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—cluttered 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—the 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—when 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—she 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."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

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—almost. "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—people 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—he 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—anything 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—the man he had looked after for years—could 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—everything 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—something dark—that 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—and 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?