Specter had completely lost track of Felix. Dizzy, with his vision blurring, he couldn’t tell which direction Felix had gone. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure if he’d been following the right trail to begin with. His body had hit its limit, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet. He stumbled to the curb, collapsing onto the cold pavement with a dull thud. He laughed softly as he sat up, blinking through the daze.

"I know I came here to kark it, but right now? That’d be a real weak move, eh?" he muttered under his breath, his words slurred.

Specter leaned back, letting his head rest against the brick wall behind him, watching people go about their day. None of them even gave him a second glance. "Heartless buggers, the lot of ‘em. Bit like me, I reckon."

He wasn’t bleeding out or anything—lucky, in a twisted way. His body was banged up, but nothing life-threatening. Not that he cared much. His brain was floating somewhere above the clouds, out of reach of any actual concern. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts wander.

His mind wasn’t quite his anymore; it had started playing tricks on him recently. Faces and shadows blurred together in his head, voices spoke to him, blending with reality in ways he couldn’t decipher. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe this is the afterlife, or maybe… His thoughts were fragmented, sliding into a hazy darkness.

Then, his phone rang.

Specter blinked, but the world around him shifted, as if it were melting at the edges. The ringing in his ears mingled with the buzz of traffic, turning the street into a hazy blur of lights and sounds. He reached for his phone, though his hand felt disconnected from the rest of his body, like it was moving through water.

He glanced at the screen—an anonymous number. Of course. Not like he had any saved contacts, anyway.

He answered the call, forcing a sarcastic grin as he said, "Oi, can you give me a bell later? Maybe after I’m done havin’ a sook about how bloody rooted my life is?"

There was no laugh on the other end. "Specter. You were supposed to have found the Flayer by now."

The voice belonged to Wǔshī. And she sounded pissed.

Ease up, Lioness. It’s only been a week, eh? What do you reckon I am, the bloody All Blacks on a charge?

"Good to hear from ya too, Wǔshī," he added, laying it on thick with the sarcasm. "Miss me, do ya? I mean, how long we been married now? I thought we’d be past the nagging by now, eh?"

"Are you… high?" she asked, her voice icy.

Nothing gets past you, Specter thought. "Nah, nah," he said aloud, "Just havin’ a bit of a think about life and all that deep philosophical rubbish, ya know?"

"If you screw this up, Specter," Wǔshī continued, her voice sharper now, "I’ll personally make sure you never get high again. In fact, you won’t ever feel anything again."

Why are the pretty ones always bad for me, eh?

"Bit harsh, love. You’re breakin’ my heart here," Specter shot back, but the fear was sneaking into his voice now. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. "But I get it. You want this done and dusted. Good news is, I’ve already bumped into the Flayer. He’s a young fella—Felix, I reckon. Same bloke."

There was silence on the line for a moment, before Wǔshī’s clipped response came. "And where is this Felix now?"

Specter scratched the back of his head, wincing as he realized dried blood had matted his hair. "Well, uh... yeah, sorta lost him. Just for a bit, though. Y’know, temporary"

"Specter," her voice was a sharp warning.

"No worries, I’ll track him down. I always do. Eventually." He licked his lips, feeling the buzz of distorted memories flicker through his mind—bloody corpses, the crackle of gunfire, a high-pitched scream from someone he couldn’t remember. It all swirled in his head, blending into the noise of the street.

Wǔshī’s voice snapped him back. "Are you certain he’s the Flayer?"

"I said I reckon," Specter responded.

"I need you to be sure."

Specter groaned, rubbing his temples. "Right then, I’m dead certain. The Flayer’s him, and he’s the Flayer. Stoked now? I’ll put a bullet in his noggin, wrap it up with a bow, and job’s a good’n."

The line went silent again, but this time it stretched a bit too long. When Wǔshī spoke again, her voice had a faint tremor to it, one she tried to hide. "This job is… personal," she said, her voice faltering ever so slightly. Specter caught the crack, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost feel the sadness behind her words. "Make no mistake, Specter. I need this done." He blinked, surprised by the faint grief in her usually controlled tone. Something about this was different, more intense, but Specter wasn’t sure if it was worth poking at. Not now, anyway.

"That’s a rare one, Lioness," Specter muttered. He was hearing something now. A low hum in the background, like a buzzing in his ears. Was it real? He couldn’t tell. "You don’t really come across as the type to do ‘personal’ jobs, eh."

"Just make sure you find him," Wǔshī snapped, her voice hardening again. "Are we clear?"

Specter chuckled, though his mind was already drifting back to that faint buzz in his ears. "Sweet as."

The line went dead.

"Personal…" Specter mumbled, letting the word hang in the air. "Whatever."

He tossed his phone aside, leaning back against the wall, trying to find that calm place he had been in before the call. The buzz in his head was louder now, a droning hum that seemed to vibrate through his bones. It wasn’t just in his head anymore—it was everywhere, in the surrounding air, pulsing like a living thing. He pressed his hands against his ears, but the sound grew louder, drowning out the world until it was all that remained.

"What the bloody hell is that?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He pressed his palms against his temples, trying to block out the noise. But it was everywhere now, crawling through his brain like a swarm of insects.

The noise grew louder, a cacophony of sounds he couldn’t place. Was it real? Was it all in his head? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head back against the rough brick of the building. The hot afternoon air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. All he could hear was that incessant buzzing, like a broken radio signal left on a loop in his mind.

"Fuck the Flayer. Fuck Wǔshī," Specter mumbled to himself. "I’m bloody done with this shit."

He slid down to the ground, his body going limp as the sounds in his head drowned out the world around him. He was too high to care, too far gone to fight it. All he could do was let the noise consume him, pulling him deeper into the haze.

And for a moment, he didn’t mind.

The evening shadows lengthened as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a dim orange glow over the city streets. Felix clutched the bleeding wound on his shoulder, wincing as the pain intensified. The bullet had only grazed him, but the injury still throbbed, and blood soaked his shirt. His breaths tore through him like sharp knives, and his eyes darted around, scanning the area for any sign of his pursuers. He hadn’t seen the Butcher in hours, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being followed.

As he stumbled down a quiet street, Felix’s gaze fell upon an old church. Its stone facade was weathered by time, cracked in places, and overrun with ivy that curled around its walls like the twisted fingers of some ancient beast. The once-vibrant stained glass windows were dulled with grime, but Felix could still make out faded images of saints and angels, their eyes hollow and distant. A large wooden door, scuffed and splintered with age, sagged on rusted hinges at the entrance. Above it, a simple cross was perched, crooked as if even it had begun to give in to the weight of time.

Felix hesitated at the entrance, his bloodied hand gripping the door handle. His heart drummed rapidly, and for a moment, he considered turning back. But where would he go? He couldn’t return to his apartment, and the streets weren’t safe. No, this church—old and forgotten—was the only refuge he had.

He pushed the door open with a creak and stepped inside. Flickering candles placed sporadically around the altar dimly lighted the interior of the church. Dust danced in the pale beams of light that struggled to penetrate through the stained glass windows. Apart from an old man sitting in a pew at the far end of the church, clutching what looked like a rosary, the place seemed deserted. The man’s head was bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Felix noticed a small girl, no older than five, sitting in another pew near the front. She was crooning to herself, playing with a torn stuffed bear. Her innocent eyes occasionally glanced around the room, as if unsure why she was there or who had brought her.

Felix walked toward the altar, still clutching his bleeding shoulder. He lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head. He didn’t dare speak, not out loud. Words were dangerous for him, but he prayed in his mind. Silent pleas. Desperate thoughts.

It still counts, he told himself. It has to count.

It had been years since he last prayed, not since the darkness had first taken root inside him. Eight years, maybe more. The details were hazy, but the memory of when it all began—when the blood first spilled—remained vivid.

As he prayed, Felix couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that clawed at his mind. Who would listen to someone like me? He wanted to believe that there was still some good left in him, but every time he tried to cling to hope, the memories of Mrs. Harper, Ivan, Rebecca, and all the others came flooding back. The blood on his hands was too much to ignore.

The faint sound of commotion from outside the church interrupted his thoughts. At first, he tried to block it out, focusing on the prayer running through his mind. But the noise grew louder, persistent. He reluctantly opened his eyes and glanced at the stained glass windows to his left. Through the dirty panes, he could make out three figures just beyond the church grounds.

Two boys, probably seventeen or eighteen, were harassing a young woman. She looked no older than eighteen herself; her face pale and frightened as they cornered her against a wall.

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out what he was seeing. It was none of his business. The last thing he needed to do was get involved. But the darkness inside of him had other ideas.

Look at them. Pathetic. Weak. Just like the others. You could tear them apart with your bare hands, Felix. Just like you did to Ivan.

His breathing grew heavier, and his pulse raced. The image of the two boys changed before his eyes—he saw them screaming in agony as he flayed them alive, their skin peeling away in ribbons beneath his hands. The thought chilled him to the core, but it was so vivid, so real that his body trembled, the urge to vomit rising once again, but he swallowed it back. His hands clenched into fists as the vision continued to torment him.

Go outside. Teach them a lesson. They deserve it. Just like Ivan did. Like Rebecca did.

Felix bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his whole body shaking with the effort to resist. He could feel the weight of the knife in his hand, though there was no knife to be found. His fingers twitched as if they already knew the act they would commit. The pain, the screams—he could see it all unfolding in perfect clarity.

Do it, Felix. Do it. Do it. Just do it.

That was it. The pressure was too much.

Felix stood up abruptly, his legs moving on their own, like a puppet being yanked on its strings. His feet carried him toward the church’s door, his mind a blur of fear and anger. The old man at the far end of the church hadn’t moved a muscle since Felix had entered, and the little girl was gone. She must have left while Felix was deep in his thoughts. He wasn’t sure, and frankly, he didn’t care.

He stepped outside into the dimming evening light. The air was colder now, a biting chill that seeped into his bones. He glanced over to where the two boys were still harassing the young woman, their voices loud, taunting.

Take them apart. Show them what real pain is like.

For a moment, Felix stood still, frozen in place. He could see it so clearly—the twisted version of himself grabbing one of the boys by the throat and slamming him against the pavement. The sickening crack of bones, the gush of blood. He could picture himself lifting the other boy by the hair and driving a knife into his chest, over and over again.

And the girl? No, he wouldn’t hurt her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She was innocent.

Would it matter to a murderer like you? You’ve already crossed the line once, what’s one more?

Felix stared at the scene before him, sweat dripping down his forehead as his body trembled violently. He took a slow, shaky step forward, and then another. The boys hadn’t noticed him yet. They were still laughing, their cruel words directed at the frightened girl. The thudding of his heart drowned out everything else, his vision blurred, and the world around him began to tilt.

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Don’t hesitate. Weak. Pathetic. They deserve it.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze locked on the two boys. He was close enough now to hear their words, the venom in their voices. One of them shoved the girl against the wall, laughing as she tried to push him away.

End them.

Suddenly, one boy noticed Felix standing there. "What the hell do you want?" the boy sneered, taking a step toward him. "This isn’t your business."

Felix said nothing. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he took a step back, his mind spinning. The girl’s eyes widened, darting between the boys and Felix, as if silently pleading for help.

The second boy snickered. "Yeah, get lost, freak. This doesn’t concern you."

Felix’s vision blurred again, the scene before him twisting, warping. He could see the boy’s face contorting in pain, his mouth open in a scream as Felix flayed the skin from his bones. The rush of blood, the warmth of it on his hands—he could almost feel it.

But then, something inside him shifted.

No.

The word was soft at first, almost drowned out by the darkness taking over his mind. But Felix latched onto it, repeating it over and over in his head.

No. No. No. No.

The boy took another step forward, clearly unafraid. "You gonna say something, or are you just gonna stand there like a dumbass?"

His heart thundered in his chest, the urge to act clawing at him with each passing second. His mind screamed for violence, the images of blood and broken bodies flashing before his eyes. But beneath that darkness, a flicker of something else—fear? Hope? He couldn’t be sure. Felix squeezed his eyes shut, the burden of his choice pressing down on him like a vice. "No," he whispered to himself, barely audible, but the word gave him just enough strength to turn away.

The boys stared after him, confused for a moment, but then they quickly turned their attention back to the girl. Felix didn’t look back, didn’t stop to listen to their taunts. He just kept walking, his feet moving faster and faster until he was practically running.

The Butcher stood outside the church, casually watching as Felix knelt before the altar. So Felix was the type who prayed, huh?

Holy places always stirred something deep within him—an uncomfortable warmth, or perhaps just the memory of seeking sanctuary long ago. Back when others had branded him less than human. His lips twitched; a muscle memory of a smile that never formed. The feeling wasn’t anger. It was something deeper, older. Something that reminded him why they all had to pay. Why he had to hunt. Why he had to kill?

Absent-mindedly, the Butcher touched the areas where Lewis had shot him earlier. The bullets had done nothing but leave surface wounds. Nothing fatal. They were more of an irritation than a genuine threat. He could still feel the sting, though—sharp and nagging. Lewis would have to wait; for now, he was focused on Felix.

Felix Carney, the so-called Flayer.

The Butcher watched as Felix came out of the church, looking like a man burdened by unseen chains. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched forward as if under the yoke of an immense, invisible guilt. But then Felix stopped. He stood still, staring at two young boys harassing a girl near the entrance. The boys—about seventeen, maybe younger—were pushing her, taunting her, while the girl looked terrified.

The Butcher stayed where he was, leaning against the shadowed side of a building, his gaze never leaving Felix. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The moment when the Flayer, the predator hidden inside Felix, would finally emerge. The Flayer, the monster who had invaded his territory, stolen one of his kills. The Butcher’s hands tightened on his cleaver just thinking about it.

He studied Felix closely, waiting to see the shift, waiting to see the monster come out. The Flayer was a creature without rules, without boundaries, an unpredictable force. Unlike the Butcher, who consecrated the hunt, who killed with purpose, the Flayer was chaos. But instead of stepping forward to claim his prey, Felix slowly turned… and walked away.

What?

The Butcher frowned, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Did Felix not find them worth killing? No, that couldn’t be it. The Flayer wasn’t one to discriminate based on worth. He killed without mercy, without thought. So why was Felix walking away?

He felt an unsettling sense of disappointment. His rage, however, was quick to rise, fueled by the anticipation that had been building. He was so certain Felix would give in to the darkness. So certain that the Flayer would show himself. But no. Instead, Felix left.

Before the Butcher could decide whether to follow Felix or not, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks—a scream.

His head snapped around. The boys. The girl. Something was happening. Without hesitation, he ran toward the commotion. The Butcher’s heart slammed against his ribcage, anticipation surging back to life. If Felix hadn’t acted, then someone else had.

He turned the corner sharply, and what he saw made him freeze.

His gaze locked onto a figure standing in the fading light—a man, gigantic and huge, with a knife glinting red in his hand. Blood dripped steadily from its blade, pooling around his boots like spilled ink. One of the boys lay dead at his feet, his throat slashed open, blood pooling around his head. Another boy was on the ground, clutching a deep slash wound on his leg, his face pale from blood loss. The man had the girl by the throat, his massive hand wrapped around her neck.

The Butcher stared, taking in the scene. The man was enormous, easily one of the largest people he had ever seen. He was dressed in tattered clothing, a torn shirt and a coat stained with blood, his eyes an unsettling shade of pale, almost transparent. There was no emotion on his face, no indication of pleasure or anger—just an empty, cold apathy.

This is him. The Flayer.

The Butcher’s breath hooked, his muscles tensing as something like awe crept into his chest, but a flash of red-hot rage swallowed it quickly. His fingers twitched on the cleaver’s handle, and his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. This was the man who had stolen his prey. The man who had dared to kill on his territory. The aura of death surrounding him was palpable, thick in the air like smoke. The cold apathy radiating from him was suffocating.

The Butcher watched in frozen silence as the Flayer ignored him, focused solely on the girl. With horrifying accuracy, the Flayer twisted the knife in his hand and, with a single motion, slit the girl’s throat. Blood spurted from the wound, her eyes wide with shock as she collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

The boy with the leg wound tried to crawl away, whimpering in pain, but the Flayer didn’t let him get far. Without a word, without any sign of emotion, he stepped forward, grabbed the boy by the hair, and stabbed him cleanly in the chest, through his heart. The boy’s body jerked once, twice, and then went still.

It was over in seconds, but the Butcher saw it all. The precision. The detachment. The complete and utter lack of feeling.

That apathy. That vexing, overwhelming apathy.

The Butcher’s hands trembled with rage. He had never felt anything like this before, not even when he had lost a kill. It wasn’t just the fact that the Flayer had killed in front of him—it was the way he did it. This man, this monster, killed as though it were nothing. As though life itself meant nothing. Where was the reasoning in that?

The Flayer didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Instead, he bent down, preparing to flay the boy’s body.

That was enough to make his rage boil over. The cleaver in his hand felt heavier, the urge to strike stronger than it had ever been. He could no longer contain it. With a roar that echoed through the empty street, he charged at the Flayer.

The Flayer turned slowly, his expression unchanged, his eyes cold and distant as if he hadn’t just murdered two people in cold blood. The sight only fueled his anger, and he swung his cleaver with all the force he could muster, the force of it splitting the air. But the Flayer was fast—unnaturally so. He ducked just in time, the massive blade whistling past his head by mere inches. The Butcher’s momentum carried him forward, his boots skidding on the blood-slick pavement as the force of the missed strike sent him stumbling a step.

But he wasted no time, grabbing the Flayer by the throat with his free hand and slamming him hard against a nearby concrete wall. The impact shook the very ground beneath them, dust and debris crumbling from the wall as the Flayer’s body crashed against it. The Flayer grunted in pain but showed no other sign of fear. Or any other emotion for that matter. His cold eyes remained fixed on the Butcher, that same detached look in them.

Infuriating! Infuriating!

With brutal strength, he reared back, ready to deliver a killing blow. But the Flayer’s hand moved to his belt, fingers curling around something—a long, serrated wire garrote. In one swift motion, he looped it around the Butcher’s right hand, just as the cleaver was coming down. The Butcher felt the wire tighten instantly, biting into his thick flesh. He roared in anger, trying to pull free, but the wire only dug deeper. Blood sprayed in dark arcs as the garrote cut through his skin, muscles, and even bone. He felt it slice through his fingers—first his ring finger, then his pinky. They dangled, hanging by mere threads of torn flesh.

Snarling through the pain, the Butcher didn’t let up. He swung his injured hand, sending blood splattering against the walls, and grabbed the Flayer with his remaining fingers, flinging him like a rag doll. The Flayer’s body slammed into a nearby steel door with such force that the metal buckled. The impact was brutal, and the Flayer’s shoulder hit the door at a sharp angle, a loud pop echoing through the empty street as his shoulder dislocated. For the first time, the Flayer cried out in pain, his arm limp at his side.

The Butcher saw his chance and lunged, but the Flayer was still sharp, still dangerous. With his good arm, he delivered a vicious kick to the Butcher’s side, striking with enough force to send a shockwave through his massive body. The crack of bone echoed in the air, and the Butcher staggered, his ribs fracturing under the blow. Pain exploded through his chest, but it only fueled his rage further.

He kept coming.

The Flayer, in a desperate move, managed to slip a sharpened blade from his coat. With a flick of his wrist, he slashed at the Butcher’s chest, the blade carving a deep gash into the Butcher’s flesh. Blood poured from the wound, dripping down his body in dark red streaks. But the Cowhead killer barely flinched.

It wasn’t enough to stop him.

Roaring like a beast, the Butcher held his cleaver tighter and swung it with savage force, aiming for the Flayer’s thigh. The blade cut deep, severing muscle and arteries. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying across the floor in torrents. The Flayer stumbled, his leg barely able to hold him up as his strength began to drain away with every drop of blood.

Panting, the giant of a man attempted to stand, but the Butcher was relentless. He slammed his forehead directly into the Flayer’s face with a savage headbutt. The impact was devastating, shattering the Flayer’s nose in an instant. A spray of blood burst from the Flayer’s face, coating the room in crimson droplets. His eyes blurred with tears and blood as he staggered back, dazed from the blow.

The Butcher, sensing victory, lunged again, grabbing the Flayer in a chokehold. His massive arms coiled around the Flayer’s thick neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. The giant thrashed, gasping for air, but the Butcher’s grip was unyielding. With his free hand, the Butcher clawed at the Flayer’s face, his fingers digging into the dense flesh. And then, with a twisted grin, he drove his thumb deep into the Flayer’s right eye socket.

The Flayer let out an agonized scream as the Butcher pressed harder, his thumb pushing deeper until the eyeball ruptured with a sickening squelch. Blood and vitreous fluid spilled down the Flayer’s face, his vision now half-gone, his right eye destroyed. The pain was overwhelming, searing through his entire body, but the Flayer’s eyes remained completely unemotional, even as he fought for breath.

The Butcher’s grip on his throat tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like it was over. But the Flayer, even in his agony, reached into the recesses of his willpower. His free hand, trembling, found the handle of the blade still in his coat. With one frantic effort, he drove the blade deep into the Butcher’s side, twisting it as he did so.

The Butcher howled in pain, releasing the Flayer as he staggered back, clutching his side. Blood poured from the wound, and for the first time, the Butcher felt his strength waning. His vision blurred, and the world spun around him.

Who is this man?

No one had ever fought back like this—no one had ever come close. The thought troubled him, twisting his pride into something bitter. Was it possible? Was there another like him, another predator who hunted for something deeper than blood? The very idea made his pulse race, but it also stoked a new fear—a fear he hadn’t felt in years.

The Flayer collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, blood still streaming from his ruined eye and his mangled leg. The Butcher, bleeding profusely and barely able to stand, glared at him with pure hatred, his cleaver slipping from his bloodied hand and clattering to the floor.

For a moment, the two killers stared at each other, both on the brink of collapse, both soaked in blood. It wasn’t clear who would make the next move, who would get up first, or who would die tonight.

But someone had to die.

The Flayer moved first, faster than the Butcher anticipated, especially for someone of his size. His remaining eye locked onto the Butcher’s chest, and with a deft twist of his blade, he drove it deep into what should have been a fatal spot. The Butcher gasped, blood spraying from the wound as he staggered back. For a moment, it seemed the fight was over. The Flayer had won.

But then the Butcher chuckled, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the Flayer. "You missed," he rasped, his voice thick with a blend of fury and mockery.

The Flayer’s eye widened as the Butcher ripped the blade from his chest with a savage pull, blood dripping from the wound. The blade had been aimed for the heart but had struck just shy of anything vital.

The Butcher, undeterred by the near-fatal strike, bent down quickly and grabbed a rough metal shard from a broken beam nearby, snapping it off with sheer force. The sharp piece of metal was now in his hand, a makeshift cleaver. The Butcher's twisted grin grew wider, ignoring the pain biting into his palm. This would be enough.

Without hesitation, the Butcher lunged, the sharp edge of the metal shard catching the Flayer off-guard. With animalistic brutality, the Butcher drove the makeshift weapon into the Flayer’s shoulder-neck area, aiming for the carotid artery. The Flayer let out a guttural growl of pain as blood spurted from the wound, soaking his shirt.

But the Flayer wasn’t done yet. Gritting his teeth, he swung his arm upward, aiming a fatal strike at the Butcher's head. However, The lunatic behind the mask dodged just in time, the knife whistling past his face. Before the Flayer could recover, the Butcher seized his shoulder with his left hand, forcing the Flayer down and driving the makeshift cleaver even deeper into his chest.

Their eyes met, a moment of raw, savage understanding passing between them. The Butcher twisted the metal shard cruelly inside the Flayer, eliciting a choked gasp. Blood poured from the Flayer’s mouth, splattering onto the ground beneath them. Savagely, the Butcher ripped the weapon out and stabbed it back into the Flayer’s chest, twisting the blade once again before pulling it out a second time.

The Flayer coughed up more blood, his body trembling, but he didn’t scream. His body was giving out, weakening with every second. The Butcher raised the weapon for one final strike, but the Flayer fell to the ground, crumpling in a pool of his own blood before the blow could land.

Panting heavily, the Butcher stood over him, staring at the motionless body. He dropped the makeshift cleaver and staggered, his body finally registering the injuries he had endured. His fingers twitched, longing for the thrill that should have come. The satisfaction of the kill. The adrenaline of the hunt reaching its end.

But there was nothing.

For the first time in years, the Butcher felt… empty. He had never felt this before—this void, this aching hollowness that consumed him from the inside.

He picked up his cleaver and turned to walk away. His body screamed in protest, his broken ribs, shredded hand, and the deep gash in his chest and side forcing him to move slower than usual. Still, he walked, hoping the familiar sensation would kick in—the rush of having claimed his prey.

Six minutes passed as the Butcher limped through the empty streets, blood trickling from his wounds. He was far enough from the scene now, but something gnawed at him. He stopped, his breath ragged and labored.

Why didn’t it feel right?

He turned back, his eyes narrowing. Slowly, painfully, he retraced his steps, heading back to the place where he had left the Flayer’s body. The blood should have been enough, the corpse should have been enough. But something was wrong.

The Butcher reached the scene of the fight, his heart pounding. He stood there, staring at the ground, eyes wide in disbelief.

The Flayer was gone.

The pool of blood was still there, dark and fresh. But the body—the Flayer’s body—was nowhere to be seen. Several blood trails led in different directions, as if the giant had dragged himself away.

The Butcher’s hands clenched into fists. The air around him seemed to thicken as a low growl escaped his throat. This had never happened before. No one had ever managed to survive a fatal kill. No one had ever left his hunt unfinished.

The pain in his body flared again, his injuries making it harder to stand, harder to breathe. The Butcher’s vision blurred for a moment, the injuries catching up to him. His chest heaved with every ragged breath. He couldn’t go after him now. He needed to rest, to treat his wounds—something he hadn’t needed to do in a long, long time.

But the hatred that boiled within him, the rage that consumed his mind, was unlike anything he had felt before. The Flayer had survived. The Flayer had escaped. The hunt wasn’t over. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It couldn’t.

The Butcher threw his head back and roared into the empty streets, the sound reverberating off the buildings. His voice echoed in the night, filled with fury, frustration, and pain. For the first time in years, he felt true pain—not just physical, but something deeper. The wound to his pride, to his sense of purpose.

The hunt had never failed before. But now it had.

The Butcher’s grip tightened on his cleaver, his teeth gritting together in pure, seething hatred. This wasn’t over. He would rest, he would recover, and then he would finish what he started.

He turned away, limping into the darkness, fury and pain guiding every step he took.