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—something 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—just a rundown hole-in-the-wall with peeling paint and broken windows—but 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—always 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 – 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—she 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—she 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.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The third man, his eyes glinting with malice, lunged at her with a snarl. Rebecca’s instincts kicked in—she 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—of taking a life. It had been an accident—self-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—Richie 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—the 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—a heavy candlestick from the table near the bedroom door—and 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—the 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—the copycat—had 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—some semblance of disgust or thrill—but 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—men 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—this 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—plain 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—they 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.