Briarcliff had changed since he was last here. The streets seemed quieter, almost peaceful. Maybe the maniac with the cleaver had been doing his job, picking off criminals like ripe fruit. The Butcher, they called him. Specter wondered if the guy had finally been caught, just the thought of it amused him.

He was driving an old, beat-up Toyota Corolla, the kind that blended into the background of any city. Specter had much nicer cars—a sleek black Audi parked in his garage back home or the high-performance BMW he only took out for special occasions —but tonight, he needed to stay under the radar. His line of work required being invisible sometimes, and flashy cars attracted attention. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, a manic grin plastered across his face.

The clock on the dashboard blinked 8:03 p.m. It was around this time that normal residents of Briarcliff locked their doors and drew their curtains. But Specter wasn’t normal. Not by a long shot. He was feeling good tonight. Better than he had in days. Maybe he’d popped too many pills, or maybe he was finally riding one of his highs—those rare moments when everything seemed right, when the world didn’t feel so heavy.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a handful of pill bottles, rattling them as if they were maracas. He smirked and unscrewed the lid, tipping a few pills into his hand—Diazepam, Lithium, and Oxycodone—his favorites. He tossed them into his mouth like they were candy and washed them down with a swig from a stainless steel flask filled with Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, an expensive bottle that made him feel classy even when he was mixing it with meds like a degenerate.

"Cheers," Specter said to no one in particular, tipping the flask toward the empty seat beside him. "Here’s to not givin’ a toss."

As he tossed the empty bottles back into the glove compartment, something caught his eye up ahead. On the roadside, a man with pale gray eyes, well-groomed black hair, and a lanky buils was lying there, barely visible in the darkness. His arm looked… wrong, obviously broken. And he was bleeding.

Specter pulled over, curiosity getting the better of him. He stepped out of the car and walked toward the man quite casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. "Hey, bro. Looks like someone buggered ya up and left ya for dead, eh?"

The man’s eyes flickered with fear for a moment, his breathing shallow, but then he seemed to calm down slightly as he clutched his broken arm. "I... I was attacked. A violent robber," he muttered, his voice shaking.

Specter’s instincts kicked in immediately. Lies. A robber? Really? Any robber worth his salt would have taken everything—clothes, shoes, watch. Yet here this man was, fully dressed, still sporting a decent-looking wristwatch. The only things out of place were the gash on his thigh and his broken arm. If this was a robbery, it was the cleanest one he had ever seen but he wasn’t in the mood to call the guy out just yet.

Specter crouched down, examining the man’s injuries with a smirk. "Sure it wasn’t ya ex? Breakups can get ugly, bro."

The man stared at him, confused. "W-What?"

Specter waved a hand dismissively, chuckling. "Just takin’ the piss. Chill out. You look like ya need a lift to the hospital, eh? Lucky for you, I’m a generous bugger."

Without waiting for a response, Specter grabbed the man under his good arm and helped him up. The man winced in pain but didn’t resist. He was too scared to argue, or maybe too tired. Either way, Specter didn’t mind. "Hop in, mate. I’ll drop ya at the hospital," Specter said, gesturing toward the Corolla. "Besides, could use the company."

The man hesitated but eventually climbed into the car. Once the man was seated in the passenger seat, Specter started the engine again. "So, what’s your name, bro? Or should I just stick with ‘Roadkill’?"

The man stared out the rear window, clearly uncomfortable. "Ivan," he mumbled after a moment.

Ivan kept his gaze glued to the rear window, watching the shadows slip past as the car sped down the road. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. 8:11 p.m. It felt like he’d been lying by the roadside for at least twenty-five minutes, maybe more. The pain in his arm and leg throbbed with every passing second, but at least he was alive. That maniac, the Butcher, had nearly gotten him. If this stranger hadn’t shown up when he did…

"What’s your name?" Ivan asked, more out of habit than curiosity.

The man beside him grinned, glancing briefly at Ivan before turning his attention back to the road. "Specter."

Ivan looked him up and down, taking in his appearance. He wore a custom-made tactical suit that resembled a mechanic’s overalls at first glance but was far from ordinary. The material was a dark blue, nearly black in the dim light, reinforced synthetic blend. It was designed with multiple hidden compartments and pockets, and the sleeves and legs were folded neatly at the edges. The outfit had a slim, leather utility belt around his waist. His curly dark brown hair, thick and slightly wild, perfectly complemented his strong jawline and faint stubble—a look that seemed maintained quite effortlessly. His deep brown eyes held a warm but intense gaze that could either invite you in or shut you out completely. Around his neck, a small São Bento medallion swung lightly on a thin silver chain.

Specter’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as he downed more pills, the empty bottles strewn carelessly in the open glove compartment. The scent of alcohol was thick in the air, mixing with the bitter scent of bourbon.

Look back, Ivan, the monster’s voice whispered.

Ivan turned to glance into the backseat. His heart nearly stopped when he saw what was in the backseat: three guns, all equipped with silencers. One was an HK416 assault rifle, its matte black surface gleaming. Next to it was a Remington 700, a sniper rifle that looked like it had been used quite frequently. The third gun was smaller—a Glock 19, glossy and deadly. All of them were the tools of a man who knew how to kill.

"You alright, Ivan?" Specter asked, cutting through Ivan’s thoughts. "Look a bit buggered, mate."

Ivan’s heart raced. Just how many killers roamed Briarcliff tonight? And why had it all come to this on this particular night? He nodded slowly, "Yeah, I’m fine," he replied, trying to keep his breathing under control.

Specter glanced over at him with a sly grin. "Good, ‘cause you’re tighter than a nun in a strip club, bro."

Ivan didn’t respond, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He turned to look at the clock on the dashboard again. 8:18 p.m. He had been in the car for seven minutes. Seven more minutes left before he stepped out.

Specter didn’t seem to care about the silence. He kept talking, his voice light and conversational, as if they were just two friends out for a late-night drive. "Here’s the thing, Ivan. I’m a mercenary. Off people for cash. Good dosh, too. Six figures for poppin' some muppet’s skull. Mad, eh?"

Ivan blinked, clearly alarmed. "You... you’re a mercenary?"

He didn't even hesitate to admit it. I neeed to get out of here.

Specter let out a bark of laughter. "Don’t worry, bro, you’re not my type. I don’t off people for free, eh? Anyways, tonight’s all ‘bout love and pills." He glanced at the empty pill bottles in the glove compartment, shaking his head. "Think I’m hooked on these. Poppin' them like lollies these days. But who gives a toss, right? We’re all hooked on somethin’, eh?"

Ivan swallowed hard.

Ivan? Are you okay? The monster asked. For the first time, Ivan didn’t respond.

Specter continued, his voice turning almost philosophical. "Y’know, been thinkin’ lately. Maybe I’m the best there is at this. Killin’, I mean. Pretty bloody good at it, honestly. Feels choice to be better than everyone else at something, aye?"

Ivan managed a weak smile, though it felt hollow. "I’m not a killer. I’m not a killer," Ivan reassured himself quietly. No, the children loved him. He loved playing with them. It was all in harmless fun, wasn’t it? Other people just didn’t understand. Specter, on the other hand, he was a murderer. A lunatic.

Specter tapped the steering wheel gently, interrupting Ivan’s thoughts, as he continued, "I’ve got some wild yarns too, bro. This one time, snuck into some politician’s mansion—dude had all the bells and whistles. Laser grids, guard dogs, pressure plates—the works. But guess what? Got through it all. Put a bullet right between his eyes while he was knockin’ back some fancy two-grand bottle of vino."

Ivan stared at Specter, clearly unsure how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Specter didn’t notice—or didn’t care.

Specter glanced over at him, a strange look in his eyes. "Ever off anyone, Ivan?"

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The monster stirred in the back of Ivan’s mind, leaning over Specter, ready to snap his neck in an instant. I don’t like this guy, it growled.

"N-No, I haven’t killed anyone," Ivan stammered, his voice shaky. Had he killed anyone before? He couldn’t have, right? The monster would have stopped him.

Specter didn’t respond right away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "You’re runnin’ from somethin’, aren’t ya?"

Ivan tensed.

"Ya ain’t just some unlucky bugger who got rolled. You’ve got secrets. I can smell it on ya. Same stink I’ve got. Blood."

Ivan’s face drained of color. How many more people tonight would see through the mask he wore so vigilantly?

Specter let out a low whistle, clearly amused by his own insight. "I like ya, Ivan. Reckon you’ve got as many skeletons as me, eh? Quite literally, too."

Ivan’s stomach churned. He couldn’t stay in this car any longer. Specter was taking him to a hospital—or was he? He couldn’t be sure. This man was a complete nutjob. For all Ivan knew, this brown-haired mercenary was planning to kill him. He had already put a significant distance between himself and the Butcher anyway. That was more than enough.

"I think I should get down now," Ivan said, clearing his throat and trying to sound calm. "This is my stop. Thanks for the ride."

He unbuckled his seatbelt and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. Locked.

Ivan’s heart raced as he turned to look at the devil of a driver, who sat there with a grin that might have been friendly—but to Ivan, it looked like something far more sinister.

"Push, mate, not pull," Specter said calmly, leaning over to unlock the door for him. "Ya sure you’re alright?"

Ivan practically leaped out of the car, stumbling onto the sidewalk. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m good."

Specter leaned out the window, his grin never fading. "Could drop ya at the hospital or maybe a motel. Shouldn’t be wanderin’ ‘round at this hour, eh, all busted up like that."

But Ivan ignored him, limping as fast as he could into the darkness. He had to get away. Far away. Away from this lunatic. Away from the Butcher. Away from everything.

Ivan trudged through the dark, cold streets. The chill in the air did little to soothe the growing ache in his arm and leg. Each step sent a sharp reminder of the pain, and each breath was accompanied by the cold air cutting through his lungs. He sneezed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. How long had he been walking? Minutes? Hours? Exhaustion slowly took hold of him as he lost track of time.

Where are you going, Ivan? You don’t know these streets. We don’t know these streets.

The monster’s voice echoed in his mind. Its once-comforting tone now sounded evil. Ivan gritted his teeth, trying to shut it out.

Let’s go back. Let’s go find more lambs to play with.

Ivan ignored the voice. He’d always listened to the monster before, always let it guide him, but something had changed. The monster no longer felt like a friend, more like a prison guard who had been watching over him for far too long.

The pain in his arm throbbed, matching the slow pulse in his head. He stumbled and fell once, maybe twice, but forced himself to keep moving. He couldn’t stop now. Not with the Butcher still out there. The thought of the cleaver-wielding maniac filled him with dread. If even half the rumors about the Butcher were true, Ivan knew the man would keep coming after him, hunting him down until he was dead.

Soon, he came across a streetpost and leaned heavily against it, trying to catch his breath. The world spun around him. The dull flicker of the broken streetlights added to the disorienting sensation, their light barely enough to pierce the thick shadows of the street. He looked around, realizing with a sickening jolt that he didn’t know where he was. The streets were unfamiliar, deserted. No cars. No people.

His breathing was heavy as he pushed himself off the post. In the distance, he spotted a building—an old, run-down clinic. The lights were dim but it was still standing at the very least. Ivan limped toward it, his steps uneven and shaky.

He pushed through the door and staggered inside. The clinic was small and neglected, the kind of place that had seen better days. The air smelled of old antiseptic, and the flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast long shadows across the peeling walls. The reception desk was empty, and the waiting area was bare, save for a few chairs.

Ivan made his way to the back, finding an examination room. He collapsed onto the examination table, breathing hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the roll of gauze on a nearby shelf. His thigh wound throbbed in time with his racing heart. He looked down at the gash—his pants were dark with blood. The belt he had tied around his upper thigh had slowed the bleeding, but it was only a temporary fix. If he didn’t do something soon, he’d bleed out before the Butcher even got a chance to finish him off.

With trembling hands, he removed the belt and shoved it into his mouth. Then, he grabbed a bottle of antiseptic from a nearby cabinet and poured it over the wound. The pain was excruciating. His muscles clenched, his back arching off the table as he bit down hard on the belt to keep from screaming.

Let’s leave, Ivan. We need to leave now.

"No," Ivan rasped, his voice weak. "I have to fix this."

Listen to me. If you stay here, you’ll die, Ivan.

The monster’s voice had always been persuasive, always right. But why did it feel so different now? So... wrong. He tied the bandage tightly around his leg, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he fought against the voice in his head.

"I’ll die?" Ivan repeated, his voice a mere whisper.

Yes, yes. Believe me. I’m always right, Ivan.

The voice had always been right. Always… hadn’t it?

This is madness, Ivan. And you know it… The monster isn’t right. Honestly, it has never been right.

Ivan’s heart skipped a beat. Who said that? A voice he didn’t recognize, soft yet steady, had cut through the monster’s lies. He shook his head, trying to shut it out.

"No… No, stop it. Please," Ivan begged, slamming his hand against his head. “The monster is right. It has to be right. It’s—"

Your what? Your friend? Is that why you listen to the monster, Ivan? Because it’s your friend? Because you don’t want to do it alone? You don’t want to be alone anymore.

Ivan’s vision blurred as the first tear slipped down his cheek, hot and stinging against his skin. His fingers dug into his scalp as he fought to keep the monster’s voice in control, but the other voice, the softer one, was breaking through. It was bringing light to a darkness that had long been part of him.

Open your eyes, Ivan.

Against his will, his eyes fluttered open. Images flashed before him—fragments of his past. He saw himself as a child, alone in an orphanage. He had never made friends. No one ever wanted to adopt him. He was the awkward kid, obsessed with history books and facts that no one else cared about. Other kids mocked him, called him weird. He had no one.

The fondest memory he had of his mother was when he was about three, a few months before she died of lung cancer. Back then, she had told him that his lucky number was seven. It was the only thing that made sense to him, the only thing he could rely on. As his mind fractured, as his loneliness deepened, he created the monster—his only companion in a world that never seemed to want him. It wasn’t long before that voice, once comforting, grew darker. And soon, the monster took control.

Tears streamed down Ivan’s face as he whispered, "No. Please."

Another voice, gentle and warm, cut through the other voices vying for control in his head. His mother’s voice—long forgotten, buried under years of silence.

Ivan, you are not alone. You were never alone. Don't sit in the silence any longer. Don’t listen to the darkness anymore. You were never meant to walk this path.

Ivan gasped for air. Her voice, soft and full of love, brought him back to a time when he wasn’t lost, when he wasn’t controlled by the monster. He trembled, the memories rushing back. The last thing she had told him… the last thing she had said before leaving him.

Even in the darkest times, you are never alone.

Those words broke something inside of Ivan. At that moment, Ivan felt a rush of emotions he had never truly felt before. Love, joy, empathy. He could see the faces of the children he played… No, the children he killed. Their screams, their tears, their pain. It all became painfully clear. The monster wasn’t a friend, it was a manifestation of the darkness made from Ivan’s past.

Ivan choked back a sob, his voice breaking as he whispered, "I don’t want to do this anymore."

The monster roared in his head, furious. I saved you from those beatings when you were a kid, Ivan. I protected you. Don’t leave me now!

"I created you," Ivan said, his fists clenching against the cold tile. "I created you because I needed someone to call my own. I needed a savior. But you’ve taken over. You’ve made me do things—terrible things. Things I can’t undo."

I kept you safe!

"No…" Ivan’s voice cracked. "No, you didn’t protect me. You made me hurt people. You made me hurt those kids. You made me... you turned me to a murderer."

He collapsed to the floor, his body wracked with sobs. He buried his face in his hands, his tears soaking his palms. When he looked up, he saw a mirror hanging on the wall opposite him. And there, standing behind him, was the monster. It loomed over him, its presence suffocating.

But then, he blinked, and it was gone. Nothing was there.

You’d be lost without me, Ivan.

"I’m begging you to disappear," Ivan sobbed, his voice small and broken. His fingers dug into his hair as he wept uncontrollably.

You don’t really mean that.

Ivan slowly raised his head, his tear-streaked face pale as he stared into the mirror. He could feel the monster’s presence, even if he couldn’t see it. He gritted his teeth, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I don’t need you. I needed someone to love me, someone to help me. But you weren’t that. You were just... an escape. A way to hide from everything I couldn’t face myself. I will never need you. Because you aren’t real. You never were."

The monster remained for a moment longer, and Ivan could swear it smiled before it vanished completely, leaving behind only silence. The silence he had been used to for so long.

Tears of relief flooded Ivan’s eyes. For the first time in years, he felt something lift from his chest, a burden he had carried for far too long. He wiped his face, breathing deeply as he sank to the floor. He was free.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, the words choking him. "I’m sorry to all the children I forced to play with me. I didn’t mean to… I never wanted to be a monster…"

He stopped, his throat tight with emotion. There were no more words left to say. The guilt, the shame—it was all too much. He stared at the mirror, his own reflection looking back at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. He didn’t recognize himself.

And then he saw it.

A huge shadow of a man appeared in the mirror, just behind him. It stood still, watching him. The gleam of a blade in its hand caught the fluorescent light of the room.

Ivan didn’t flinch. He didn’t run. He simply stared at the shadow, a small, tragic smile tugging at his lips. One of acceptance.

"God knows I’m truly sorry," he whispered.

The shadow stepped closer, and Ivan felt a tear slide down his cheek. His eyes softened as he caught a glimpse of something else in the mirror—his bedroom at the orphanage, the one he had loved so much, filled with books on history. He saw the small bed, neatly made, the yellow pages of his favorite book lying open on the desk.

The shadow had reached him by now, raising his blade, but Ivan’s gaze stayed fixed on the last good memory he had. And for the first time in so long, he smiled. A real smile. One of genuine peace.

"Nathan Hale regretted only having one life to lose. I just regret what I did with mine," he whispered as the blade was brought down.

Ivan didn't make a sound.