst she can do is say no."


    Donald chuckled, his grin widening. "Nah, I¡¯m just enjoying the view," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Girls like her? They¡¯re like fine wine. You don¡¯t just gulp it down. You savor it. Appreciate it. Make sure the moment¡¯s right."


    The man stood up, tossing a few bills onto the counter. "Well, don¡¯t wait too long. You never know when your luck might run out."


    Donald raised his glass in a half-toast. "I¡¯ll keep that in mind."


    The man gave a final nod and walked away while Donald¡¯s attention remained fixated on the girl. He watched as she sipped her drink, her eyes darting around the room, and then back down to her phone. She looked nervous, out of place¡ªlike she didn¡¯t belong in a place like this.


    Eventually, she stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder as she made her way to the exit. Donald waited a few seconds, letting her get a head start, before he casually slid off his stool and followed her out the door. He made sure his hoodie was pulled up, covering his face as he stepped into the chilly night.


    The girl walked briskly down the sidewalk, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. She glanced over her shoulder a few times, but Donald was careful to keep a safe distance, blending in with the other late-night wanderers. The cold breeze tugged at her brown hair, lifting it gently before letting it fall back into place. She turned down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut that would take her home.


    Donald smiled to himself, his heart pounding in anticipation. "Just as I predicted," he muttered under his breath, quickening his pace as he followed her down the darkened alley. "Excuse me," Donald called out, his voice casual and non-threatening.


    The girl jumped slightly, startled by the sudden interruption. She turned to face him, her wide eyes taking in his charming smile. Donald caught her eye and flashed a smile, the kind that had always made women stop and stare. She hesitated, her frown softening just a bit, and he knew he had her attention.


    "Sorry, didn¡¯t mean to scare you," he said, his tone casual, almost friendly. "Just wanted to make sure you¡¯re okay. It¡¯s pretty late, and this part of the city isn¡¯t exactly safe."


    The girl hesitated, glancing around the dark, deserted alley. "I¡¯m fine, thanks," she replied, her voice a little shaky.


    "I know a safer route you could take other than this alleyway. It¡¯s a little out of the way, but worth it to stay away from trouble."


    She looked uncertain, glancing ahead at the shadowy path that lay before her. The alley was dark, with barely any light to guide her way, and the thought of walking through it alone made her stomach twist. Donald seemed harmless enough, and he wasn¡¯t being overtly pushy. He just seemed concerned.


    Finally, she nodded. "Alright, lead the way."


    Donald smiled, a small, reassuring grin, and gestured for her to follow him. He led her out of the alley and down a different street, one that was quieter, more secluded. As they walked, he kept the conversation light, engaging her in small talk about the weather, the city, anything to keep her distracted.


    The girl responded politely, though her nervousness was still evident in the way she glanced around every now and then. She hadn¡¯t noticed that the streets had grown emptier, the buildings more rundown, until they turned a corner and found themselves in front of an abandoned building.


    The girl looked at the dilapidated building, her heart rate spiking. "Um, I think I can find my way home from here," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.


    Donald¡¯s charming smile never wavered. "Just relax," he said soothingly, reaching into his pocket.


    Before she could react, Donald pulled out a small vial and a cloth, quickly pressing it over her mouth and nose. The girl struggled, her eyes widening in panic, but the drug worked fast. Within moments, her body went limp in his arms.


    Donald caught her before she fell, leading her to the empty building and gently lowering her to the ground. He worked quickly, gagging her with a strip of cloth before pulling on a pair of gloves. He had done this countless times before, and every move was practiced.


    "Just relax," he murmured again, more to himself than to her.


    But as he began to position her, something made him stop. A cold, unsettling feeling washed over him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He felt a presence¡ªsomething dark, something wrong. He glanced up, peering into the shadows beyond the building.


    Nothing. Only darkness.


    He shook his head, dismissing the feeling as nerves. He had this under control. No one was around. No one would find them here. He continued his work, unbuckling his belt slowly .


    But then he heard it¡ªa low, deep voice that rumbled from the shadows in front of him.


    "A new prey."


    Donald¡¯s blood turned to ice. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body betrayed him, locking in place as the belt slipped from his numb fingers. Each heartbeat thudded in his ears, drowning out everything else as he forced himself to turn, dreading what he knew he¡¯d see.


    Standing at the edge of the shadows was a massive figure, towering well over six feet tall. The man was shirtless, his muscular body showing his strength, wearing only rough denim jeans and heavy boots. But what caught Donald''s attention was the mask¡ªa disturbing cowhide mask shaped like a cow¡¯s head, with hollowed eyes staring directly at him.


    The Butcher.


    Donald¡¯s breath faltered, suspended for a moment before he could exhale, as the man stepped forward, the heavy cleaver in his hand catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. The Butcher moved slowly. He was a predator sizing up its prey.


    Donald whispered in terror, "The Butcher¡­"


    He tried to shout, to run, but before he could react, the Butcher moved¡ªa blur of brutal strength¡ªand grabbed Donald by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Donald¡¯s legs kicked out helplessly as he gasped for air, his hands clawing at the iron grip around his neck.


    The Butcher didn¡¯t kill him¡ªnot yet. Instead, he slammed Donald against the wall with bone-crushing force. Donald wheezed in pain, his vision blurring as he struggled to stay conscious.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The girl, still groggy from the drug, managed to gather enough strength to stumble to her feet. She was disoriented, but the sight of the horror before her jolted her into action. She half-ran, half-crawled toward the exit, her heart pounding in her chest as she fled the building.


    Donald, lying on the floor, tried to push himself up, his entire body trembling with fear. The Butcher crouched beside him, bringing the massive cleaver to Donald¡¯s face. The cold metal pressed against his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine.


    "I¡¯m going to give you a ten-second head start," the Butcher said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "Run."


    Donald¡¯s eyes widened in terror. This couldn¡¯t be happening. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one who hunted. But now, he was the prey.


    "One¡­" the Butcher began to count.


    Donald scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest as he stumbled toward the door. He had to get out. He had to run. He couldn¡¯t die here, not like this.


    "Two¡­"


    Donald pushed himself to run faster.


    "Three¡­"


    By the time the Butcher reached ten, Donald was outside, sprinting down the street as fast as his legs would carry him. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he didn¡¯t dare stop. The night was still and silent, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, and the Butcher¡¯s voice counting down, counting down to his death.


    The Butcher watched Donald flee into the night, his blue eyes gleaming behind the cowhide mask. He stood still for a moment, listening to the distant sound of footsteps fading into the darkness.


    A low, guttural chuckle escaped his lips.


    The thrill of the hunt was exhilarating. Donald McCallister was just another piece of prey in a long line of predators. But to the Butcher, he was so much more. He was a challenge, an opportunity to indulge in the violent, twisted pleasure that came from hunting other killers.


    The Butcher hefted his cleaver onto his shoulder, his boots crunching against the gravel as he stepped out into the night. The girl had gotten away, but that wasn¡¯t his concern. She wasn¡¯t the prey tonight.


    Donald McCallister was.


    Slowly, the Butcher followed the trail of his fleeing victim, his mind already savoring the moment when he would finally catch him. This was the part he loved the most¡ªthe chase and the fear that radiated from his prey as they realized there was no escape.


    He had given Donald a head start, but that was only to make the game more interesting. The Butcher was a master tracker, and he could find his prey anywhere, no matter how far they ran or how well they hid. He had done this countless times before, and each time, the result was always the same.


    They ran. He hunted. They died.


    The Butcher¡¯s breath fogged in the cold night air as he moved through the empty streets,


    down his forehead as he approached a nearby wall.


    He leaned against it, trying to his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of his prey. He could sense Donald¡¯s fear, could practically taste it in the air, and it motivated him tremendously.


    Soon. Very soon.


    Donald didn¡¯t know how long he had been running. His legs were numb, his lungs burned with every breath, and his heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. He had never been this terrified in his entire life.


    He had a head start, but even Donald knew that was just a cruel joke. The Butcher wasn¡¯t the kind of man who let his prey escape. No, this was all part of the game¡ªthe hunt. Donald had heard the stories, had laughed them off as exaggerations, urban legends to keep people in line. But now, with the Butcher after him, none of it seemed exaggerated at all. It was real. Too real.


    Donald''s legs ached, but he couldn¡¯t stop. He had to keep going. He needed to find a way out, a way to survive. He dashed into an empty warehouse, the darkness swallowing him whole as he staggered inside. His chest heaved and sweat dripped, trying to think. There had to be a way out of this. He just had to find it. But no matter how hard he tried to calm himself, the image of that cowhide mask, those hollow eyes, and that glistening cleaver kept flashing in his mind.


    He was going to die.


    His eyes darted around the warehouse, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthat could help him. The darkness pressed in from all sides, but eventually, his hand brushed against something cold and solid. A metal pipe. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was better than nothing.


    He gripped the pipe tightly, his knuckles turning white. The silence in the warehouse was more frightening than he could have imagined. The only sound was his own breathing. Was the Butcher nearby? Watching? Waiting?


    He couldn¡¯t wait. He couldn¡¯t stand still and let that monster catch up to him. Donald made his way to the back of the warehouse, slipping out through a side door. He was back in the maze of alleyways, his pulse still racing.


    "All I need to do is get to the main road," Donald muttered to himself, scanning the dark streets around him. His eyes locked on an old fire escape attached to a crumbling building. The high ground¡ªthat could give him an advantage.


    He climbed up quickly, his body protesting with every movement. His muscles ached, his hands slick with sweat as he pulled himself onto the roof. From up here, he could see more of the alleyways below. He scanned the darkness, searching for any sign of the Butcher.


    Nothing.


    The moon barely peeked out from behind thick clouds, casting the streets below in deep shadow. Donald¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps as he stared into the darkness. Everywhere was quiet. Too quiet.


    Suddenly, a noise behind him¡ªa soft creak of metal. Donald whipped around and swung the pipe with all his might. But there was nothing there. His grip tightened on the pipe, his heart hammering in his chest. Was he losing it? He could hear the Butcher¡¯s laugh, that low, mocking chuckle that danced around in his mind. Was it real, or was he imagining it?


    Donald gritted his teeth, frustration and fear mixing in a volatile cocktail. He threw the pipe over the edge of the roof, the clattering sound echoing through the empty alleyways below. He hoped it would draw the Butcher¡¯s attention, bait him into showing himself.


    Without wasting any more time, Donald ran to the edge of the roof and quickly slipped into an adjoining building through a broken window. Shards of glass crunched under his boots as he landed inside. He crouched low, his breathing ragged as he grabbed a shard of broken glass, holding it tightly in his trembling hand.


    He pressed himself into a dark corner, hidden from view, and waited. His eyes flickered around the room, scanning the darkness for any movement. But there was nothing. No sound, no sign of the Butcher. The silence was maddening.


    The Butcher was big¡ªtoo big to be so quiet. Donald knew that. He knew that someone of the Butcher''s size shouldn¡¯t be able to move with such stealth, but the stories had warned him. The Butcher wasn¡¯t human. He was something else. Something worse.


    Suddenly, a faint creak of wood behind him.


    Donald spun around, his reflexes driven by raw fear, and slashed out with the shard of glass. The sharp edge sliced deep into flesh, and for a moment, Donald felt a flicker of hope. But when he looked up, he felt a chill tickle his spine.


    The Butcher stood before him, towering over him like a nightmare brought to life. The cut on his arm oozed blood, but he barely flinched. He looked down at the wound, then back at Donald with those hollow, dark eyes behind the cowhide mask.


    For a moment, neither of them moved. The Butcher''s gaze bore into Donald, freezing him in place, turning his blood to ice.


    Then, the Butcher chuckled¡ªa low, dangerous sound that made Donald tremble. "You wouldn¡¯t be worth hunting if you didn¡¯t fight back," he said, his voice deep and calm, as though he was discussing the weather.


    Donald¡¯s paralysis broke, and he scrambled backward, trying to get away. But the Butcher was faster. He reached out, grabbing Donald by the collar with one massive hand, and effortlessly slammed him against the wall. Donald felt the impact in his bones.


    As if death finally dawned on him, Donald¡¯s fear turned to adrenaline, giving him a burst of strength. He reached for the knife hidden in his boot and slashed it across the Butcher¡¯s face. The blade grazed the cowhide mask, leaving a crude cut across it.


    But instead of pain or at least anger, the Butcher seemed¡­ amused.


    With a grunt, he slammed Donald into the wall again, harder this time. Donald coughed up blood, but he refused to let go of the knife. He clutched it tightly, his only hope left in the face of this monster. When the Butcher stepped closer, Donald gathered what little strength he had left and stabbed the knife into the Butcher¡¯s side, twisting it viciously.


    The Butcher grunted, a deep sound of acknowledgment, but to Donald¡¯s horror, that was all. The brute barely reacted. The Butcher¡¯s eyes gleamed with a sick, animalistic pleasure as he pulled the knife from his side and casually tossed it away. Blood dripped from the wound, but it didn¡¯t seem to faze him at all.


    Donald¡¯s heart sank as the Butcher raised his cleaver, his very presence like death itself. Donald scrambled backward, his body shaking with terror. "I¡ªI don¡¯t deserve this, man¡­ Please, not like him, not like the other guy¡­" he cried, his voice cracking with desperation


    The Butcher¡¯s head tilted to the side, a glint of confusion flashing behind the mask. "Other guy?" he repeated, his voice low and almost¡­ curious.


    Donald¡¯s hands trembled, desperate, as he backed against the wall. "The¡­ the one they found. Flayed. I heard about it. Martin. That¡¯s his name, right?" His voice turned into a desperate sob. "I swear, I didn¡¯t kill anyone! Just¡ªjust don¡¯t do me like that¡­ not like him."


    "Flayed?" the Butcher echoed, his voice deep and dangerous.


    Donald nodded frantically, not even sure the Butcher was listening. "Yeah¡­ everyone¡¯s talking about it. Said it was you. Said you skinned him alive. Jesus, please, just make it quick. Please¡­"


    For a moment, the Butcher seemed genuinely puzzled. Then, his confusion melted away, replaced by that familiar predatory thrill as his sadistic grin widened beneath the mask. "Flayed?" the Butcher murmured again, his voice growing cold once more. "This is more my style."


    With a brutal slash, the Butcher¡¯s cleaver sliced through Donald¡¯s groin and crotch area, the blade tearing through flesh and muscle with horrifying ease. Donald screamed¡ªa raw, primal sound that echoed through the building, his blood splattering across the floor in thick, dark pools.


    The Butcher stepped back, watching with grim satisfaction as Donald writhed on the floor, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. In his last moments, Donald¡¯s trembling hand reached for a nearby shard of glass, but he never made it. His body finally went limp, the life draining out of him as the darkness consumed him whole.


    The Butcher stepped over the body, the thrill of the kill already fading as he left the building. He wiped the blood from his cleaver, sliding it back into its sheath as he walked away.


    "Martin? Flayed?" he muttered to himself as he disappeared into the night.


    Flaying wasn¡¯t his style. Whoever did that wasn¡¯t hunting for satisfaction¡ªthey were hunting for something more monstrous. And that unsettled him. For the first time in years, the Butcher felt a sliver of fear. Not for himself¡ªhe had long since stopped fearing death¡ªbut for the hunt. For the unknown force that had entered his domain.


    There was someone or something else out there, something that might be even more dangerous than him. The thought remained in his mind. A fear he could not shake.


    But then the fear turned to excitement.


    The hunt was on again, but this time, his prey wasn¡¯t just another criminal. This time, he was hunting an apex predator that rivaled him. And he wasn¡¯t sure who¡ªor what¡ªhe was up against.

 Chapter Three

    On the other side of the city, under the same blanket of night, a bus hissed to a stop at a quiet, deserted station. Felix stepped off the bus, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a black jacket wrapped tightly around his lanky frame. He glanced up at the flickering streetlight overhead, casting long, jittery shadows across the pavement. The city¡¯s cold, indifferent air welcomed him with a whisper that chilled him to the bone.


    Felix had never been here before, but something about this place felt¡­ off. He couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the way the streets seemed too empty, or the way the darkness felt heavier here than it did back home. Whatever it was, it made him uneasy. His amber eyes scanned the quiet street, noting the shuttered windows and the distant hum of the city beyond.


    But he didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it. He was here for a reason¡ªa new start. He just hoped this small city would be different. He glanced down at the worn address in his hand, and twirled the pen in his other hand.


    The apartment building was as unremarkable as he had expected. It was old, its brick exterior worn and weathered, with peeling paint and a sagging roof. The kind of place no one paid attention to. That was why Felix had chosen it. He wasn¡¯t looking to stand out.


    As he climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor, Felix felt the weight of his duffel bag pulling on his shoulder. It wasn¡¯t heavy with belongings¡ªhe didn¡¯t own much. But it carried the weight of the past, the things he was trying to leave behind. He reached his door, the brass number barely hanging on by a single screw, and unlocked it with a quiet click.


    The apartment was small and cluttered, a mess of discarded furniture, old newspapers, and forgotten belongings left by tenants long gone. Dust hung in the air, swirling in the dim light filtering through the grimy window. Felix stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in.


    Home, for now.


    He dropped his bag by the door and stepped inside, the floor creaking under his weight. The walls were yellowed with age, and the faint smell of mildew clung to everything. But Felix didn¡¯t mind. It was perfect. Quiet. Forgotten. Just like him.


    As he moved through the apartment, setting things down and taking stock of his surroundings, there was a knock at the door. Felix stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. He waited for a moment, the tension in his muscles making his movements slow. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the door.


    Standing there was his landlady, Mrs. Harper. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, though it was hard to tell under the layers of makeup she wore with bright red lipstick and thick mascara framing her blue eyes. Her blonde hair was styled in soft curls, and at first glance, she seemed put together¡ªalmost beautiful, in a way that hinted at a time when she might have turned heads. But something was off. Felix noticed the way her hands twitched at her sides, and how her eyes darted around nervously, as if she were always looking for something¡ªor someone.


    "Rent¡¯s due first of the month," she said in a slightly hoarse voice. "Don¡¯t be late." She glanced past Felix into the apartment, her eyes narrowing slightly at the mess. "Keep it clean, too. I don¡¯t want any complaints from the neighbors."


    Felix nodded once, his expression neutral. He didn¡¯t say anything. He never did.


    Mrs. Harper smiled, but it didn¡¯t reach her eyes. Her hands twitched again, and she rubbed them together absently as she looked him up and down. "Mute, huh? Figures. Just keep outta trouble, got it?"


    Felix pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled a quick response before holding it up for her to see: Got it.


    Her smile faltered, just for a moment, and she let out a small, nervous laugh. She glanced around again, her eyes flicking to the end of the hallway, and then she nodded at Felix before turning to leave. As she walked away, Felix noticed how her movements seemed a bit too fast, too jittery, as if she was trying to outrun something only she could see.


    He watched her go, his mind already cataloging the details. Mrs. Harper was trying to keep up appearances, but her behavior told a different story. The makeup, the forced smile, the twitching hands¡­ it all pointed to something deeper, something hidden. She was addicted to something¡ªhe¡¯d seen it before in other people, though it was none of his business. She didn¡¯t ask questions, that was all Felix needed.


    He closed the door quietly, leaning against it for a moment. His fingers idly brushed against the edge of his notebook, the worn cover familiar beneath his touch. This was his way of communicating now. Words had become dangerous. They had always gotten him into trouble. But silence? Silence kept him safe.


    For the rest of the night, Felix busied himself with unpacking, though there wasn¡¯t much to unpack. His duffel bag contained only a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and a worn photograph of a sister he wanted to forget. The scent of mildew seemed to choke him as he worked, and the city outside felt distant, unreachable.


    When the clock struck 2:30 a.m., Felix found himself wide awake, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that had settled deep in his bones. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet padding silently across the cold floor as he made his way to the small laundry room at the end of the hall. It was a cramped, dingy space, with flickering fluorescent lights and the faint hum of old washing machines.


    As he rummaged through the pile of dirty clothes in one of the bins, something caught his eye. A small plastic packet, half-hidden beneath a crumpled shirt. Felix picked it up, his fingers tracing the edges of the packet. It was filled with a powdery substance¡ªillegal drugs, no doubt. He felt a sense of dread settling over him. He knew exactly whose drugs these were.


    Before he could react, he heard the creak of the laundry room door behind him. Felix froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he turned around. Mrs. Harper stood there, her eyes wide and wild, inhaling sharply with labored breaths. She was high, her pupils dilated and her hands trembling even more than usual.


    "What the hell are you doing?" she slurred, stumbling into the room. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the thick silence. She looked at the packet in Felix¡¯s hand and her expression darkened. "You¡­ you weren¡¯t supposed to find that."


    Felix held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, trying to defuse the situation. But Mrs. Harper wasn¡¯t having it. She staggered toward him, her eyes blazing with a manic intensity. "You keep your mouth shut, you hear me? You tell anyone about this, and I¡¯ll kill you. I swear to God, I¡¯ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the rats." She grabbed Felix by the collar, yanking him close, her breath hot and foul against his face. "Say it. Say you¡¯ll keep your mouth shut."


    Felix didn¡¯t move. His amber eyes stared into hers, wide and fearful, but he didn¡¯t speak. He couldn¡¯t. His throat tightened as he shook his head weakly.


    Forgetting in her paranoia that Felix was mute, Mrs. Harper¡¯s grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin. "Say it!" she screamed.


    And then, something unexpected happened. Felix opened his mouth, and a weak, barely audible whisper escaped his lips. "Yes¡­ I¡¯ll stay silent."


    Mrs. Harper blinked in surprise, her grip loosening slightly. For a moment, she seemed taken aback, as if she couldn¡¯t believe what she had just heard. But then, her face twisted into a menacingly smug expression. "That¡¯s right," she cooed, her voice sickly sweet. "You¡¯ll stay silent, or I¡¯ll cut your tongue out and keep it as a souvenir. Understand? You won¡¯t need that mouth of yours for anything."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Silent," he whispered again while nodding slowly. "My tongue¡­ my mouth¡­ cut off, if I don¡¯t stay silent."


    Mrs. Harper¡¯s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a smile. "Damn right."


    Felix took a step back and Mrs. Harper released him, still glaring at him with that wild, dangerous look in her eyes. He didn¡¯t waste any more time. He turned and bolted out of the laundry room, his heart racing as he hurried back to his apartment. Once inside, he locked the door behind him, his hands trembling. The darkness of the room pressed in around him, suffocating, and he felt a familiar sense of fear creeping up his spine. He could still feel her eyes on him, watching, waiting for him to slip up. At least he convinced himself that it was her eyes.


    He stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked pale, drawn¡ªalmost as if it wasn¡¯t his own. The amber eyes staring back at him were wide with fear, but there was something else in them, too. Something darker.


    He hated the sight of himself. The sight of this... thing he had become. Silent, controlled, weak. He had spent so long trying to keep it together, trying to maintain some facade of normalcy, but it was all crumbling around him. The shadows, the voices¡ªthey were creeping back, slipping through the cracks he had tried so hard to seal.


    The pressure in his chest built to an unbearable point, a storm of emotions that he couldn¡¯t contain any longer. Anger, fear, frustration¡ªit all boiled over, coursing through his veins like fire. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will it away, but it only intensified, clawing at his mind, his body, until he couldn¡¯t take it anymore.


    In a sudden burst of anger that surprised even him, Felix threw his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The broken shards of glass scattered across the sink and floor. A sharp and electric pain shot up in his arms, as his knuckles split open, blood welling from the fresh wounds. He stood there, panting.


    Felix stared down at the shattered glass, gulping for air, each gasp more strained than the last. He flexed his fingers, wincing as the pain grounded him in the moment. Blood dripped from his hand, staining the shards a deep, dark red.


    He could feel something watching him from the other side of the glass¡ªsomething that had always been there, just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to emerge. It wasn¡¯t just a figment of his imagination¡ªit was a part of him, the part he had buried deep but never truly escaped.


    And for the first time in a long while, Felix wasn¡¯t sure if he could hold it back.


    Meanwhile, Mrs. Harper staggered back to her own apartment, the drugs still coursing through her veins, making her movements unsteady. She mumbled to herself, her lips twitching as she fumbled with her keys, finally managing to unlock the door. The familiar scent of stale air and cheap perfume greeted her as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a loud click.


    She needed another fix. The first one hadn¡¯t been enough to calm the nerves that had been rattled by the mute kid. That damn kid. Why had he spoken? She couldn¡¯t shake the sound of his voice from her mind¡ªit had been so soft, so weak. It unnerved her.


    With shaky hands, she moved to the small vanity in the corner of the room. The mirror was spotless, the surface carefully maintained despite the clutter that surrounded it. Mrs. Harper sat down in front of it, her reflection staring back at her with a practiced smile. Her makeup was still intact, the bright red lipstick framing her lips in a perfect line. She reached for a tube of lipstick, the color worn from use, and began to reapply it with slow, deliberate strokes.


    Her eyes twitched as she leaned in closer, examining herself in the mirror. There was something off about her reflection tonight. Something that made her feel¡­ uneasy. She couldn¡¯t quite place it, but it sent a shiver down her spine.


    She needed to calm down.


    Reaching into the drawer, Mrs. Harper pulled out a small packet of powder, the same one she had used earlier. She emptied the contents onto the glass surface, dividing it into thin lines with the edge of her credit card. She leaned forward, her hands trembling as she snorted the powder in one quick motion. The burn was immediate, familiar. Comforting.


    But it wasn¡¯t enough.


    "You¡¯re falling apart," she muttered to herself. The drugs were numbing the edge, but her body was wearing down faster than she could mask it.


    She reached for another small packet, knocking over a jar of rusty razors in the process. The blades clattered to the ground, one of them bouncing and landing near her bare foot. With an irritated grunt, she bent down to pick it up, her balance unsteady. As she straightened, the room seemed to tilt around her.


    Leaning forward, she tried to steady herself, but the room spun faster, the edges of her vision blurring. Her foot caught on the edge of the bath mat, and for a split second, she teetered on the brink of regaining her balance. Then gravity took hold, and she immediately fell forward, slamming face-first into the porcelain sink. The impact caused her lips to split open, and she felt a sharp, burning pain as blood flowed freely from her mouth.


    Gasping for breath, Mrs. Harper clawed at the sink, her fingers slipping on the smooth surface as she struggled to right herself. Drops of crimson fell from her mouth, staining the yellowed porcelain below.


    She staggered backward, her hands flying to her mouth as she tried to stanch the bleeding. But she forgot she was still holding the razor. In her haste, she pressed the blade against her lips, the metal feeling cold. Immediately, the razor pressed further and cut into her tongue, severing it with a sharp, painful slice. Thick, crimson streams gushed from the wound, filling her mouth and throat. She tried to scream but the sound turned into wet, gurgling sounds as she choked on her own blood.


    She thrashed against the sink, her vision going black as the pain intensified. Her hands flailed, searching for something to grab onto, but there was nothing. Her foot slipped again, and this time, her body twisted violently, sending her head crashing into the hard tile floor with a bone-crunching crack.


    Then, Mrs. Harper¡¯s body twitched once, twice, before finally going limp. Blood pooled around her head, her tongue still partially severed and hanging from her mouth. The room was silent, save for the faint drip of blood dropping onto the cold, cracked tiles.


    Across the hall, Felix sat on the floor of his bathroom, staring at the shattered mirror. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, the result of his earlier outburst. He held his hand in front of him, watching the blood trickle down his fingers, but his mind was elsewhere. The shadows in the corner seemed to be watching him, judging him.


    He knew he shouldn¡¯t have said anything to Mrs. Harper. It had been so long since he had used his voice, and hearing it now¡ªweak and broken¡ªhad sent a shiver down his spine. He didn¡¯t like it. Didn¡¯t like the way it made him feel. Vulnerable. Exposed.


    His pacing grew faster, his breathing more erratic. He pulled out his notebook, scribbling frantically as if writing down his thoughts could somehow make sense of the chaos inside his head. But the words on the page didn¡¯t help. They only made things worse.


    Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Don¡¯t let it out. Don¡¯t let it happen again.


    Again.


    The word hung in the air like a ghost, a reminder of something he had tried so hard to forget. His hand trembled as he gripped the pen tighter, the ink smudging on the paper as he wrote the word repetitively.


    Again. Again. Again.


    The broken glass from the mirror reflected shards of his life¡ªfragmented, out of place, impossible to piece together. In one of the larger pieces, he saw something else. Something dark. A shadowy figure standing beside him, tall and menacing, with blood dripping from its hands. Its face was obscured, but its eyes¡­ its eyes were cold and hollow, staring right at him.


    The figure smiled, a twisted grin that sent a wave of terror through Felix¡¯s body. "You can¡¯t hide forever," the figure whispered, its voice like the rumble of an engine churning against a cylinder full of gravel. "Not from me. Not from what you really are."


    Felix¡¯s breath snagged in his chest like a knot. His hand shot out, grabbing a nearby chair, and with a surge of desperate strength, he smashed it against the mirror, shattering it into even smaller pieces. The glass exploded across the floor, and the reflection disappeared, leaving Felix alone in the darkness once more.


    His heartbeat thundered in his ears in as he stared at the mess he had made, his mind filling up with thoughts he couldn¡¯t silence. He had come here for a fresh start, to escape the shadows that followed him. But it had found him anyway.


    A knock on the door jolted Felix out of his thoughts. He froze, his bloodied hand trembling as he stood up. The knock came again, louder this time. Slowly, he made his way to the door, wiping his bloody knuckles on his pants before opening it a crack.


    One of his neighbors, a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair, stood on the other side. She glanced down at his bleeding hand, concern flashing in her eyes.


    "Are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with worry. "I heard some noise and¡­ well, Mrs. Harper is¡ª"


    Felix cut her off by holding up his notebook. He had already written down what she was going to say: Dead?


    The neighbor blinked in surprise. "How¡­ how did you know?"


    Felix shrugged, offering a small, forced smile. He scribbled a quick explanation: Just a feeling. The building¡¯s been quiet.


    The woman stared at him for a moment, doubt flickering in her eyes, but she seemed to accept the answer. "Well¡­ if you need anything¡­"


    Felix nodded once, closing the door before she could say anything else. He leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath as he pressed his hand to his forehead. It was happening again.


    He could still feel the darkness around him, just out of sight.

 Chapter Four

    Lewis Lawrence sat in his softly lit office, the rays of the afternoon sun creeping through the blinds. The walls were lined with case files, notes pinned to a board, and crime scene photos that painted a grim narrative. His desk was no different¡ªcluttered with documents, photographs, and various files connected to the murder of his brother, Martin. Among the papers, a picture of Martin''s flayed body stared up at him. The image had burned itself into Lewis''s mind, a constant reminder of the horror his brother had suffered.


    He picked up the photograph, holding it in his trembling hands. Martin''s body was a haunting mess of torn flesh and exposed muscle, the result of some sadistic ritual that Lewis couldn¡¯t wrap his mind around. As he stared at the photo, memories of their childhood came rushing back¡ªthe days when they were just kids, playing football in the yard, teasing each other, and laughing until they were breathless. The innocent, carefree days when life wasn¡¯t burdened by death and tragedy.


    The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the photo faltered, and it slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like a fallen leaf. Lewis stared at it for a moment, unable to bring himself to pick it up. He leaned back in his chair, reaching for the bottle of water on his desk. He took a long drink, the cool liquid doing little to wash away the bitterness in his throat.


    His gaze returned to the documents detailing Martin''s murder. The facts were all laid out in clinical, detached language, each line adding to the cold reality of what had happened. Lewis muttered to himself, trying to make sense of it all.


    "Same MO. Same preference for bladed weapons. The facts all add up. Thompson¡¯s wrong. This has to be the Butcher."


    Suddenly, someone knocked on his office door, but Lewis didn¡¯t hear it. He was too lost in the case, too consumed by his need to find answers. The knock came again, the same soft rhythm, but still, Lewis didn¡¯t respond. It wasn¡¯t until the knock came a third time, louder this time, that he finally looked up.


    "Who is it?" Lewis called out, his voice hoarse.


    "Detective Thompson," came the reply from the other side of the door. Thompson¡¯s voice was light, almost child-like, but there was something detached and robotic about it. It always made Lewis feel uneasy.


    "Come in," Lewis said, rubbing his temples as if trying to fight off an impending headache.


    The door creaked open, and Detective Thompson stepped inside. He was a peculiar sight, as always. Despite being around the same age as Lewis, Thompson had a youthful, almost innocent appearance that didn¡¯t quite match the world-weariness that most cops carried with them. His hair was neatly kept, his face free of any signs of aging, but his clothing¡­ that was another story.


    Thompson was barely abiding by the dress code. His tie was loose, his shirt buttoned up but a size too big, as if he had borrowed it from someone else. His trousers were similarly ill fitted, and his arms swung awkwardly as he walked¡ªwhen they weren¡¯t kept in his pockets, which was most of the time. He had a casual air about him, as if he was just going through the motions, but Lewis knew better. The man¡¯s disheveled appearance was a facade, a distraction from the razor-sharp intellect that hid behind his juvenile dressing. An intellect that made Thompson both an ally and a threat in ways that weren¡¯t immediately obvious.


    Lewis gave him a once-over, and then asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"


    Thompson didn¡¯t respond immediately. Instead, he sat on a nearby chair then reached into his pocket and pulled out a rubber band, absentmindedly fiddling with it as he spoke. "Captain Monroe wanted me to inform you that you¡¯re being reassigned to another case."


    Lewis frowned, his mind struggling to process what Thompson had just said. "Reassigned?" His voice showed his confusion. "What do you mean, reassigned? I¡¯m in the middle of this case. I¡¯m not done."


    Thompson continued to stretch the rubber band between his fingers with a blank expression. "You can¡¯t stay on the case, Lewis. It¡¯s a conflict of interest. Captain¡¯s orders."


    Lewis clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ached. He could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, a slow burn that threatened to erupt if he didn¡¯t keep it in check. Yet, despite his raging emotions, he didn¡¯t let it show. He had become a master at hiding his emotions and keeping them locked away where they couldn¡¯t interfere with his work. "So who¡¯s taking over, you?" he asked, his voice tight.


    Thompson shook his head, not bothering to look up from his rubber band. "Not me. It¡¯s Detective Sarah Halloway."


    "Halloway?" Lewis muttered under his breath. He had worked with her before¡ªshe was competent, but this case wasn¡¯t just about competence. It was personal.


    Lewis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "And what case have I been reassigned to?" he asked, though he didn¡¯t really care. Whatever case they gave him wouldn¡¯t matter. Not compared to this one.


    Thompson finally looked up from his rubber band, his pale blue eyes cold and detached as he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a case file. He handed it to Lewis without a word.


    Lewis opened the file and scanned the documents quickly. As he read, Thompson spoke; his voice was as if he was reading a grocery list. "Case number: 2024-112846. Case type: Homicide. Victim¡¯s name was Donald McCallister. He was 31 years old. The location was an abandoned warehouse, 1728 Graystone Avenue, Briarcliff. The incident summary states that: At approximately 11:45 PM on August 24, 2024, officers responded to a 911 call reporting screams and a disturbance at an abandoned warehouse located at 1728 Graystone Avenue. Upon arrival, officers discovered the body of an adult male, later identified as Donald McCallister, lying on the floor of the warehouse in a pool of blood. The victim exhibited severe injuries consistent with sharp force trauma. Preliminary examination on the scene indicated that the victim suffered a deep, fatal wound to the groin and pelvic region, likely inflicted by a large-bladed weapon, possibly a cleaver. The wound resulted in the severing of major arteries, leading to rapid blood loss and death within minutes. Evidence at the scene suggested a violent struggle had taken place. The victim was found clutching a shard of broken glass in his right hand, and a bloody metal pipe was recovered nearby, indicating an attempt at self-defense. Blood spatter patterns and broken glass indicated that the victim fought his assailant before succumbing to his injuries."


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Lewis listened in silence, his eyes moving over the autopsy report. "A deep laceration to the groin and pelvic region, severing the femoral artery. Contusions on the victim''s back and shoulders, likely caused by being slammed against a hard surface," he muttered. He looked up at Thompson and added, "Oh, and it says here that the reporting officer is Detective Thompson¡­ what¡¯s your first name, anyway?"


    "Ferris," Thompson said quickly. "Badge No. 4271."


    "So you¡¯re also on this case," Lewis said, stating it as a fact rather than a question.


    Thompson nodded. "We¡¯ll be working the case together. It could even end up being a joint case with that of your brother¡¯s since Captain Monroe believes that the two cases are connected somehow."


    Lewis leaned back in his chair. "Yes, because the Butcher killed both Donald McCallister and Martin Lawrence."


    Thompson raised an eyebrow. "The Butcher?" He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in a way that almost made him look concerned¡ªalmost. "You really still think it¡¯s him?"


    "Yes," Lewis said firmly. "It all fits the Butcher¡¯s MO. Martin Lawrence killed his wife and then he tried to hide it. The Butcher must have seen him as just another criminal who needed to be punished. As for the flaying, the Butcher evolved. He found other ways to satisfy the sadistic pleasure he got from murdering these criminals. The flaying could also be a way to throw us off the case. Make it seem like another killer is at play."


    Thompson let out a quiet sigh, still playing with his rubber band. He didn¡¯t look at Lewis as he spoke. "Your emotional connection to this case is affecting your deductive reasoning, Lewis. Let¡¯s go through your supposed facts again, shall we?" He held up a finger, counting off his points. "One: The Butcher never flays his victims. He kills them, yes, but he doesn¡¯t play with his food. He¡¯s a hunter, not a sadist. He hunts, he kills, and he moves on."


    Lewis opened his mouth to argue, but Thompson cut him off. "Two: Martin wasn¡¯t exactly the type of criminal the Butcher usually targets. The Butcher goes after serial killers, rapists, armed robbers¡ªpeople who take pleasure, profit, or comfort in the suffering and pain they inflict. Your brother¡­ he killed his wife by accident. It wasn¡¯t planned, it wasn¡¯t sadistic, and it wasn¡¯t because of any particular psychological defect. It doesn¡¯t fit the Butcher¡¯s pattern."


    Lewis stared at Thompson, his mind trying to find an argument, a way to refute what he was hearing. But as the silence stretched between them, the truth slowly sank in. Thompson was right. The pieces didn¡¯t fit the way he wanted them to, but he couldn¡¯t let go of the idea that the Butcher was responsible. He needed the Butcher to be involved.


    Thompson watched Lewis closely, his expression still blank. After a moment, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was calm and soft but pointed as he said, "This must be hard for you. You¡¯re desperate to pin this on the Butcher because it gives you a way to rationalize what happened. Because Martin, your brother, wasn¡¯t just a victim¡ªhe was a murderer. He killed his wife and then tried to cover it up."


    Lewis¡¯s hands curled into fists on his desk, his knuckles aching with the tension. He wanted to argue, to push back against Thompson¡¯s calm logic, but he couldn¡¯t. Maybe he could just hit Thompson. Maybe if he did, he would shut up.


    Thompson¡¯s voice softened slightly, his eyes narrowing as he continued. "And you¡­ you¡¯re a cop. You¡¯ve spent your entire career going after people like your brother. Now you¡¯re trying to find a way to make sense of it. You want to believe it¡¯s the Butcher because it makes the pain easier to bear. It gives you someone to blame, someone you can fight. But this... this isn''t just about finding a killer. This is about accepting what your brother did."


    For a long moment, the room was silent. Lewis stared down at the pile of documents on his desk, his head swarming with a hundred different thoughts. He wanted to scream, to shout, and to throw something¡ªanything to release the pain and anger that had been building inside him since the day Martin was killed. But he couldn¡¯t. All he could do was sit there, his body becoming stiff.


    Thompson stood up, slipping the rubber band back into his pocket. He took a step toward the door, pausing for a moment before turning back to face Lewis. "You need to let go, Lewis. You can¡¯t outrun the truth. Let Halloway handle the case. You¡¯ve done everything you can, but this¡­ this isn¡¯t something you can handle. It never was."


    Lewis didn¡¯t respond. He couldn¡¯t. He kept his eyes fixed on the files in front of him, his mind too clouded to form coherent words. Thompson watched him for another moment before finally turning and leaving the office, the door clicking shut behind him.


    As soon as Thompson was gone, Lewis slumped back in his chair, his head falling into his hands. He was alone, staring at the ceiling as he fought the tears that were threatening to spill over.


    What was he even doing? He had spent his entire career hunting down criminals, following the evidence wherever it led. But now, when it mattered the most, he couldn¡¯t accept the truth. He couldn¡¯t let go of the idea that Martin was just another victim, that a crazed killer had taken him like all the others.


    Deep down, Lewis knew that wasn¡¯t the full story.


    Martin had killed his wife. That much was clear. The evidence left no doubt about that. But the idea that his own brother¡ªthe man he had looked after for years¡ªcould be a murderer was too much to bear. Lewis had always seen Martin as the righteous one, the one who did what was right, no matter how hard it was. But now? Martin was gone. Lewis could see himself standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into a void that threatened to swallow him whole.


    Lewis opened his eyes, staring blankly at the pile of documents in front of him. His hands were trembling slightly, the fear coursing through every fiber of his being. He reached out, grabbing a document that detailed Martin¡¯s crime scene, and studied it again. The flaying, the precision of the cuts¡ªeverything pointed to something more than just a simple murder. This wasn¡¯t the work of a novice or an opportunistic killer. It was methodical. And that was why he couldn¡¯t let go of the Butcher theory.


    But Thompson was right. The Butcher didn¡¯t flay his victims. He didn¡¯t toy with them like this. He was a hunter, yes, but not a sadist. Whoever had done this to Martin¡­ they were something else entirely.


    And that thought terrified Lewis more than anything.


    "You can¡¯t outrun the truth," Thompson had said. But how could Lewis face the truth when it felt like it was destroying everything he had ever believed in?


    The burden of it all pressed down on him, and for the first time in a long while, Lewis allowed himself to feel it. The anger. The grief. The fear. It washed over him in waves, crashing against the walls he had built up around himself, breaking them down piece by piece. Lewis pressed his hands to his face, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He had to pull himself together. Falling apart now was not an option. Not when there was still so much to do, so many unanswered questions. But the truth was gnawing at him, wearing him down with every passing second.


    What if Martin had been more than just a victim? What if there was something inside him¡ªsomething dark¡ªthat Lewis had never seen? And what if that darkness was inside him too?


    Lewis clenched his fists, fighting back the tears that burned in his eyes. He couldn¡¯t let himself go there. Never. But the doubts remained waiting for the moment when he would finally have to confront them.


    For now, though, he had no choice but to keep going. To dig deeper, even if it meant unearthing more than he could bear. Because if it wasn¡¯t the Butcher, then something far worse was lurking in the shadows¡ªand Lewis needed to face it before it destroyed him. That was the only hope he had left.


    If it wasn¡¯t the Butcher, who was it?

 Chapter Five

    Rebecca Lee adjusted her dress, a tight, short black number that hugged her figure perfectly, and glanced around the street as she walked. The air was filled with the stench of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and something more subtle¡ªsomething darker. Neon signs from the nearby nightclubs flickered in the gloom, casting an eerie glow over the crumbling buildings. Music pounded from the clubs, the bass vibrating through the pavement beneath her feet. People laughed, yelled, and stumbled out of bars, their voices blending with the distant roar of traffic.


    The place was seedy, but Rebecca wasn¡¯t worried. She had been in and out of shady areas like this for years. Her boyfriend, Richie, was the type who liked places like these. Dive bars, back alley nightclubs, sketchy joints where deals went down in the shadows. It was his world, and she didn¡¯t mind. She used to party in places just like this when she was a teenager. In fact, part of her still enjoyed the adrenaline rush that came with being in these kinds of places.


    Tonight was supposed to be no different. She was supposed to meet Richie here, just outside a bar called "The Hive." It wasn¡¯t much of a place¡ªjust a rundown hole-in-the-wall with peeling paint and broken windows¡ªbut it had its charm. Rebecca leaned against the wall, checking her phone again. No messages. No missed calls.


    Richie was late. Again.


    She sighed, tucking a strand of her dyed red hair behind her ear and scanning the street for any sign of him. The night was growing colder, the wind picking up, carrying with it the promise of rain. Still, she wasn¡¯t worried. Richie was always late. He¡¯d show up eventually, probably with some half-baked excuse about getting caught up in something. That was Richie for you¡ªalways in the middle of some deal, some scheme. But that was part of the reason she liked him. He lived on the edge, and she liked the thrill of it.


    Rebecca tugged at her dress, her fingers twitching as she glanced around the street. The usual thrill of being in a place like this was missing tonight, replaced by a bedeviling unease that she couldn¡¯t shake. The shadows seemed to stretch further, the laughter from the bars a little too sharp, too forced. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill that hadn¡¯t yet settled in.. She shook it off, chalking it up to nerves. She¡¯d been a little on edge lately, what with everything that had been going on. Life hadn¡¯t exactly been kind to her lately. She had been getting by, doing what she had to do to survive. A little lying, a little stealing. Nothing major. Nothing she couldn¡¯t handle.


    Rebecca felt for the wallet in her purse, a little extra cash she¡¯d lifted from a careless stranger earlier in the week. She wasn¡¯t proud of it, but she wasn¡¯t ashamed either. It was just another way to survive, a skill she¡¯d honed over years of scraping by.


    The sound of footsteps approaching made her look up. Three men were walking toward her, their silhouettes dark against the neon glow of the streetlights. Rebecca¡¯s heart skipped a beat. They weren¡¯t the kind of guys Richie usually hung out with. They looked rough ¨C tattooed, muscular and dangerous. She straightened up, trying to appear calm, though her pulse quickened.


    The man in front, a tall guy with a shaved head and a scar running down the side of his face, smiled at her. It wasn¡¯t a friendly smile. "You must be Rebecca," he said, his voice hoarse and rough. "Richie told us you¡¯d be here."


    Rebecca frowned. She had no idea who these men were, and something about the way they were looking at her made her anxious. "I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about," she said, her voice steady despite the fear building inside her.


    The man¡¯s smile widened. "Richie said you¡¯d have the goods. Said you¡¯d take care of us."


    Rebecca¡¯s stomach twisted. What the hell was Richie mixed up in this time? "I think you¡¯ve got the wrong person,¡± she said, taking a step back. "I¡¯m just here to meet my boyfriend, that¡¯s all."


    The second man, shorter but stocky, with tattoos running up his neck, stepped closer. "Nah, sweetheart. We¡¯re pretty sure you¡¯re the one. Richie said you¡¯d be the one wearing the black dress, waiting outside The Hive. So why don¡¯t you just hand over what you owe us, and we¡¯ll be on our way?"


    Rebecca¡¯s heartbeat thundered in her ears, her brain spinning in overdrive, as she tried to figure what to do next. She didn¡¯t know what they were talking about, but she knew one thing for sure¡ªshe was in serious trouble.


    "I don¡¯t have anything," Rebecca insisted, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced around, hoping to see someone she recognized, but the street was full of strangers. No one was paying attention. "I don¡¯t know what Richie told you, but I¡¯m not involved in whatever deal you guys have going on."


    The man¡¯s expression darkened, and he took a step closer, his breath hot on her face. "What sort of idiots do you take us for? We¡¯ve been waiting for this shit for weeks. Richie said you¡¯d deliver. So, where the fuck is it?"


    "I don¡¯t have anything," she said again, her voice trembling now. "I swear."


    The third man, who had been standing back silently, finally spoke. His voice was threatening. "We don¡¯t like being lied to, sweetheart. Richie owes us, and if you¡¯re not going to pay up, then we¡¯ll just have to take it out of your pretty little hide."


    Rebecca¡¯s instincts kicked in. She turned on her heel and ran, her high heels clattering against the pavement as she sprinted down the street. She could hear the men shouting behind her, their heavy footsteps pounding after her but she didn¡¯t dare look back.


    She didn¡¯t know where she was going¡ªshe just knew she had to get away from these guys. The nightclub music pounded in her ears, mingling with the sound of her own heartbeat as she sprinted down the alley.


    She spotted a narrow gap between two buildings and made a sharp turn, squeezing through the tight space. The walls scraped against her skin, but she didn¡¯t care. She pushed herself forward, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she ran.


    Spotting an open door in one of the alleyways, she dashed inside and slammed it shut behind her. She leaned against the door, trying to catch her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. She could hear the men outside, cursing and shouting as they searched for her.


    For a moment, it was quiet. She thought she had lost them. But then, the door rattled, and she realized with a jolt of terror that they had found her. She looked around the small, dimly lit room, her eyes landing on a broken piece of wood lying on the floor. She grabbed it, holding it in front of her like a weapon as the door burst open and the men stormed inside.


    Rebecca lashed out with the piece of wood, striking the first man in the face. He let out a grunt of pain, stumbling back as blood poured from his nose. But the second man was on her in an instant, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her toward him.


    She screamed, twisting in his grip, and managed to jab the piece of wood into his side. He howled in pain, releasing her just long enough for her to grab a nearby bottle and smash it over his head. He fell to the floor, unconscious or probably even worse.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The third man, his eyes glinting with malice, lunged at her with a snarl. Rebecca¡¯s instincts kicked in¡ªshe sidestepped, barely avoiding his outstretched hand, and brought the jagged bottle up in a desperate, upward slash. He staggered back, clutching at his throat as blood spurted from the wound. He collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as the life drained out of him.


    Rebecca stood there, panting, as her gaze locked onto the blood pooling around her feet. Her hands trembled, the broken bottle slipping from her grip. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. This wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. She wasn¡¯t supposed to be capable of this¡ªof taking a life. It had been an accident¡ªself-defense. But that didn¡¯t make it any easier to stomach. She ran again, not stopping until she reached her crumbling apartment.


    When she finally reached her building, she fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly that she could barely fit the key into the lock.


    She had no idea how things had escalated so quickly, but one thing was clear¡ªRichie had gotten her into some serious trouble, and she needed to get out of it. Fast.


    The men had said Richie owed them, and that she was supposed to have "the goods." What goods? Drugs? Money? She had no idea, but it didn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s not like she would have stuck around long enough to find out.


    When the key finally turned, she stumbled inside, slamming the door behind her. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside her window. The white walls were lined with old posters, a mix of concert flyers and half-finished art projects that she had started but never completed. Clothes were strewn across the floor, empty takeout containers littered the countertops, and the smell of stale pizza hung in the air. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was hers.


    She reached for the light switch, but when she flicked it on, nothing happened. The small and cluttered apartment remained in darkness.


    "Damn it!" she cursed. She flicked the switch a few more times, but the light didn¡¯t come on. The power must have gone out. It wasn¡¯t unusual¡ªthe building was old, and the wiring had always been faulty.


    She sighed, kicking off her heels as she made her way toward the bedroom. She just needed to get some sleep, shut out the world for a while. In the morning, she¡¯d call Richie, demand answers, and then get out of the city. She didn¡¯t want to get involved in any more mess.


    As she reached the bedroom door, a noise from the kitchen stopped her in her tracks. The sound of glass shattering. Her heart pounded noisily in her chest as she spun around. A cold breeze drifted through the air, carrying with it the cold, damp smell of rain. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.


    She grabbed the first thing she could find¡ªa heavy candlestick from the table near the bedroom door¡ªand moved cautiously toward the kitchen. The window above the sink was shattered, the glass scattered across the floor. The wind howled through the broken window, but it wasn¡¯t the wind that made her blood run cold.


    It was the man standing in the middle of her kitchen.


    He was enormous, easily the biggest man she had ever seen. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the room, his presence swallowing up the small space. His face was mostly obscured by shadow, but the glint of a knife in his hand was unmistakable.


    The candlestick slipped from Rebecca¡¯s trembling fingers and clattered to the floor. She stepped back, her voice barely a whisper. "Who¡­who are you?"


    The giant of a man didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t move. He just stood there, his cold, detached gaze fixed on her, as if he were studying her. The sound of the wind rushing in through the broken window was the only thing that broke the deafening silence.


    Rebecca took a hesitant step back, her eyes never leaving the man in front of her. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice shaking. She tried to take another step back, but her foot hit the wall behind her. She cursed under her breath. The exit was closer to the kitchen, closer to him. She was trapped.


    The giant of a man remained still for a moment longer, and then, without warning, he moved. He sprinted toward her with terrifying speed, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Rebecca barely had time to react before his massive hand was around her throat. Her back slammed against the wall, the breath driven from her lungs as she clawed at his arm, but his grip only tightened, choking off her scream before it could form.


    His eyes were cold and emotionless. There was no anger there, no rage. Just a detached cruelty that sent a shiver down her spine. His other hand raised the knife, and Rebecca¡¯s heart raced as she realized what was coming.


    "No," she whispered, her voice choked by his grip. "Please¡­"


    But the man didn¡¯t care. He pressed the blade of the knife against her abdomen, drawing a thin line of blood. The sharp edge bit into her skin, and she felt a hot surge of pain as the blade sliced through her flesh. Rebecca wanted to scream, but the giant¡¯s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound.


    He cut her again, this time across her arm, as if he were testing the sharpness of the knife. Tears welled up in Rebecca¡¯s eyes as the pain intensified, her body trembling in his grasp. She tried to fight back, to push him away, but he was too strong. She was helpless against him.


    Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The man released his grip on her throat, and Rebecca collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. She barely had time to process what was happening before a heavy blow to the side of her head sent her into darkness. She was now at the mercy of the giant in front of her.


    The Butcher had been prowling the city for a while now, his movements a living shadow in the night. He visited the places where predators lurked¡ªthe places where his own kind preyed on the weak. Clubs, back alleys, sketchy joints, and vulnerable homes. The hunt was what he lived for, what gave him purpose. But lately, the thrill had been dulled by something new, something unsettling.


    It had been a week since Martin¡¯s death, and the flayer¡ªthe copycat¡ªhad gone silent. No bodies had turned up, no fresh kills. The Butcher had been on edge, prowling through his usual haunts, waiting for the next move. But nothing had come.


    Until tonight.


    It was Saturday, just after midnight, when he chanced upon her. She was lying outside a crumbling apartment building; her mutilated body slumped across the pavement. Her skin thoroughly peeled back in some places, crudely hacked off in others. Her exposed entrails glistened in the moonlight as they spilled on to the wet ground. The sight of it should have stirred something in him¡ªsome semblance of disgust or thrill¡ªbut instead, it only filled him with a growing sense of frustration.


    The Butcher knelt beside the corpse, his cold blue eyes scanning her body. The cuts were clean and unhurried. A precision to the flaying suggested the killer had skill. However, it wasn¡¯t the kind of skill that was to be respected. The Butcher had seen the work of many predators in his time¡ªmen and women who engaged in their crimes for pleasure, for power, for control. He knew their methods, could read their minds from what they did to their victims.


    But this¡­ this was different.


    The Butcher could sense it¡ªthis wasn¡¯t someone who enjoyed the kill. This was someone who saw murder as just another part of their existence, something as natural as breathing. There was no satisfaction in the violence, no hunger for the hunt. It looked like a monster had decided to torture someone¡ªplain and simple. And that, more than anything, made the Butcher¡¯s blood boil.


    This impostor wasn¡¯t just targeting predators like he did; he was tainting the hunt. The people this killer targeted were not even deserving of the chase. They weren¡¯t ravenous wolves¡ªthey were senseless sheep, being led to the slaughter without any understanding of the game being played. Sheep that were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, unlucky enough to cross paths with someone who couldn¡¯t even appreciate the beauty of what they were doing.


    "A predator, yes," he thought, his eyes scanning the rest of the scene, "But not a true predator. Just a butcher in the truest sense." The irony wasn''t lost on him, but it did nothing to dull the disgust coiling in his gut. The Butcher hated it. He hated that this killer was tarnishing his legacy, that he was reducing the art of the hunt to something so¡­ banal. Killing should be personal. It should be about the chase, the anticipation, the final moment of victory when the prey realizes they¡¯ve lost.


    But this? This was nothing. He hunted because¡­ why? Because it was easy?


    This killer wasn¡¯t just a threat to his territory. He was a threat to everything The Butcher stood for. The Butcher hunted for the thrill, for the satisfaction of knowing he was the best, the apex. But this killer didn¡¯t care about any of that. He didn¡¯t care about the hunt. He didn¡¯t care about the kill. He just¡­ did it.


    And that made him dangerous. Not because of what he did, but because of what he didn¡¯t feel.


    The Butcher turned away from the body, his mind already working through the details, the clues, the subtle signs the killer had left behind. He would find him. He would track him down, piece by piece, until there was nowhere left for him to hide.


    And when he found him¡­ there would be no mercy.


    Only blood.

 Chapter Six

    Sunday morning was no different, except for how much worse it was.


    Felix had hoped Saturday''s calmness meant his body and mind were settling, that maybe he''d gained some control back. But he had spent the past few hours hunched over his toilet, vomiting violently. He had been retching ever since Mrs. Harper¡¯s death. And now, as the weak light of dawn filtered through the grimy window, Felix felt like he had nothing left to give.


    His body shook with exhaustion as he flushed the toilet and leaned heavily against the wall. The bathroom mirror was still shattered from the night before with shards of glass littering the floor. They reflected pieces of his face, but it wasn¡¯t his face he saw. It was someone else¡¯s, someone evil, someone capable of¡ª


    Felix shook his head, trying to clear the images. He couldn¡¯t let himself go there. Not again.


    As Felix stepped toward the door, a sudden, sharp sting brought him back to reality. He winced, looking down to see a shard of glass jutting from his foot, blood already welling up around the wound and seeping into the cracks between the tiles. For a moment, he just stared at it, the pain distant, almost surreal¡ªlike it belonged to someone else. Bending down, he plucked the glass out, watching as a fresh, thin stream of blood trickled down his foot. He threw the shard across the bathroom, hearing it clink against the wall. He needed to clean up the glass eventually, Soon. But not now.


    He limped back into the main room of his small apartment¡ªa simple space with a bed, a chair, and a small table. The floor was cluttered with the remnants of his scattered belongings, but the emptiness of the room made the mess seem insignificant. Felix didn¡¯t have a television. He got rid of things like that a long time ago, when he realized that every reflection in the screen was another opportunity to see the horrors that followed him everywhere.


    He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His mind was a storm of memories, flashing images of Mrs. Harper¡¯s death playing on repeat in his head. He could see it so clearly¡ªthe way her face slammed into the porcelain sink, the blood spraying across the bathroom tiles, her severed tongue dangling in her mouth. The razor blade, sharp and cold, cutting through flesh and muscle like it was nothing. And the look in her eyes¡ªshock, terror, pain.


    I need fresh air. That¡¯s all. The fresh air of the beautiful, cold, blue ocean. Just some fresh air, to get out of this room, out of this building. Out of the walls in my head, in my room.


    But the memories pulled him back. He could see her again, that final moment. She was standing at the sink, taking that jittery sniff of whatever drug she was on. He had been behind her, hadn¡¯t he? Or maybe beside her? It all blurred together now. She¡¯d fallen¡ªhadn¡¯t she? Slammed her face into the sink, that awful cracking sound of bone against porcelain. But was it really a fall? Or had he¡­ pushed her?


    Felix groaned and rolled over, clutching his stomach as the nausea surged again.  He forced himself to the bathroom and vomited, the retching echoing through the small room. His body trembled, sweat dripping down his forehead. He gripped the toilet seat with trembling hands as he fought to steady himself. The darkness was creeping in again, stronger than before. It had been growing since he moved into this damned apartment.


    He could remember everything clearly but he didn¡¯t want to. The darkness had other plans. It wanted to pull up all the things he was desperately trying to bury, all the bloody things hidden in the darkest recesses of his mind.


    Felix flushed the toilet again. He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the sound of the toilet flushing as he sent the contents of his stomach swirling down the drain. Then, for a split second, he saw something else in the water¡ªsomething red, something that looked like blood. And in the swirling mess, he saw her tongue. Mrs Harper¡¯s severed tongue bobbing up and down in the toilet lifelessly, mockingly.


    My tongue... my mouth... cut off


    Felix slammed the toilet lid shut and bolted out of the bathroom, his heart pounding in his chest. The voice was growing louder, that same voice that had taken over him long ago. The curse. He couldn¡¯t let it control him again. He couldn¡¯t let it drag him back to that place.


    His hands shook as he grabbed his notebook and pen from the bedside table. He needed some fresh air, something to clear his mind. He scribbled a quick note to himself: Get outside. Get away.


    Felix pulled on his jacket and hurried out of his apartment, locking the door behind him. The cold hallway of the building was a stark contrast to the stifling heat of his room. It was a relief, in a way, to feel the chill on his skin. It made him feel alive, real, like he wasn¡¯t just trapped in his own mind.


    The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he made his way down to the building¡¯s exit. He didn¡¯t care where he was going, just that he needed to be anywhere but inside that apartment. The memories clung to him like a second skin, and he had to shed them, if only for a little while.


    Detective Sarah Halloway arrived at the crime scene early that Sunday morning, her breath fogging in the cold air. The sun had barely risen, casting the city with a sickly gray light. The hum of police radios and the conversations of the uniformed officers on duty as they kept back the curious onlookers who had gathered, were the only sounds that filled the air. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the breeze, marking off the area surrounding the apartment building.


    She tightened her scarf around her neck as she approached the front of the building. Stepping under the crime scene tape, her boots crunched on the pavement as she made her way toward the body. The morning light barely penetrated the gloom that clung to the city streets. The scene in front of her was a grisly one¡ªone she had seen too many times in her career. Yet, it never got any easier.


    Rebecca¡¯s body was sprawled against the pavement, her flayed skin a pale contrast to the white, cracked bricks. Fresh blood was still pooled around her, mingling with the rainwater that had fallen sometime during the night, turning the ground beneath her into a sickening slurry of red and gray. Her abdomen had been sliced open, her entrails brutally exposed, and a deep cut ran across her flayed arm. Her glassy eyes stared out at nothing and for a moment, Sarah could see them sparkle in the faint morning light. Like the moon.


    Sarah sighed and rubbed her temple, feeling the familiar cold creeping up the back of her neck. Another victim. Another flayed body. The city seemed to be drowning in blood lately, and it was her job to sift through the carnage and make sense of it all. She had been working homicide for over a decade, and though she had seen her fair share of nightmares, something about this particular case felt like bony fingers latching on to her brain and squeezing it as hard as they could. This wasn''t just another random act of violence or some calculated statement. It was detached and banal.


    And it wasn¡¯t the first.


    "Detective Halloway." A young uniformed officer called Martinez approached her, his face pale and drawn. He was new to the precinct, still learning the ropes. Sarah had seen that look on countless rookies¡ªthe mix of fear and resolve, trying to make sense of the violence that seemed to permeate every corner of the city. He glanced at the body, then quickly looked away, clearly unsettled.  "We¡¯ve got the crime scene secured. The coroner is on his way. It¡¯s¡­ pretty bad."


    Sarah nodded, not looking away from the body. "Yeah. I can see that."


    She crouched down beside Rebecca, careful not to disturb the evidence. Her keen eyes scanned every inch of the scene, taking in the details. The way the cuts were made, the position of the body, the remnants of a broken bottle lying just a few feet away. She made mental notes of everything. A familiar process honed from years of experience and training.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "What do you think detective?" Martinez asked, as he stepped closer.


    "That she was killed by a murderer," Sarah replied sarcastically with a smirk, standing up and dusting off her pants. "Whoever did this wasn¡¯t in a hurry though. They took their time with her. That tells me they¡¯re confident, maybe even comfortable."


    Martinez swallowed hard, glancing again at the body. "Jesus¡­ what kind of person does something like this?"


    "A very sick one," Sarah replied flatly.


    Martinez nodded, though he still looked a bit green around the gills. "Do you think it¡¯s the same guy as the Martin Lawrence case?"


    "I¡¯m not sure but we need to operate under the assumption that it¡¯s the same person," she said. "Who found her?"


    "Resident in the building," Martinez replied. "He was heading out for work this morning, found her like this."


    Sarah nodded, her mind already working through the possibilities. This wasn¡¯t just a killing. This was something else¡ªsomething deeper, darker. She had seen cases like this before, but none as brutal as this. The level of detachment it took to flay someone like this¡­ it was monstrous.


    She stood up, scanning the area around the body. The blood spatter suggested the attack had taken place here, right outside the building. The killer hadn¡¯t even bothered to move the body, hadn¡¯t tried to hide what they had done. That meant they were either extremely confident or they wanted to be seen. Maybe both.


    "Have we identified the victim?" Sarah asked.


    The officer nodded. "ID in her purse. Name¡¯s Rebecca Lee. Asian-American, mid-twenties. She lived in the building."


    Sarah¡¯s jaw tightened. A woman out for a night on the town, probably never saw it coming. She glanced at the entrance to the building, wondering what kind of place she had lived in, what kind of life she had led. It didn¡¯t really matter now.


    She knelt down again, her eyes narrowing as she studied the wounds. This wasn¡¯t a crime of passion. It wasn¡¯t even about power or control. There was no rage here, no emotion. The killer had just been going through the motions, performing a task they had done a hundred times before. And that kind of detachment scared her more than anything else.


    Footsteps approached, and Sarah glanced up to see the coroner arriving, his assistant carrying a gurney behind him. The coroner, Dr. Miller, was a man in his late fifties, with a lined face and gray hair that seemed to be perpetually disheveled. He gave Halloway a nod as he crouched down beside the body.


    "Morning, Detective," he said, his tone flat. "Looks like we¡¯ve got ourselves another one."


    Halloway gave a short nod, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched him work. "What can you tell me?"


    Dr. Miller let out a low whistle as he inspected the wounds. "Flaying. The cuts are clean, beautiful. The sort of flaying talent you read in books of the medieval period. The killer knew exactly where to slice to get the skin off in one piece."


    Sarah¡¯s stomach churned, but she kept her expression neutral. "How long do you think she¡¯s been dead?"


    Miller examined the body for a few moments before answering. "Judging by the state of rigor mortis, I¡¯d say she¡¯s been dead for at least seven hours. Maybe more."


    Sarah did the math in her head. Seven hours ago would put the time of death around midnight. "Any signs of a struggle?"


    Miller shook his head. "No defensive wounds that I can see. Either she was incapacitated before the flaying began, or she didn¡¯t see it coming."


    Sarah¡¯s eyes narrowed. The killer was definitely a monster. A monster who knew how to subdue his victims. He was just like the Boogeyman from her father¡¯s sick bedtime stories. How did those stories end, anyway?


    Miller stood up, wiping his hands on his gloves. "I¡¯ll know more once I get her back to the lab, but I can tell you one thing for sure¡ªwhoever did this wasn¡¯t in a hurry."


    Sarah nodded. "Thanks, Doc. Let me know as soon as you have the full report."


    Miller gave her a nod and signaled for his assistant to prepare the body for transport. Sarah watched as they gently lifted the remains onto the gurney.


    Sarah¡¯s eyes swept over the scene one last time, her mind picking apart the details. The location, the method, the victim¡­ there was a pattern here, she just had to find it. Somehow, this reminded her of another case, one she had heard about but never worked on herself.


    The Butcher.


    He had been active in the city for years, targeting criminals, people who preyed on the weak. His kills were brutal, but there was always a purpose. He was a predator, hunting other predators. But this? This didn¡¯t feel like the Butcher¡¯s work. She could see that now. This felt different¡ªcolder, more detached. Whoever had done this wasn¡¯t hunting for sport or satisfaction. They were killing because it was simply what they did.


    What if there was another killer out there, someone even more dangerous than the Butcher?


    She shook the thought from her mind. She couldn¡¯t jump to conclusions. She had to focus on the evidence, on finding the killer before they struck again. But the fear remained.


    "Get this area locked down," Sarah ordered, turning to face Martinez. "I want a full sweep of the building, top to bottom. And make sure we get the security footage from every camera in a two-block radius¡ªif we¡¯re lucky, we might get a glimpse of our killer."


    Martinez nodded and moved off to relay the orders. Sarah watched him go before turning her gaze back to the spot where Rebecca Lee¡¯s body had been. The flayer was out there somewhere and she just hoped she could catch them before they struck again.


    Felix stood at the sidewalk, watching the crime scene from a block away. He had seen a bit of it already, glimpses of the flayed skin and hacked-off flesh, the way the police moved around the body, the expressions they had on their faces. The name Rebecca Lee kept echoing in his mind, a name he had never heard before that morning. A name that somehow clung to him like an old memory. He didn¡¯t know how he knew her name, but there it was, resounding in his head like a bell that wouldn¡¯t stop ringing.


    Rebecca Lee.


    Felix¡¯s throat tightened, a bitter taste rising in his mouth as his stomach churned violently. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. Warm tears fogged his vision, but he didn¡¯t wipe them away¡ªdidn¡¯t even notice them as they traced burning paths down his cheeks. He didn¡¯t know this woman. He had never met her in his life, had no idea what she looked like beyond what little he could make out from the scene¡ªthe flayed remains of her body, the blood pooling on the pavement. And yet, he felt connected to her. Bound to her suffering in a way that made no sense.


    "I¡¯m sorry," he muttered quietly, his voice drowned out by the commotion around him. "I¡¯m so sorry."


    The tears kept coming, but he didn¡¯t wipe them away. The images were starting again¡ªthose terrible, vivid images that always came to him. He could see her. Rebecca Lee. He could see her in that black dress, walking down the street, oblivious to what was about to happen. He could see the knife slicing her abdomen as she was pinned to the wall of her apartment. He could see someone knocking her out, dragging her limp body from the apartment.


    And then¡­ the pain. The unimaginable pain she must have felt when she regained consciousness, only to find her skin flayed from her body, her entrails spilling out onto the cold, wet pavement. He could see the rain falling around her, as it mixed with the crimson pools forming around her body.


    Felix winced, squeezing his eyes shut, but it didn¡¯t help. The images wouldn¡¯t stop. She was dying, and there was nothing left of her but agony. She couldn¡¯t even scream. She was beyond that now, too far gone to even cry out for help. The giant of a man who had done this stood over her, staring down with cold, detached eyes. Eyes that didn¡¯t care about her suffering. Eyes that saw her as nothing more than a piece of meat.


    Then Felix saw it¡ªthe giant of a man. The one who had done all of this. It was¡­ him. He saw himself staring back, those same cold, lifeless eyes fixed on the dying woman before him. His own reflection was monstrous and bloody.


    He gasped, snapping out of his horrifying daydream. His heart leaped out of his chest and hung in his throat, and for a moment, he thought he would vomit right there on the sidewalk. But he swallowed it down, forcing the bile back into his stomach.


    Why? Why did the darkness always have to follow him?


    Flayed. Flayed. Flayed. The word repeated in his mind like a drumbeat. It was the same as before. The same pattern, the same horrific details, the same giant of a man. Always, it was him.


    Felix turned away from the crime scene, unable to bear it any longer. His shoulders shook with silent sobs as he walked away, muttering under his breath, "Sorry. I¡¯m so sorry. I deserve to die for all the death I¡¯ve caused¡­"


    The thought gripped him with a sudden clarity. Death. It was always with him, like a shadow he couldn¡¯t escape. He had tried running, tried apologizing, but it was never enough. The darkness always caught up with him. If he always brought death and darkness wherever he went¡­ then maybe the answer wasn¡¯t to keep running. Maybe the answer wasn¡¯t to keep apologizing for things he couldn¡¯t change. Maybe the answer was¡­ something else.


    Felix paused, standing at the edge of the sidewalk, his eyes drifting to the oncoming traffic. The cars blurred together, their headlights flashing in the early morning gloom. The air refused to move past his throat as a terrible thought began to form in his mind¡ªan idea that seemed to offer a strange kind of peace. The answer was simple. The answer had always been simple.


    Running wasn¡¯t the answer. It had never been. If the darkness followed him wherever he went, then maybe the only way to end it¡­ was to stop running altogether.


    He tugged at his black jacket and walked away. He knew just where to put his plan to motion.


    "I¡¯m sorry¡­"


    It had to end.

 Chapter Seven

    Officer Daniels had never been one to shy away from strange occurrences. During his fifteen-year tenure with the force, he had seen his fair share of horror¡ªgruesome scenes that would forever haunt him. The Butcher¡¯s murders were one of them. Yet, nothing in his career had prepared him for the call that came in that day.


    The morning was quiet. The kind that lulled you into a false sense of peace. The sickly sweet gray hue from the barely shining sun was still covering the entire city. Daniels was nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee in his squad car; his thoughts drifting aimlessly as the city slowly woke up around him. The morning had been uneventful, and he found himself idly watching a group of teenagers loitering on a nearby corner. They were loud, obnoxious, and had prompted a noise complaint earlier, which Daniels had to address. As he took a sip of his coffee, relishing the peace, the radio crackled to life.


    "All units, we have reports of a multiple casualty incident on Broadview Avenue. Possible freak accident with several fatalities. Officer Daniels, this is in your jurisdiction. Respond immediately."


    Daniels nearly spilled his coffee as he fumbled for the radio. "This is Officer Daniels. I¡¯m en route."


    He threw the cup into the holder and hit the sirens, the adrenaline already pumping through his veins. Broadview Avenue wasn¡¯t far, but the distance felt like miles as he sped through the city streets. He could sense it¡ªa gut feeling that this wasn¡¯t going to be just another accident. As he neared the scene, his suspicions were confirmed. Even from a distance, he could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.


    Then, as he turned the corner onto Broadview, he saw it¡ªthe aftermath of what could only be described as a nightmare. Wrecked cars were scattered like toys, their metal frames crumpled and torn apart as if a giant hand had crushed them. Scattered debris, shattered glass, and bodies. So many bodies.


    Blood was everywhere, a thick, red sea that stained the asphalt, turning it a dark, sickening crimson. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of burning rubber, gasoline, and something else¡ªsomething metallic and sharp that clawed at the back of Daniels¡¯ throat.


    He stepped out of his car, his boots squelching in the blood-soaked ground. His hand instinctively went to his gun, though he knew it wouldn¡¯t help. What he was facing wasn¡¯t something he could shoot. It was something far more terrifying.


    Only one person was standing among the carnage. He was a young man barely out of his teens with auburn hair and amber eyes, his face pale and expression vacant. He stood on the sidewalk, trembling, his clothes splattered with blood, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. The contrast was jarring¡ªhow could anyone walk away from such devastation without a scratch?


    Daniels approached him cautiously, his instincts on high alert.


    "Son, are you okay?" he asked, keeping his voice calm, though inside he was anything but.


    The young man didn¡¯t respond. He just stood there, staring ahead as if he were lost in a trance.


    ***


    Hours earlier, Felix had made a decision to end it all. He had chosen Broadview Avenue, a busy street where death would be swift and certain. He didn¡¯t want to suffer anymore; he just wanted peace, an end to the torment that had plagued him for years.


    As he stepped onto the road, his heart was pounding, but a strange calm had settled over him. He could see the cars rushing toward him, their headlights glaring like the eyes of predators. He closed his eyes and whispered a final apology to the world.


    "I¡¯m sorry."


    The first car was just inches away from releasing him from the dark place he had been roaming for years. He could feel death¡¯s embrace, and it felt soothing, relieving¡­ beautiful. The driver tried to swerve to avoid Felix but they both knew that it was too late for that... Felix was going to die.


    However, fate had other plans.


    A powerful gust of wind, sudden and unnatural, swept across the street. It wasn¡¯t just a breeze¡ªit was like the hand of fate itself, pushing Felix back onto the sidewalk. He stumbled, falling to his knees as the car screeched past him, missing him by a hair.


    Felix¡¯s calm shattered, replaced by a wave of frustration. Why couldn¡¯t he even do this? He screamed in his mind, cursing whatever force had saved him. But as he looked up, he realized that the wind was only the beginning.


    The darkness in him had been triggered, and it was angry.


    The car that had swerved to avoid Felix lost control. The driver, a middle-aged man with a look of sheer terror on his face, struggled to regain command of the vehicle, but it was too late. The car veered wildly across the road and collided head-on with another vehicle coming from the opposite direction.


    The impact was brutal. The driver¡¯s head smashed through the windshield, the glass slicing into his face as his skull split open. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the road, painting it in a ludicrous display of death itself.


    The second vehicle, a compact SUV, was thrown into the air by the force of the collision. The driver inside, a young woman, let out a scream that was cut short as the SUV flipped. The world turned upside down before the vehicle landed on its roof and crashed into a streetlight with a bone-crunching thud. Her body was reduced to a mangled heap of flesh and bone, her final scream dying in the wreckage.


    As the streetlight toppled over, it crushed a pedestrian who had been standing just a few inches from Felix, recording the scene on her phone. Her body was flattened instantly, her phone still clutched in her hand, recording nothing but the sky.


    A motorcycle rider, trying to avoid the wreckage, skidded and lost control. The rider was thrown off the bike, his body sliding across the blood-slicked road. He hit the ground hard, his helmet shattering on impact. Along with his skull. The riderless motorcycle, still under momentum, zoomed into a fire hydrant.


    The collision was loud, echoing through the street like a cannon shot. The force of the crash sent the motorcycle¡¯s front end upwards and sideways, propelling it through the air in a deadly spiral. It crashed through the front window of the store just behind Felix, its metal frame tearing through the glass like paper.


    Inside the store, a young woman who had been browsing the aisles didn¡¯t even have time to react. The motorcycle struck her with such force that she was pinned against the counter, her body crushed as blood sprayed across the shelves. The impact caused the store¡¯s shelves, boxes and other objects to topple like dominoes, the glass and debris raining down on the other customers. Four more people died instantly, their bodies buried under the rubble.


    Outside, the driver of a third car, in a panic, veered off the road and onto the sidewalk. A group of pedestrians had gathered there, frozen in horror as they watched the chain of events that looked like something straight out of a horror movie. The car plowed into them, metal meeting flesh with a sickening crunch.


    One man was thrown into the air, his body flipping head over heels before crashing into a nearby building. His head hit the wall with a sickening thud, his neck snapping instantly. Another woman was dragged under the car, her body being torn apart as the vehicle¡¯s wheels ground her into the pavement. A young boy, no older than twelve, was caught by the car¡¯s bumper, his small frame crumpling under the force, his life extinguished in an instant.


    The moment the car had killed everyone on that sidewalk, it crashed into another streetlight, which fell and crushed the driver instantly. The force was so strong that his body was nearly split in two, his blood mixing with the growing pool on the street.


    As if the carnage wasn¡¯t enough, a delivery truck barreled down the road, the driver trying desperately to stop as he saw the destruction ahead. But the truck jackknifed, its massive frame tipping over as the driver lost control. The truck fell onto its side, skidding across the road before finally coming to a stop.


    The driver was killed instantly, his body thrown against the dashboard with such force that his chest caved in, his ribs shattering like glass. But the real danger was the truck¡¯s cargo¡ªsteel pipes, heavy and callous, broke free from their restraints and rolled into the street.


    One of the pipes smashed through the windshield of a nearby car, decapitating the driver instantly. His headless body slumped forward, blood pouring from the gaping wound as the car rolled to a stop.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Another pipe impaled a man who had stepped out of his car to help. The metal rod pierced his chest, the tip emerging from his back as it pinned him to the ground. His mouth opened in a silent scream, blood bubbling from his lips as he gasped for air that would never come.


    Yet another pipe careened into a parked car, puncturing its gas tank. The explosion that followed was deafening, a fiery blast that sent flames and shrapnel in all directions. If there had been survivors before, there weren¡¯t any longer. It was the final purge as the blast engulfed everyone nearby, turning the scene into a hellscape of fire and blood.


    But not Felix. Felix stood untouched, trembling in the center of the carnage. Blood splattered his clothes, but none of it was his own. The  darkness within him had done its work, and it had spared him. But the cost was unimaginable.


    ***


    Officer Daniels approached Felix cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He had seen enough to know that something beyond comprehension had happened here. The young man before him was at the center of it all, yet he seemed like just another traumatized witness, a survivor of unspeakable horror. But something in Felix''s vacant stare, the way he stood amidst the carnage untouched, told Daniels that this was no ordinary survivor.


    Felix didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t react, as Daniels came closer. He just stood there, trembling, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the massacre, beyond the reality of what had just taken place. Another world where he felt safe.


    The ocean. The beautiful, cold, blue ocean. The waves crashing against the rocks. I want to go to the ocean. The beautiful, cold, blue ocean.


    In his mind, he could feel the cold water surrounding him, washing away the blood and the memories, pulling him under into a quiet, blue oblivion.


    But no matter how hard I try to reach it, the ocean always remains just out of reach¡ªtaunting me with its impossible serenity.


    "Son," Daniels tried again, his voice softer this time. "Are you okay?"


    Felix slowly turned his head to face the officer. His eyes, those amber eyes that once might have held warmth, were empty. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much, someone who had crossed the threshold of sanity and was now wobbling on the edge.


    For a moment, it seemed like Felix might say something. His throat worked as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. Instead, his body began to shake more violently, as if the terror inside him was too much to contain.


    The ocean was now red. Blood-red. The dead were swimming in it. Rotten heads bobbed up and down. Corpses were laid on the shore. He was flaying them with that blood-stained dagger. Just as he flayed the children.


    Without warning, Felix doubled over and vomited onto the sidewalk, his body convulsing with the force of it. The retching was violent, as if his body was trying to expel not just the contents of his stomach, but the horror he had just witnessed.


    Daniels took a step back, instinctively reaching for his radio. He had to call for backup, for paramedics, for anyone who could help make sense of this nightmare. But even as he fumbled with the radio, his eyes never left Felix.


    "Dispatch, this is Officer Daniels," he said into the receiver, his voice tight. "I¡¯m going to need immediate assistance on Broadview Avenue. Multiple casualties, severe¡ªno, catastrophic¡ªdamage. One survivor, in shock. Send everything you¡¯ve got."


    As he spoke, Felix collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He began pounding his fists against the sidewalk, the sound of flesh hitting concrete echoing in the eerily silent road. His knuckles split open, blood mingling with the dirt and grime on the ground, but Felix didn¡¯t stop. He hit the ground over and over, trying to inflict some sort of punishment on himself for all the carnage.


    The shack was hidden deep within the overgrowth at the edge of the Cliffside District, a part of Briarcliff where the industrial zone had begun to decay, leading up to a rocky outcrop that overlooked the river. From the outside, the shack looked like nothing more than a crude assemblage of wood and metal, almost camouflaged against the thick trees and bushes surrounding it. The roof was patched with rusted sheets of tin, and the walls were covered in moss and vines, blending it further into the natural environment.


    Inside, the main room was as rough as the exterior suggested. The floor was uneven, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. A single, dim light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, flickering shadows that pranced across the walls. The air was thick with the smell of blood and rust, a combination that would have repulsed anyone else but comforted him.


    Against one wall was a heavy, scarred table covered with an assortment of tools. The tools looked as if they had been scavenged from a butcher''s shop, a mechanic¡¯s garage, and a torture chamber all at once. Rusted pliers, a bone saw, a meat hook, and a hammer with dried blood on its head.


    But this was just the surface. The true horror lay beyond a hidden door at the back, a door that blended impeccably into the wall, concealed so perfectly that only he knew where to push to gain access. Behind it was the Butcher¡¯s sanctuary, the place where he planned, where he prepared, and where he reflected on his work.


    The secret room was systematically organized, a stark contrast to the crude outer chamber. The walls were lined with hooks, each holding a cleaver, a chef¡¯s knife, a meat tenderizer, or an axe. Some of the tools were still stained with the blood of his previous victims, left to dry as a reminder of the hunt. Others were spotless, cleaned thoroughly, gleaming under the dim light.


    In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, its surface smooth and polished. Above it, pinned to the wall, was a series of photographs¡ªeach one of a person, each one crossed out in red ink. The Butcher kept these as trophies, reminders of the hunt, of the life he took.


    On another wall was a crude map of Briarcliff, but it was no ordinary map. To an outsider, it looked like a mess of scribbles and lines, but to the Butcher, it was a detailed representation of the city''s underbelly. It showed every hidden alley, every forgotten tunnel, and every sewer that ran beneath the streets.


    From the wealthy Cliffside District, perched on the city¡¯s higher grounds and filled with residential neighborhoods and commercial centers, to the rundown Riverside District, a place where the city¡¯s labor force toiled away in factories and warehouses. Both districts were his hunting grounds, but lately, his attention had been drawn to Cliffside.


    The Butcher stood in front of the wall, holding a cleaver in his right hand. He was calm as he used the tip of the blade to carve words into the wood.


    "Saturdays. At the Cliffside District. Boundaries are: Ashbury Street to Haversham Lane," he murmured, the words coming out in a low voice.


    He took a step back, admiring his work. The Flayer¡¯s territory was becoming clearer, the boundaries of his hunting ground taking shape in the Butcher¡¯s mind. He was striking in the very heart of Cliffside. But the Butcher wasn¡¯t just interested in the where¡ªhe needed to understand the why, the how. He had already identified the days the flayer most likely struck, the time, and even the areas within the district where the bodies had been found. But there was still something missing.


    But as he studied the words on the wall, a memory surfaced, unbidden. The image of Rebecca¡¯s mutilated corpse flashed before his eyes¡ªher skin scrupulously peeled back, her entrails spilling out, and the clinical detachment with which the Flayer had done his work.


    The Butcher''s grip on the cleaver tightened. Anger bubbled up inside him, starting as a slow burn in his chest before erupting into a full-blown fury. He slammed the cleaver into the wall, the blade sinking deep into the wood with a resounding thud.


    "Detached," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage.


    He pulled the cleaver out and swung it again, harder this time. The wall shook with the impact, splinters flying as the blade dug deep. The Butcher¡¯s mind was consumed by thoughts of the Flayer¡ªthis impostor, the pretender who dared to tarnish the sanctity of the hunt.


    "Detached!" he roared, his voice echoing in the small room as he slashed at the wall again and again. The shack shuddered with each strike, the walls creaking in fear.


    For several minutes, he continued to attack the wall, his fury pouring out in each violent swing. The pictures of his previous victims rattled on the opposite wall, but they remained untouched, as if the Butcher¡¯s rage was solely reserved for the unseen Flayer.


    After what felt like an eternity, the Butcher forced himself to stop. He stepped back, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the effort. The wall in front of him was scarred with deep gouges, but the words he had carved earlier remained legible.


    The Butcher stared at the damage he had wrought, his emotions slowly giving way to a cold, calculating calm. The hunt was sacred, and it had to be done with a clear mind. He couldn¡¯t let his emotions get the better of him.


    "Yes," he muttered to himself, nodding as if convincing himself of the truth. "The hunt must be consecrated."


    He turned away from the wall and his eyes fell on a photograph pinned to the far side of the room. The image was of a man, tall and lanky, with pale gray eyes and a kind smile. The Butcher recognized him instantly¡ªa predator, just like him. The infamous Child Killer.  He wasn¡¯t an ordinary target; he was someone who enjoyed the suffering of others. Someone who found purpose in the kill. A worthy prey.


    The man¡¯s name was Ivan, and he had eluded the authorities for the past three years, all because nobody would suspect the beloved high school teacher of being a vicious serial killer. But the Butcher saw through it all. This was his next target, the one who would remind him of what the hunt was truly about.


    He licked his lips, the thrill of anticipation coursing through him. "A new prey," he whispered, his voice faint and filled with hunger.


    He walked over to the wall of weapons, his fingers brushing over the various tools until they settled on a cleaver. It was one of his favorites¡ªsharp, perfectly balanced, and with a handle that fit his hand as if it was made for him. The blade was clean, spotless, reflecting the twisted pleasure in his eyes.


    With the cleaver in hand, the Butcher walked to the corner of the room and lifted a trapdoor that had been carefully concealed beneath a pile of rags. Beneath it was a well-covered hole, the entrance to an underground system. A network of tunnels and forgotten sewer lines, leading from the industrial wasteland of the Riverside District to the bustling heart of Cliffside.


    As he descended into the darkness, his mind was clear and he had a renewed purpose. He had to remind himself of the hunt. The flayer could wait¡ªnow, there was fresh prey to stalk.


    The Butcher moved through the underground system with the comfort of a predator in its element, his footsteps silent, his breath steady. The city above was alive with noise and activity, but down here, in the bowels of Briarcliff, there was only the sound of his heartbeat and his soft chants that grew louder with each step.


    "Hunt. Hunt. Hunt. Hunt."


    Each word was a promise, a vow to himself. He would find his prey, and the Butcher would remind himself of what it meant to be a true predator.

 Chapter Eight

    Felix sat quietly in the back of the police cruiser, the city flashing by in a blur of streetlights. His amber eyes stared out the window as the world drifted around him. His clothes were still stained with dried blood. His mind was like a broken record, stuck on replay, looping the same horrific scenes over and over again.


    The car came to a stop outside the police station; fluorescent lights illuminating its dull brick exterior. Officer Daniels stepped out, opening the door for Felix. "Come on, son," Daniels said, his voice gentle. "We need to ask you a few questions. It¡¯s just procedure."


    Felix didn¡¯t respond, his eyes darting to the door, then to Daniels. He saw the way Daniels studied him, the suspicion behind his calm expression. When he finally came out of the car, it was sluggish, his legs wobbling beneath him, as though his limbs no longer obeyed him. He followed Daniels inside, through the lobby where officers shuffled papers and answered phones, to a small interrogation room. It wasn¡¯t as grim as he¡¯d imagined¡ªmore clinical than anything else. Pale walls, a single table, two metal chairs. Felix sank into one of the chairs, feeling the cold steel press against his skin.


    Daniels nodded to a younger officer who stood by the door. "I¡¯ll handle it from here," Daniels said. The younger officer left, closing the door behind him.


    Daniels sat across from Felix, placing a recorder on the table. He clicked it on with an automated buzz, and then leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "Alright, son. Let¡¯s start with your full name."


    Felix blinked, staring at the table for a moment, his fingers gripping the edge of his notebook so tightly his knuckles felt sore. He hesitated, the pen hovering above the paper, as if writing his name down would make it all real. After a beat, he scrawled: Felix Carney.


    "Felix Carney," Daniels repeated, jotting something down in his own notebook. "And where do you live, Felix? We couldn¡¯t find anything in our systems."


    Felix paused again. He hadn¡¯t thought this part through, but a story began to form in his mind¡ªsomething vague, something just convincing enough. His pen moved to his notebook once more: I move around a lot. I don¡¯t have a permanent place right now. I was at an apartment near Broadview Avenue for the past few days.


    Daniels looked up from his notes, his eyes studying Felix for a second longer than necessary. "Is there anyone we can contact? Family? Friends?"


    Felix shook his head, his expression neutral. That part was true, at least. He had no one left. The family he''d had, the connections¡ªthose were long gone.


    Daniels nodded slowly. "Alright. Now, let¡¯s go over what happened earlier today. I know this is difficult, but we need as much detail as possible."


    Felix took a deep breath, the memory of the blood-soaked street flashing before his eyes, as he stared down at the table. He wanted to be anywhere but here. But he had to play the part. He had to keep it together. He could do this. He¡¯d done worse before. The pen felt like a venomous snake as he wrote down the words in his notebook:


    I was walking along Broadview Avenue. It was a normal day. Then¡­ then I saw it.


    He paused, gathering his thoughts, carefully writing his words. He had to make it seem like an accident.


    The cars¡ªeverything just happened so fast. There were two cars, and the first one swerved. I think it tried to avoid something, but I couldn¡¯t see what. It crashed into the second car, and then¡­ it was chaos.


    Daniels didn¡¯t interrupt. He kept his eyes on Felix, occasionally scribbling notes, but never pushing him to write faster than he was ready.


    Felix continued: There was a motorcycle too. The rider lost control and skidded across the road. The bike smashed into a fire hydrant, and¡­ and then the store. It crashed right through the window. People were screaming. There was¡­ there was so much blood. It was like it just wouldn¡¯t stop.


    He left out the part where he had felt utterly untouched by the bloodshed, standing there like a statue while blood sprayed all around him. He didn¡¯t write about the whispers in his mind, the darkness stirring, watching from the corners of his vision. No, he couldn¡¯t write any of that. Not while he was watching.


    "And the people?" Daniels asked. "The ones who got hit?"


    Felix scribbled his reply quickly: I saw some of them. There was a group on the sidewalk. They didn¡¯t have time to move. The car just plowed through them.


    He paused again, images of mangled bodies flashing in his mind.


    It hit a streetlight. Killed the driver.


    "Did you see what caused the initial swerve?" Daniels asked, narrowing his eyes. "You said the first car tried to avoid something."


    His chest tightened as the thought screamed in his mind: Tell them the truth. Tell them about the curse. You¡¯re the one responsible and you know it. His breath faltered for a split second, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt around him. His pen trembled in his hand, threatening to betray him, but he fought the urge to scribble out what he really wanted to say.


    Felix held up his notebook: I didn¡¯t see it. Maybe it was an animal or something. I don¡¯t know. It all happened too fast.


    He lied smoothly, knowing the traffic cams hadn¡¯t recorded the initial part of the accident.


    Daniels scribbled something else down, his expression thoughtful. Felix knew he was buying time, considering whether to push harder. But after a few more moments of silence, Daniels simply nodded and stood up.


    "Okay, Felix," he said, his voice calm. "We¡¯ll verify your statement with the traffic cams. You¡¯ve been through a traumatic event, so we¡¯ll have someone come by and talk to you about what happens next. For now, I¡¯ll have an officer escort you out. We¡¯re not holding you as a suspect, but we might need to contact you again."


    Felix stepped out into the hot afternoon sun, the rays feeling hot against his skin. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking down the sidewalk with no destination in mind. His feet moved on autopilot, his mind drowning in memories of the blood, the broken bodies, and the screams. He could still see it¡ªeverything. Every detail was clear.


    He looked down at his hands¡ªblood still stained his fingertips. Not his blood. It never was. The blood of people who had died around him, and here he was again. Walking. Breathing. Existing.


    I should just die in a ditch somewhere. Somewhere far away from others. Somewhere no one can find me.


    Tears welled up in his eyes as the yoke of the past few hours settled on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, trying to block it all out. "The ocean," he whispered softly. "I should go to the ocean."


    He could picture it in his mind¡ªits calm, its cold, blue waves washing everything away. But instead of the fresh scent of seawater, all he could smell was blood. Thick and metallic, choking the air around him.


    Felix opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to shake the feeling. He kept walking, his pace quickening. His thoughts were spiraling, dark tendrils creeping into his mind, whispering to him, telling him things he didn¡¯t want to hear.


    He snapped out of his thoughts and suddenly looked up. He didn¡¯t know why¡ªhis body just reacted. His gaze drifted across the street, landing on a window. There, standing behind the glass, was a man. Pale gray eyes locked onto Felix¡¯s amber ones.


    The air froze in his lungs. Something about the man¡ªhis expression, his stillness¡ªsent a chill down Felix¡¯s spine. Then, as if triggered by that gaze, Felix began to hear something¡ªscreams, faint at first, but growing louder. The screams of children. And then the flash of a knife cutting through tender flesh, the sickening sound of steel tearing skin, the warm, thick scent of blood filling his nostrils.


    Felix¡¯s body trembled, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. He gasped for air, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at the window. The man with the pale gray eyes looked worried now, watching him intently. But it wasn¡¯t the man Felix saw anymore.


    It was himself.


    A twisted version of him grinned, his amber eyes dull and lifeless, as if all the light had been sucked out. Blood dripped from hands that weren¡¯t his but should have been. A knife glinted in the twisted reflection¡¯s grip, the blade slick with fresh, warm blood.


    "We¡¯re gonna flay them again, Felix," the twisted reflection whispered, the words crawling under his skin like parasites. "Oh, yes we are. Like we flayed the kids."


    Felix stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat dripping down his face. His breaths came in short, panicked bursts, and he couldn¡¯t look at the window anymore. The twisted image of himself was burned into his mind, the sick grin, the blood, the knife. It was all there, waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to fall back into the abyss.


    Without thinking, he stumbled forward, walking faster, desperate to get away from whatever that was. He was losing it. He could feel it slipping away. The control, the calm exterior¡ªit was all a facade, crumbling under the heavy anvil of what he had seen, what he had done. And he couldn¡¯t stop it.


    Ivan had been hunched at his desk, hands trembling slightly as he worked, the light bulbs cast a brilliant white light over everything. He had always been careful, meticulous even, but now more than ever, he had to be cautious. By now, the police ought to have already figured out the areas where he operated in. Every seven minutes, Ivan would stop whatever he was doing, no matter how absorbed he was, and make his way to the window to check the street below.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Fifty-seven¡­ fifty-eight¡­ fifty-nine¡­ sixty.


    He had already been there, standing just inches from the glass, peeking through the blinds. His heart pounded steadily as he scanned the sidewalk for any signs of trouble. The usual cast of neighborhood characters shuffled along¡ªelderly couples walking their dogs, kids riding their bikes, people heading to and from the corner store. Everything seemed normal.


    Relieved, Ivan had turned back to his desk. But something had made him pause. Just as he was about to return to his task, his eyes caught something strange in the street below. A young man¡ªbarely out of his teens¡ªstood frozen on the sidewalk, staring directly at his window with wide, fearful amber eyes. Felix. But of course, Ivan didn¡¯t know his name.


    Did he know? No, that couldn¡¯t be. But why was he staring?


    Ivan''s breath snagged. Nobody should know about it. He had made sure of that. For years, Ivan had lived a quiet, uneventful life, blending in with the neighbors, working at the high school, keeping to himself. His routine was flawless. But the way the young man looked at him, like he had seen something¡ªsomething terrible¡ªset Ivan on edge.


    What if he had seen something suspicious? What if he wanted to go to the cops? He couldn¡¯t let that happen. Not after all this time.


    The boy¡¯s eyes darted around nervously before he stumbled forward and hurried down the sidewalk, moving as if he had just seen a ghost. Ivan watched him go, but the uneasy feeling didn¡¯t leave. He leaned forward, his face nearly pressed against the glass, as the young man disappeared into the distance. Ivan''s heart raced, each beat a reminder of how precarious his situation was.


    "He''s probably just one of the¡­"


    Ivan hesitated, searching for the right word.


    "¡­One of the troubled folks around here. There are plenty of them."


    Still, he couldn¡¯t afford to leave anything to chance. Ivan had survived this long by being careful, by never letting anyone get too close or notice too much. He let out a shaky breath and closed the blinds, blocking out the view of the street. His pulse still thrummed in his ears, but there was no time to dwell on the boy. He had to check on his ¡°friend.¡±


    Ivan turned and crossed the room to the bed where Bob Bush lay, motionless, bound to the bedpost. The boy couldn¡¯t have been more than thirteen, his school clothes rumpled and stained, his eyes closed in a drugged slumber. Ivan stood over him for a moment as he watched his shallow breathing. He had to leave and check if the young man was still outside, still watching. But he couldn¡¯t just leave Bob here alone. What if he woke up? What if someone found him?


    A soft and familiar voice slithered into Ivan¡¯s mind.


    It¡¯s alright. I¡¯m here. Remember?


    Ivan turned his head to the left. The monster stood there, just as it always had, its shadowy form blending into the corner of the room, its eyes glinting with darkness.


    I¡¯ll watch him. I promise.


    Relief washed over Ivan like a wave. Of course, there was nothing to worry about. The monster would take care of Bob. The monster always took care of things.


    "Thank you," Ivan whispered. "Please, watch over him."


    He left the apartment hurriedly, his feet barely touching the stairs as he descended, heart still thudding in his chest. When he burst out of the front door, the young man was gone. Ivan looked to the left¡ªnothing. He turned to the right¡ªno sign of him. Panic flared in his chest again. Where could he have gone?


    Ivan stayed outside for exactly seven minutes, pacing up and down the street, scanning every corner, every alleyway, but the boy had vanished. There was no trace of him. No answers. He returned to the apartment, a bit frustrated, and made his way back to the bedroom.


    The monster was still there, watching over Bob¡¯s still form, its sharp teeth glowing in the white light. As soon as Ivan returned, it turned to look at Ivan.


    You¡¯re back! Yay! Let¡¯s continue playing. Let¡¯s continue playing, the monster sang, its voice playful but with an edge of hunger.


    Ivan chuckled softly, shaking off the worry. "Sure. Sure. We¡¯ll play. I¡¯ll wait for him to wake up first."


    How long is that gonna take?


    Ivan walked over to his dresser, picking up his blue watch¡ªthe one he always checked on Sundays. He glanced at the time. 3:58 p.m.


    "We have two hours left," he said, his voice flat.


    That¡¯s so long, the monster whined, its voice like nails scraping against the inside of Ivan¡¯s skull.


    "Good things come to those who wait," Ivan replied with a bright smile.


    But when he wakes up, we¡¯ll play with him just like we played with all the others, won¡¯t we?


    Ivan nodded, his smile growing wider, almost splitting his face. "Yes. Oh yes, we will."


    Ivan stood by the window, staring outside into the dimming light of the evening. He glanced down at the blue watch now clasped around his wrist. The time read 5:54 PM. The air outside was cool, a biting chill creeping in as nightfall approached. Not surprising¡ªit was Briarcliff after all. The city was known for its weather, gloomy in the morning, blazing in the afternoon, and always bone-chillingly cold by the time the sun dipped behind the horizon. The fading daylight painted the streets in a dull, lifeless gray.


    He checked the street below, scanning for anything out of place. It was a habit, one he couldn¡¯t break. He needed to be sure. Always sure. Only after confirming that everything seemed as it should, did he close the blinds again, the room falling back into its peaceful quiet.


    Turning from the window, Ivan walked over to the bed where Bob was. Surprisingly, the boy was already awake, his soft brown eyes wide and confused, still bound to the posts. He blinked several times, his lips trembling as he looked at Ivan.


    "M-Mr. I-Ivan? W-What are¡­? H-How did you¡­?" Bob stammered, his voice trembling with fear.


    Ivan raised a finger to Bob¡¯s lips, with a calm smile on his face. He shushed the boy gently before speaking, his voice cool.


    "Confusion is the welcome mat at the door of creativity."


    He let the words remain in the air for a moment, savoring Bob''s wide-eyed bewilderment. It was a quote he remembered reading somewhere, though he couldn¡¯t place where.


    Bob blinked, his small body trembling slightly as he looked up at Ivan. He looks like he wants to play. He wants to play, Ivan. Remove the restraints, Ivan. Remove the restraints. The monster''s voice was giddy, almost playful, as it practically bounced around the room with glee. It was careful, though, careful not to touch Bob¡ªat least, not yet.


    Ivan chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "We¡¯ll play. We¡¯ll play."


    Bob¡¯s face paled, his young voice breaking. "M-M-Mr. I-Ivan? P-Please."


    Ignoring the stuttering pleas, Ivan gently removed the restraints from Bob¡¯s wrists and ankles, never once breaking eye contact with the boy. He could see the cold sweat forming on Bob¡¯s face, dripping down his brow. The boy¡¯s fear was intense, and yet, Ivan interpreted it as excitement. Yes, Bob was excited¡ªhe had to be, right? After all, who wouldn¡¯t be thrilled at the idea of a game?


    By the time the last restraint was undone, Bob shot up from the bed like a startled rabbit. He didn¡¯t even try to hide his panic. He bolted for the door, desperate to escape the hunter¡¯s snare.


    He¡¯s excited! He¡¯s running!


    Ivan moved faster. He lunged forward, his hand grabbing Bob roughly by the collar, yanking the boy back with such force that Bob¡¯s body crashed into the bedpost with a loud thud. His ankle twisted painfully beneath him as he slumped down, groaning.


    Bob''s chest heaved with ragged breaths as he tried to sit up, the pain in his ankle now making him wince with each movement.


    Ivan grinned brightly as he watched the boy writhe in pain. "¡®He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day,¡¯" Ivan¡¯s voice was calm, but there was an edge of madness beneath it, barely contained.


    He sat down on the floor beside him, crossing his legs, as though this were a casual chat between friends. He tilted his head slightly, looking at Bob curiously. "What¡¯s your favorite story from history, Bob?"


    Yes, Bob. Yes, Bob. Your favorite story. Tell us, the monster crooned, no longer bouncing around but sitting quietly against the wall, watching them both with dark, glinting eyes.


    Bob¡¯s pale face trembled as he thought for a moment, his small hands shaking. His voice was barely a whisper as he replied, "T-The one you told the c-class on F-F-Friday¡­ The o-one about¡­"


    Ivan smiled warmly, remembering. "Oh, the story about the fall of Julius Caesar?" Bob nodded slowly, his body stiff with fear. "Such a tragic tale of betrayal. Stabbed by those closest to him in the Senate."


    Bob¡¯s lips quivered as he tried to stay calm. Ivan leaned forward, gently brushing the boy¡¯s hair away from his forehead. "What was your favorite part of the story?"


    Bob swallowed hard before whispering, "T-The part where¡­ where h-he didn¡¯t know w-which f-friend to t-trust..."


    Ivan¡¯s grin widened, the boy''s answer hitting just the right nerve. "That¡¯s a good part. A very good part. But my favorite part is when they finally plunged the knife into him, and Caesar looked into Brutus¡¯s eyes and realized¡­" Ivan¡¯s grin turned cold. "That no one can be trusted. Especially not the ones you love."


    Bob¡¯s whole body began to tremble now.


    Mine too, mine too! The monster exclaimed with jagged teeth. Let¡¯s show him, Ivan! Let¡¯s show him!


    Ivan glanced at the monster, giving it a bright, almost playful smile before turning back to Bob. "He wants me to show you. May I?"


    Bob didn¡¯t respond. He was frozen, paralyzed with fear. His lips parted as if to scream, but no sound came out.


    Ivan took his silence as agreement.


    Standing up, Ivan walked over to a nearby table, opening a drawer. He began pulling out items reminiscent of ancient tools used in Caesar''s time¡ªan ornate dagger, a coil of rope. The items gleamed in the dim light of the room, their edges sharp and cruel. He laid them out on the table carefully.


    He won¡¯t run away, Ivan. Don¡¯t worry, the monster whispered encouragingly. I¡¯m here with him. He wants to play. He really does.


    Ivan turned to check on Bob, and sure enough, the boy hadn¡¯t moved. He sat on the floor, his face pale and clammy, but he hadn¡¯t run. Of course, he wouldn¡¯t. The monster was right, he wanted to play just like all the others before him.


    Ivan took his time, admiring the sharpness of the dagger as he slowly approached Bob. The boy¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps, his wide eyes fixed on the blade in his hand. Ivan smiled, savoring the anticipation, his pulse quickening with each step. "Seven minutes," he whispered, glancing at his wristwatch. "We¡¯ll play for seven minutes. It¡¯ll be fun."


    Bob opened his mouth to scream, but Ivan was faster. He quickly stuffed the cloth into Bob¡¯s mouth, gagging him before the sound could escape.


    Oh, he really is excited, but please, Bob, don¡¯t scream, the monster whispered soothingly, reaching out as if to stroke Bob¡¯s hair. It will attract people who don¡¯t want to play. People who will hurt us. And we wouldn¡¯t want that, would we?


    Bob tried to stand, but his sprained ankle betrayed him. His face contorted in pain, but Ivan didn¡¯t see it as pain. No. No. No. It wasn¡¯t pain. The monster twisted the truth. He was excited. He wanted to bounce around the room, but he didn¡¯t want to attract attention. He wanted to play.


    Ivan smiled again, this time more brightly than ever, as he bent down near Bob¡¯s ear. "¡®Et tu, Brute?¡¯" he whispered, but the words felt strange in his mouth¡ªlike someone else was speaking for him. But the monster hummed its approval, and Ivan''s hesitation vanished. He was doing the right thing. Wasn¡¯t he?


    Bob¡¯s muffled screams intensified as Ivan began. The dagger gleamed in his hand as Ivan violently stabbed the boy at least twenty-three times. Bob¡¯s body stilled under Ivan¡¯s grip, his eyes wide and glassy as the realization dawned. He wasn¡¯t fighting anymore¡ªhe was frozen, trapped in the final moments of his life. But Ivan didn¡¯t seem to care. To him, it was all part of the game.


    He¡¯s excited! He¡¯s excited! Oh yes, he is! The monster screamed, its voice occupying all of Ivan¡¯s thoughts.


    The blood flowed freely, staining the bed, the smell of copper filling the room. Ivan¡¯s heart raced with the thrill of the moment, his mind buzzing with excitement. As Bob¡¯s movements slowed, the room became still. Ivan stood back, admiring his work. The monster, standing beside him, was grinning from ear to ear, its dark form almost shimmering in the aftermath.


    "History has been made, once again, hasn¡¯t it?" Ivan turned to face the monster, a bright smile on his face.


    Yes, Ivan. Yes. We did it again. And it was beautiful. The monster replied, with its own devious smile.

 Chapter Nine

    The Monday sun blazed more intensely than usual, despite the fact that it was slowly setting behind the towering skyscrapers. Luckily for Specter, none of that burning light could reach his bedroom, a luxurious fortress nestled high in one of New Lyon¡¯s most exclusive neighborhoods.


    Two top-of-the-line Dyson HyperCool X3 air conditioners hummed quietly on either side of the room, their chill breeze joining forces with the three Haiku Luxe ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, making sure the scorching heat outside felt like a distant problem.


    In the far corner, a king-sized bed was draped in crumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, their once-pristine whiteness wrinkled and tangled from restless sleep. Specter lay there, motionless, his sun-kissed, tan-skinned lean and muscular body curled under the covers as he tried to find the motivation to move.


    Beside the bed, a state-of-the-art Bang & Olufsen Beolab 50 sound system¡ªunused for two months now¡ªcollected dust near a wall covered with original works of art that most would kill to own. The wardrobe, half-opened and spilling over with designer suits and expensive clothing, resembled more of a bargain bin than the closet of a man who could afford anything. Piles of takeout containers were scattered on the floor next to a pair of polished black dress shoes, their laces still tied from their last wear.


    On the far side of the room, an enormous floor-to-ceiling window offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, though the thick blackout curtains were drawn shut, letting in only the faintest sliver of light. It cast a thin line across the room, glinting off the half-empty glass tumbler of whiskey sitting precariously on the edge of a mahogany Fendi Casa nightstand, next to a flickering digital clock that read 4:03 PM.


    Books, gun magazines, shirts and pants lay scattered across a polished Eames Lounge Chair and ottoman. The chair probably cost more than most people made in a month, yet here it was, reduced to a glorified laundry basket.


    In the middle of this mess, Specter groggily woke up.


    His eyes, dark and sunken, blinked against the faint light. He sat up, his feet touching the cold floor, but he didn¡¯t stand. Instead, he remained on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead.


    His gaze drifted toward the nightstand, where a collection of medications sat waiting for him, their labels screaming silent reminders of what he was: a man trapped in his own mind. There were bottles of Zoloft, Lithium, Xanax, Diazepam, and Oxycodone. Beside them were the darker bottles¡ªharder drugs he had gotten through less conventional means: Adderall, OxyContin. Things to numb the noise when everything got too loud.


    Specter, named for the very thing he had become in the world of hired killers, was infamous for his ability to bypass any form of security. Alarms, guards, retinal scans, pressure plates, sensors¡ªit didn¡¯t matter. No system was too tight, no protection too strong. He always found a way in, and he always killed his targets. But now, his mind felt hazy, his thoughts sluggish, almost like they were fighting against quicksand.


    It wasn¡¯t mere exhaustion; it was one of those days¡ª days when Specter¡¯s muscles felt weighted, like lead anchors dragging him deeper into the mattress. When every breath seemed a little too much effort, and even blinking felt like a task he wasn¡¯t sure was worth completing. One of the many that had been happening more frequently these days.


    And this? This was deeper than the rest.


    Everything around him seemed¡­ wrong. Messy. Disconnected. He thought about cleaning it up, maybe putting away the clothes or at least tossing out the old takeout containers but the thought of getting out of bed was exhausting enough to make him sink deeper into the mattress.


    He chuckled bitterly, the sound flat and humorless. "Reckon the cleaning crew won¡¯t throw me out with the trash, eh?" he muttered dryly to the empty room. His dry wit kept the wolves of his mind at bay, at least for a while.


    He reached for the whiskey on the nightstand and took a sip. The liquid was warm now, bitter on his tongue, but he didn¡¯t care. He wasn¡¯t drinking for pleasure. He wasn¡¯t drinking for anything, really. Just¡­ doing.


    His mind flashed to his last job. An executive, high profile, terrified when Specter had appeared in the shadows of his luxurious office. The victim had barely had time to react before Specter had pressed the silencer to his head and pulled the trigger. Twice. The kill had been clean, smooth, like all the others. The money had been transferred immediately, like clockwork. Yet, the kill hadn¡¯t brought him joy. It hadn¡¯t brought him anything except the same hollow feeling, the same ghosts whispering in his ear.


    "Maybe I should start a support group." The thought floated up before he could swat it away. "Kia ora, name¡¯s Specter, I off people for cash." He paused, the silence swallowing the rest of the sentence. What was left to say? What more was there when you barely felt alive?


    He tried to laugh at his own joke, but it fizzled out, just like everything else. His mind wandered to his childhood, the memories blurry, as if viewed through dirty glass. He closed his eyes, trying not to remember them but they came anyway.


    Freak! Dickhead!


    He could hear the cruel laughter of the children as they hurled insults and ethnic slurs at him.


    No mates, eh? Guess even ya mum didn¡¯t want ya. Bit rough, aye?


    Back off to wherever ya crawled out from, ya filthy¡ª


    Specter opened his eyes as his phone rang, the harsh sound pulling him out of the dark pit of his thoughts. He stared at it, lying on the nightstand next to the whiskey. He didn¡¯t recognize the number, though that wasn¡¯t surprising. Most of his contacts were anonymous, and he liked it that way. But he didn¡¯t feel like talking to anyone. Hell, he didn¡¯t feel like doing anything at all. His thumb hovered over the screen, tempted to let it ring out. But it rang again. And again.


    Oh, c¡¯mon. A dude can¡¯t even have a good old wallow in peace, eh?


    He thought about throwing the phone across the room, but instead, he let it buzz a few more times. Finally, with a sigh, he swiped to answer.


    "¡­"


    He didn¡¯t say anything. Just listened.


    The voice on the other end was deep and calm. "The Lioness is restless," it said.


    Specter stayed silent, staring at the curtain where the faint sunlight crept in. His mind buzzed with a thousand sarcastic comebacks, but none of them reached his lips.


    Lioness is restless, huh? Ever thought ¡®bout chuckin¡¯ her some Xanax instead of buggin¡¯ me, eh?


    "The Lioness¡­ needs to be fed by evening," the voice continued. "Same terms."


    The line went dead.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Specter let the phone slip from his hand. It landed softly on the bed beside him. The Lioness. Another job. Another kill. Another day pretending he wasn¡¯t falling apart inside.


    The thoughts pressed in on him again, darker this time, heavier. He was a killer. He had always been a killer. But it wasn¡¯t the money or the thrill that had driven him to this life. It was something else. Something deeper.


    The need to be seen.


    He laughed again but this time it died in his throat, replaced by something heavier. He pressed his palms against his face, the coldness of his hands the only thing grounding him in this moment. "Well, congrats, Specter." The words came out barely above a whisper, hollow. "Everyone sees ya now. Even the ghosts, bro."


    His eyes drifted to the scattered pill bottles on the nightstand. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for them. He popped the tops off a few, not even checking the dosages. Whether it was too many or too few didn¡¯t really matter anymore. He swallowed the pills dry, the taste bitter on his tongue.


    Minutes passed, and slowly, the voice in his head began to quiet. The anvil on his shoulders lifted ever so slightly and the fog cleared, just a little.


    Specter stood up, moving slowly to the wardrobe. He needed to get ready for the job. Another night, another kill. It was the only thing he was good at, after all. He walked over to the wardrobe, pulling open the door, his fingers brushing past the expensive suits and shirts hanging inside. He reached for one of his more expensive suits. As he straightened it, he muttered, "At least when I cark it, I¡¯ll look sharp. Maybe they¡¯ll chuck me in an Armani coffin, eh?"


    He smirked at the thought, but deep down, he knew that joke wouldn¡¯t keep the dark thoughts at bay forever. Still, for now, it was enough. Just enough to keep him moving forward.


    Specter adjusted his Tom Ford suit, running his hand down the sleeve to smooth a wrinkle. It was his favorite one¡ªsleek, tailored to perfection, and expensive, but that was the story of his life. Expensive everything. He lived in a world where he didn¡¯t just buy luxuries; he shit in things more valuable than most people''s vintage fine china collections. A cruel smirk tugged at his lips as he looked around the room.


    This place¡ªa private lounge perched on the top floor of a boutique hotel in Midtown¡ªoozed wealth. The soft glow from gold-plated chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floors, while plush velvet chairs, rich in deep reds and blues, were spread throughout the room like thrones. He could catch the faint scent of freshly polished wood mixing with the aroma of expensive cigars and perfume¡ªnotes of jasmine and sandalwood hanging in the air. The light jazz playing in the background was faint, like a whisper, something that soothed the nerves without demanding attention. The light caught in the crystal glasses at the bar, fracturing into rainbows that danced across the polished surfaces. Specter could see bottles of rare whiskeys and liquors lining the shelves¡ªeach bottle worth more than most people¡¯s monthly rent.


    To a normal person, it would have been captivating. Breathtaking, even. A slice of heaven carved from the ugliness of the world. But Specter wasn¡¯t normal. He was here for one thing: to get the specifics of his job, find his target, and kill them. His eyes drifted to the whiskey in front of him, untouched.


    Maybe if I drink enough, I''ll finally cark it from alcohol poisoning¡­ or just get legless. Same diff, aye?


    Specter leaned back in the velvet chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He wasn¡¯t even sure if she¡¯d come in person. Her name¡ªor at least the name the rumors gave her¡ªwas Jane. But in reality, she was known as "W¨³sh¨©." The Lioness.


    W¨³sh¨© wasn¡¯t just feared, she was legend. The kind of legend whispered in dark rooms by men who knew too much. Men who had seen too much. She¡¯d earned the nickname after single-handedly organizing the massacre of an entire syndicate that had dared cross her in Hong Kong. Rumor had it she walked through the carnage as calm as a summer breeze, stepping over bodies and blood like it was nothing more than a mildly inconvenient rainstorm. It was her way¡ªany threat, any competition; she wiped it out without thinking once, let alone twice. Arms dealing, drugs, trafficking, money laundering, murder, professional assassinations¡­ she ruled them all. If she wanted something, she took it. If she didn¡¯t, she erased it from existence.


    Specter wasn¡¯t intimidated by her nickname though. He had been called worse. He had killed worse. And besides, whatever her real name was, it didn¡¯t matter. He wasn¡¯t using his real name either. Hell, he couldn¡¯t even remember his real name anymore. All that was left was Specter. The ghost that kills.


    The sound of heels clicking on hardwood broke his thoughts. He opened his eyes.


    A woman entered the room. No older than thirty, she was stunning. Breathtaking in a way that would make men stop and stare¡ªthen wish they hadn''t when they realized who they were dealing with. She was tall, around five-foot-ten, with long, jet-black hair cascading down her back. Her skin was porcelain, flawless, as if it had never seen the sun or known an injury, and her dark almond-shaped eyes scanned Specter with sharp, predatory accuracy. Those eyes... he could get lost in them if his mind weren¡¯t already a mess. Her lips, a deep crimson, contrasted perfectly with the fitted dark black dress that hugged her body in all the right places. A beautiful psychopath. The famous W¨³sh¨©.


    Specter straightened up slightly, not out of respect, but because he felt he should at least try to look alive. He noted her three bodyguards¡ªbehemoths of men, built like they were raised in barracks or bred in gyms. The first one, tall and broad, had the distinct look of someone from Northern Europe. His platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes made it obvious. Probably ex-military. The second guard, a brown-skinned man, had a gold tooth that gleamed every time he shifted his jaw. He had a tattoo on his neck that Specter recognized as a mark of one of the Columbian cartels. The third was Asian, stoic, and quiet, his hands resting just a little too close to the holster under his jacket. Each one dangerous in their own right, but none of them scared Specter.


    Just how many of their types had he killed just yesterday alone?


    W¨³sh¨© sat gracefully on a chair beside him, her gaze still fixed on him. "Do you know why you¡¯re here?" she asked, skipping any pleasantries.


    Specter leaned back, the corners of his lips twitching upward in what might have been a smile, but it lacked warmth. "I¡¯m guessing this ain¡¯t a relationship advice sesh, eh?" he quipped dryly. His voice was low, rough around the edges, and though the words were meant to be humorous, there was no humor in his tone.


    Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close enough to show a glimpse of her perfect white teeth. Beautiful and dangerous¡ªquite the combination. Maybe he should have picked up a diamond ring on his way here.


    "No," she replied, voice smooth as silk. "Not for that."


    A thousand words buzzed in Specter¡¯s mind, but none made it past his mouth. Could be group therapy, eh? Lord knows I could use it. Or maybe she¡¯s here to pop me off. Could be keen on that, to be honest.


    "Briarcliff," W¨³sh¨© continued. "Two citizens named Martin Lawrence and Rebecca Lee were flayed alive these past two Saturdays. I want you to find their killer, and kill them."


    Specter¡¯s expression remained unchanged, though the name Briarcliff rang a bell. Briarcliff? Didn¡¯t I do a job there, what, four years ago? Oh yeah, that¡¯s where that muppet with the cleaver had a go at me.


    He looked at W¨³sh¨©. "Why¡¯s W¨³sh¨© herself fussed ¡®bout a couple of randoms? Unless they ain¡¯t so random, eh?"


    Her perfect features darkened slightly. "I¡¯m not interested in the victims. I¡¯m interested in the killer."


    "Been there before. You sure the killer you¡¯re after isn¡¯t the..."


    "The Butcher?" she interrupted.


    The Butcher, huh? So that¡¯s the nutter¡¯s name, then. Specter nodded.


    "No," she said, her voice cold. "My contacts in the Briarcliff police department have confirmed that the Butcher and this ¡®flayer¡¯ are most likely two different people. I want the flayer."


    Specter exhaled slowly. The Butcher, the Flayer. He didn¡¯t give a damn about either. I ain¡¯t your bloody cleanup crew for the underworld, mate. Don¡¯t mop up messes, and I sure as hell ain¡¯t some genie grantin'' ya murder wishes.


    "Same terms as always," W¨³sh¨© continued, crossing her legs elegantly. "You¡¯ll be paid well. More than well, actually."


    The money didn¡¯t interest him. Once you reached Specter¡¯s level, the numbers stopped meaning anything. What was another payday when all you wanted was an end to the job, not the paycheck? Maybe this would be the one that did him in. Killed by another killer. Now that¡¯s poetic. Bet Shakespeare¡¯d be stoked.


    "Right then, I¡¯m in," Specter said, his voice hollow.


    W¨³sh¨©¡¯s gaze remained on Specter for a beat too long, a smile just brushing the edge of her lips. "Find him. Kill him." Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. She didn¡¯t need to say the rest; it was carved into the air between them. Failure wasn¡¯t an option.


    With that, she stood, turned and left, her bodyguards moving like shadows behind her.


    Specter watched them go. They¡¯re like a pack of bloody portable chargers, always stuck to her ass. Can¡¯t have her battery dyin'' mid-shootout, eh?


    He sighed, the humor failing to keep the fog at bay. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few pill bottles. Popping a few pills into his palm, he downed them with a swig of whiskey. The warmth of the liquor burned down his throat, chasing the pills into his system.


    He licked his lips, staring out at the city skyline through the massive windows. "Let¡¯s see who¡¯s got the better chops, then," he muttered.

 Chapter Ten

    It had been three days since Ivan killed Bob Bush, and the Butcher had been vigilantly monitoring him ever since. The Butcher stood silently in the shadows outside of Ivan¡¯s apartment, staring up at the window from the cold darkness of the night. Nobody noticed him, everyone was too occupied with their phones, their thoughts or the conversations they had with others as they walked by. The chill in the air didn¡¯t bother him; it rarely did. His mind was elsewhere, focused entirely on Ivan.


    Ivan had left his light on. No surprise there. The light always stayed on when Ivan didn¡¯t have an unfortunate soul tied to his bedpost, waiting to meet their grisly fate. He only turned it off when he was ready to sleep, when the blood had been cleaned up and he had satisfied his hunger for blood. The Butcher knew this. He knew much more¡ªwhen he left his apartment, when he returned, even the way he moved.


    On weekends, Ivan was a complete shut-in but during the week, he was someone else. He was the kind high school teacher that all the kids loved. He had that disarming smile, that false air of harmlessness. But once the clock struck 7:00 p.m., he became a predator, a monster hiding in plain sight. By then, Ivan would slip out of his apartment, get into his taxi, and lure unsuspecting children into his car. They¡¯d trust him¡ªwhy wouldn¡¯t they? He looked safe, spoke kindly. Then he¡¯d drug them, take them back to his apartment, and indulge his sick fantasies. was when he hunted, picking up unsuspecting students, drugging them, and taking them back to his carefully constructed slaughterhouse. But not tonight. The Butcher had other plans.


    The Butcher¡¯s eyes flicked up to the darkening sky. 7 p.m. was close¡ªhe could feel it in his bones, the thrill of the hunt stirring to life in his chest. Ivan would be getting ready soon. His hand tightened around the handle of the cleaver strapped to his side. The Butcher turned to face Ivan¡¯s apartment one last time then with a low grunt, he moved on, disappearing further into the shadows, down the street. It wasn¡¯t time to strike just yet.


    Inside his apartment, Ivan glanced at his wristwatch. The time read 6:49 p.m. He hurried to the window and peered outside, his gaze scanning the street below. Everything seemed normal, the streetlights casting their usual pale glow over the street. A few people moved about but nobody seemed suspicious. Good. He¡¯d check again in exactly seven minutes¡ªno more, no less. It had to be seven minutes. That was the rule.


    The streets are beautiful tonight, the monster murmured, lounging lazily on the bed. Don¡¯t you love how they trust you? The little lambs, walking into the wolf¡¯s den to play.


    Ivan didn¡¯t answer aloud, but he nodded. Gathering his things¡ªhis keys, wallet, drugged handkerchief, deodorant¡ªhe took a moment to brush his hair thoroughly in the mirror. The monster watched him, amused.


    You look good, Ivan. Today¡¯s going to be a good day. I can feel it.


    Ivan smiled at the monster, its words comforting him. "Yes, today will be a good day," he said softly to himself. Everything was in his control. Everything was in his control, just as it always had been. He glanced at his watch again¡ª6:56 p.m. Good. He had used only seven minutes. He rushed to the window again, peering outside, and once more, everything seemed normal. However, a strange shiver crept up his spine. It wasn¡¯t the cold¡ªit was something else.


    You¡¯re feeling nervous again, Ivan. Calm yourself. You¡¯re in control. You¡¯ll always be in control, the monster murmured from the bed, now standing beside him and placing a ghostly hand on his shoulder.


    Ivan nodded to himself, pushing away the creeping paranoia. He had nothing to worry about. He was always careful. Always.


    At 7 p.m. sharp, Ivan left his apartment. He descended the stairs calmly, stepping out into the cool evening air. People were still walking about.  Ivan took a moment to glance left, then right, ensuring no one was watching. Satisfied, he made his way to his taxi.


    The car sat parked, under a dim streetlight. The paint dull, the bumper scratched from years of careless driving. It was an unassuming vehicle, the kind that blended in with the city. But to Ivan, it was something more. It was a weapon, a trap. Once inside, his victims never left the same.


    Ivan settled into the driver¡¯s seat, running a hand over the steering wheel. He started the engine and drove down the quiet streets, heading to a place not far from where he was, remote but frequented just enough by unsuspecting students.


    After a while, he arrived at Mill Street Junction, a remote intersection near the old train yards. It was quieter than usual, but that didn¡¯t bother Ivan. It was perfect, really. Fewer witnesses. The streetlights flickered weakly, and the only sound was the distant hum of traffic from the main roads. Ivan stepped out of the taxi, scanning the area. Normally, he would see a couple of stragglers¡ªstudents heading home late, maybe a passerby¡ªbut tonight, there was no one. It was almost too quiet.


    "Maybe I should try somewhere else," he muttered, reaching for the door handle.


    But then, something caught his eye. A shadow moved in the distance, flickering just outside of the light¡¯s reach. Ivan¡¯s breath hitched. He didn¡¯t turn around immediately; instead, he slyly glanced over his shoulder.


    Nothing. The street was empty.


    It¡¯s just nerves, Ivan. It¡¯s all just nerves. Nobody¡¯s here. The monster¡¯s voice was reassuring, as always.


    Ivan chuckled to himself. Of course, the monster was right. Why would anyone follow him? No one knew about him. No one could ever know. He was too vigilant.


    As he fumbled with his keys, the feeling crept back. The presence. Like eyes burning into the back of his skull. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. And this time, Ivan turned around sharply, pulling a knife from his pocket, ready for anything.


    But he wasn¡¯t ready for the Butcher.


    A sharp, heavy blow came out of nowhere, slamming his face into the side of the taxi with brutal force. His knife fell from his grip, clattering uselessly to the ground. Ivan collapsed, groaning as the taste of blood filled his mouth. His lip was split, swelling quickly. His forehead throbbed, and he could already feel a bruise forming.


    Still on the ground, he swiftly grabbed his knife then swung blindly, catching the Butcher¡¯s leg with a shallow slash. But the beast barely reacted. Instead, he raised his cleaver high and swung it down toward Ivan¡¯s head with terrifying speed. Ivan rolled away just in time, the cleaver missing him by inches. He staggered to his feet and ran, his heart pounding in his chest.


    Ivan¡¯s movements were wild, his breaths short and sharp, like a caged tiger sensing death¡¯s approach. He darted left, then right, each path blocked by a dead end or by shadowy, hulking shapes. No matter where he turned, it was a dead end or the Butcher was already there, herding him like prey down the long, narrow street. The Butcher¡¯s footsteps never quickened, his cleaver hanging loosely at his side, as if he had all the time in the world.


    Before long, Ivan found himself in the old train yards. The area was desolate, a decaying industrial zone filled with rusted cranes, abandoned silos, and overgrown train tracks. It was the perfect hunting ground.


    Ivan ducked behind a rusted train car, trying to calm his ragged breathing. He peered out from behind the metal, catching a glimpse of the Butcher moving slowly towards him. The Butcher stopped suddenly, tilting his head, as if he were sniffing the air.


    Run, now, Ivan! Run now! the monster screamed in his head, but Ivan shook his head. No, he couldn¡¯t just run blindly. The Butcher was too smart for that. He needed to be smarter.


    Ivan looked around, scanning the area for something, anything. His eyes fell on an old lever attached to the rusted undercarriage of the train. Quickly, he stuffed his jacket into a crevice between the train cars, leaving it as a decoy. Then he reached for the lever, his fingers trembling. The Butcher¡¯s footsteps were only feet away now. He could hear his heavy breathing, the sound of leather gloves tightening around the cleaver''s handle. The beast was close enough to smell Ivan¡¯s sweat.


    But then the Butcher froze, staring at the jacket Ivan had left behind. For a moment, he hesitated.


    That split-second confusion was all Ivan needed. He yanked the lever, releasing a steel cable that snapped free from the undercarriage. The side of the train car, already rusted and weakened, collapsed toward the Butcher. Ivan dashed forward just as the debris fell, slamming into the Butcher with a bone-crunching thud. His cleaver clattered to the ground as he was buried beneath the metal.


    Run now, Ivan! Run! the monster urged.


    Ivan didn¡¯t hesitate this time. He darted between the rusted tracks, his  feet pounding against the pavement, his mind unable to believe what had just happened. He had outsmarted him, brought the hulking monster down beneath a ton of rusted metal. The Butcher was dead. Ivan almost allowed himself to smile. Almost.


    Behind him, a loud crash echoed through the night. Ivan skidded to a halt and turned slowly. His breath froze in his throat as he saw the impossible.


    From beneath the crumpled metal, the Butcher rose¡ªslowly, cautiously ¡ªhis massive form dragging free from the wreckage as though shaking off dust. His chest gaped where the metal had torn flesh, but he moved as if the wound were a mere scratch. His cleaver, already back in his hand, glinted dangerously under the moonlight, and his eyes¡ªthose cold, rage-filled eyes¡ªlocked onto Ivan.


    "That should have killed you," Ivan muttered, panic seizing his chest. "You aren¡¯t supposed to be alive."


    Ivan stumbled backward, his legs weak, fear crawling up his spine like ice. The monster in his head screamed at him to run, but his body froze as if shackled to the ground. He couldn¡¯t tear his gaze away from the Butcher as he slowly approached him, blood tricking down his body, staining the ground beneath him


    As soon as he reached Ivan, the Butcher swung his cleaver at Ivan¡¯s head. Ivan ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade, feeling the rush of air as it passed. The Butcher was already swinging again¡ªfaster this time. Ivan barely managed to twist out of the way, but the blade caught his thigh, slicing through flesh. A searing pain exploded through his leg, and Ivan crumpled to the ground with a pained groan, clutching the wound as blood poured from the gash.


    The Butcher stood over him like a demon from the pits of Hell. His eyes gleamed with a sick, animalistic pleasure as he watched Ivan clutch his wound in pain.


    The knife, Ivan. Your knife! the monster screamed inside his head.


    Ivan fumbled for the knife still in his pocket, pulling it out and slashing wildly at the Butcher¡¯s forearm. The blade bit into his flesh and blood sprayed, but the man didn¡¯t even flinch. He growled¡ªa low, rough sound¡ªand brought his boot down hard on Ivan¡¯s shoulder with enough force to dislocate it with a sickening crunch.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Ivan screamed in agony, his vision blurring as pain shot through his body like wildfire. His arm hung uselessly at his side. He tried to push himself up, but the Butcher leaned in close, his voice guttural as he whispered, "Run."


    Ivan¡¯s breathing steadied, the fear dissolving into something colder. His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles hurt. He wasn¡¯t going to die here¡ªnot like this. His heartbeat, once frantic, now pounded with a new rhythm: rage.


    His eyes darted around, desperate for anything that could help him. That¡¯s when he saw an old chemical drum not far from where he lay. His eyes brightened. If he could just get there¡­


    He crawled, his body screaming in pain with every inch, toward the drum. The Butcher followed, his pace slow, savoring the moment. He didn¡¯t care. Why would he? Ivan was broken, bleeding, and crawling on the ground like a worm. He wasn¡¯t going anywhere.


    When Ivan finally reached the drum, he grabbed a broken pipe lying nearby and punctured the barrel. Chemical liquid spilled out, spreading across the ground. Ivan didn¡¯t hesitate. He scraped his knife against the metal to create a spark.


    The liquid ignited instantly, flames roaring up between them. The fire exploded in the Butcher¡¯s face, catching his neck and mask, forcing him to step back with a snarl of rage. The heat and smoke stung Ivan¡¯s eyes, but he pushed through the pain. He had to move. Now.


    With his good arm, Ivan pulled himself to his feet, staggering forward. His dislocated shoulder throbbed, and his leg was drenched in blood, but he limped as fast as he could away from the Butcher. He didn¡¯t dare look back.


    When he finally allowed himself a glance, he saw the fire illuminating the Butcher¡¯s figure. The flames had melted parts of his mask, revealing more of his face¡ªa face that would have been handsome or even regal under normal circumstances, if not for the fact that it was twisted in a monstrous expression of rage. His long black hair, now singed at the edges slightly covered his blue eyes that burned with fury, not pain. Just raw, unfiltered anger.


    For a brief moment, Ivan stood there, paralyzed.


    The Butcher turned toward the riverbank, a small stream that ran through the decaying industrial zone. The chemical fire licked at his face and mask as he walked away, disappearing into the darkness.


    Ivan watched, horrified and awestruck at the same time. But the brief reprieve was all Ivan needed. Without another glance, Ivan let out a shaky breath as he limped into the night. How long would it take for the Butcher to recover? Minutes? Hours? Days? Ivan couldn¡¯t afford to wait around to find out.


    He kept running, the pain in his leg growing worse with every step, but he forced himself forward. His head ached as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had set a trap for the Butcher, crushed him under a train car, and then set him on fire. And yet, the Butcher was still standing. Still coming for him.


    The pain in his leg finally became too much to bear and Ivan fell on the roadside. Blood dripped steadily from the wound in his thigh, pooling on the dirty ground beneath him. He carefully removed his belt and tied it around his upper thigh, tightening it to slow the bleeding. He looked around, desperate for a solution, for a way out. But it struck him, sudden and unstoppable, like a locomotive at full speed.


    He wasn¡¯t in control anymore.


    Lewis sat hunched over the case files, tapping his fingers in frustration. Control¡ªhe needed something to control in this case. But every lead felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The living room was modestly upscale, a reflection of his middle-class upbringing with a touch of ambition. The L-shaped gray suede couch he shared with Thompson felt well-worn yet expensive, the kind of furniture bought when one finally feels they''ve "made it." Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with books and various police case files. A minimalist glass coffee table sat in front of him, littered with case files, papers, and pens. The floor was covered in a thick, plush rug that muffled footsteps, while modern pendant lights casted a soft glow over the room. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with true crime novels and legal texts. A large, black television hung on the far side of the room, and while it was capable of delivering cinematic visuals, tonight it served as a distraction for Thompson, who was slumped into the opposite end of the couch.


    The television played an animated show with colorful characters¡ªsomething Thompson had found while channel surfing. It was a generic, slapstick cartoon filled with exaggerated action and cheesy one-liners. The kind of show most people wouldn¡¯t give a second glance, yet Thompson watched with a quiet, lazy fascination.


    "A hundred and twenty murders in the past five years, right?" Lewis asked, eyes glued to the stack of files.


    Thompson, without looking away from the TV, mumbled, "Uh-huh."


    "Thompson, are you even paying attention?" Lewis snapped, looking up from the stack of papers.


    Thompson blinked, pulling his gaze away from the television. He yawned, stretching lazily. "Yeah, yeah. I¡¯m listening," he said, though the bags under his eyes and the drowsiness in his voice suggested otherwise.


    Lewis frowned, tossing a file onto the glass table. "I¡¯ve been going over these cases for hours, and all you¡¯ve done is stare at that stupid show. How can you sit there watching cartoons when we¡¯re trying to catch a goddamn serial killer?"


    Thompson rubbed his tired eyes, his usual unemotional voice carried a hint of nonchalance. "I¡¯m not a night owl, Lewis."


    "I don¡¯t care. This is important. We have to find the Butcher."


    "It¡¯s not like we¡¯re going to crack the case tonight, Lewis. Besides," Thompson said, settling deeper into the couch, his posture a study in apathy, "I¡¯m just trying to keep my mind clear. If you focus on this stuff too hard, you¡¯ll end up going mad."


    Lewis glanced at the files in his lap and then back at Thompson, incredulity in his voice. "Don¡¯t you want to bring the Butcher to justice? Isn¡¯t that why you convinced me the Butcher and the person that murdered Rebecca and Martin are different people?"


    Thompson¡¯s eyes flickered over to Lewis before he shook his head. "No, it¡¯s because you were wrong, is all."


    Yup, he doesn¡¯t care about catching the Butcher.


    Thompson sighed, his gaze returning to the TV. "I do want to catch him," he began, as if reading Lewis¡¯s mind, "but more than that, I want to understand him. Knowing his every move won¡¯t help us unless we figure out why he¡¯s making them."


    Lewis blinked, stunned by the response. Understanding him? No wonder Thompson hadn¡¯t caught the Butcher in the five years he¡¯d been on his trail. The man had all the brains but none of the drive. Lewis wanted to lash out, to demand why Thompson wasn¡¯t doing more, but he couldn¡¯t find the right words. Instead, he leaned forward, tapping the case files with his fingers.


    "He¡¯s a sadistic serial killer who takes pleasure in hunting down his victims. What more is there to understand?"


    Thompson shrugged, his voice as calm as ever. "There¡¯s always more to understand. And until we do, we can¡¯t stop him. Simple."


    Lewis could feel his patience thinning. "Understanding him isn¡¯t going to stop him. Catching him will. We need something¡ªanything¡ªthat ties him to a crime scene. Sweat, fluids, hair samples. Was any of that ever found at one of his murders?"


    This time, Thompson turned to face him, biting one of his fingernails. "We found something once. Remember Case 3098, Jenna Richardson? May 17th, 2020. The infamous Angelmaker. The one in the warehouse over in Hillside. She was found hanging upside down, her throat slit clean and her body had three gashes. We found a blood sample on the ground near the body. Thought it was hers, but the tests came back inconclusive¡ªsome of it wasn¡¯t hers."


    Lewis sat up, interested. "And?"


    "We ran the DNA, checked every database we had access to. Came up blank. Whoever the Butcher is, he¡¯s either a ghost or he¡¯s never been in the system."


    Lewis shook his head, refusing to accept what Thompson had said. "That doesn¡¯t make sense. He¡¯s human. He bleeds, sweats, leaves fingerprints. He exists like everyone else."


    Thompson turned his attention back to the cartoon, watching as a goofy animated character faced off against a large, snarling monster. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Or maybe he isn¡¯t human."


    Lewis scoffed but didn¡¯t press the point. He flipped through the files again, eyes scanning over the gruesome photos and descriptions. "Judging by the way he slashes his victims and the way he manages to overpower them and track them, I¡¯d say the Butcher might have had military training. Or maybe he was a surgeon. Someone with experience in anatomy."


    Thompson let out a soft chuckle. "Or a butcher."


    Lewis shot him an annoyed look. "This isn¡¯t a joke."


    Thompson shrugged, not missing a beat. "You ever think about what it¡¯s like to be him?"


    "What?" Lewis asked, taken aback.


    Thompson leaned back, finally pulling his gaze from the TV. "You¡¯re chasing the Butcher. But you¡¯re not thinking about why he¡¯s hunting. It¡¯s not the ¡®how¡¯ that matters, Lewis. Not really. It¡¯s the ¡®why¡¯. The reason behind the blood. The moment a man chooses to become a hunter instead of prey."


    Lewis rubbed his temples; dealing with this man ¨C no, child ¨C in front of him was more exhausting than going over the case files. "I already know why he kills. He¡¯s a sadistic psychopath who goes after other criminals. He gets off on power, on violence."


    Thompson shook his head, a patient yet exasperated look crossing his face, like a teacher disappointed with a student. "It¡¯s not about power. It¡¯s about the hunt. Think about it."


    Lewis sighed, clearly frustrated. "This is ridiculous."


    "Alright, hear me out," Thompson said, his voice gentle yet insistent. "Close your eyes for a second."


    Lewis stared at his partner, debating whether to argue, but ultimately sighed in defeat. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch. "Fine. But as soon as this doesn¡¯t work, we¡¯re going back to the case files."


    "Sure," Thompson said, in his unnervingly calm voice that irked Lewis for reasons unknown to even him. "Now, imagine you¡¯re out there. It¡¯s nighttime. The city¡¯s dark, and you¡¯re in the shadows, waiting. Hunting. You know your prey is nearby¡ªsomeone dangerous, someone who thinks they can get away with the worst kinds of crimes. A predator like yourself."


    Lewis frowned but continued to follow along, imagining the scene. He could feel the darkness surrounding him and the cold breeze against his skin.


    "You¡¯re not doing this because you have to," Thompson continued. "You¡¯re doing it because you want to. You live for this. The thrill of it, the power it gives you over another predator. The superiority you feel."


    Lewis swallowed, as Thompson¡¯s words seeped deeper into his mind.. It was unsettling how easily the imagery filled his mind. His heart raced slightly as he immersed himself deeper into the scenario. The excitement. The control. He could feel it, almost taste it. It was intoxicating. A mix of terror and exhilaration washed over him. Was this what the Butcher felt? Or was this his own darkness?


    "I¡¯m not..." Lewis muttered, his voice shaky. "I¡¯m not a killer."


    Thompson, ignoring Lewis''s obvious discomfort, continued his slow, hypnotic speech. "This isn¡¯t about you. It¡¯s about the Butcher. You don¡¯t just kill anyone. You choose your victims carefully. You hunt other predators like yourself. But to you, these people are beneath you. Lesser predators. You¡¯re the apex, and this is about control. Dominance. You don¡¯t kill out of hate. You kill because you enjoy knowing that these people¡ªthese monsters¡ªfall under your control. You¡¯re proving something."


    A strange, unsettling chill ran down Lewis''s spine. He could see it now¡ªfeel it, even. He could feel the cleaver in his hand, the blood on his skin, the overwhelming sense of satisfaction that came from bringing down another predator. It was too real. The darkness was suffocating him, wrapping around his mind like a vice. He saw his previous victims. He could already picture who he would kill next¡­


    "So, who do you think the Butcher will go after next?" Thompson¡¯s voice cut through the fog.


    Lewis snapped awake, feeling like he had just woken from a strange, dark dream. He gasped for air, his hands shaking slightly as he regained his bearings. He looked at Thompson, who was still calm, leaning back on the couch, completely unfazed.


    Thompson¡¯s eyes bore into Lewis¡¯ as he asked, "Who¡¯s the next predator?"


    The words slipped out before Lewis could stop them. "The Child Killer."


    Thompson nodded, as if the answer was obvious. "Makes sense. He¡¯s been active for months, slipping away from the police, evading capture, and preying on children. The Butcher would see him as the ultimate prey¡ªanother predator, but one who goes after the most vulnerable of all. A true monster." He turned back to the TV, the cartoon continuing to play in the background. "If I were the Butcher, that¡¯s who I¡¯d go after next. Someone worthy of the hunt."


    Lewis sat in stunned silence. He had been forced into the mind of a killer, to think like the Butcher. But why did it feel so real? Why had it been so easy to slip into that mindset? Am I capable of something like that? Lewis thought, horrified at the notion. The darkness he had felt in those few minutes¡ªit remained at the edges of his conscience. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see blood there.


    Thompson most likely sensed his unease because he spoke up again, "You aren¡¯t a killer, Lewis. And you aren¡¯t even remotely like the Butcher. We don¡¯t think like he does. If we want to catch him, we have to ignore the rules, because that¡¯s what he does."


    Lewis¡¯s phone rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked down at the screen and saw Sarah¡¯s name flash across it. He quickly answered. "Hello?"


    "Hey, Lewis," Sarah said on the other end. "We need to talk. I¡¯ve been going through the cases again, and I found something we need to discuss first thing tomorrow morning. Can we meet at four-thirty?"


    Lewis nodded, his mind still trying to shake off the dark thoughts from earlier. "Yes, four-thirty works. I¡¯ll be there."


    "Thanks," Sarah said before hanging up.


    Thompson stood up, stretching lazily. "You two might as well make it a date. Sounds romantic."


    Lewis didn¡¯t even smile. "Are you sleeping here tonight?"


    Thompson paused as he headed toward the hallway. "Yeah. Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t steal your teddy bear." With that, Thompson disappeared down the hall, leaving Lewis alone with his thoughts.


    The files on the coffee table stared up at him, the black-and-white photos of victims glaring back like ghosts from the past. Lewis picked up one of the files, the details of another gruesome Butcher murder staring him in the face. But as he looked at it, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder.


    The Butcher... no. I¡¯m not like him. But then why did the darkness feel so close?


    He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. But it remained, haunting him, as he stared at the faces of the dead.