Felix walked briskly down the street, which was gradually starting to fill up with people going about their morning routines. It was already around 11 a.m., and the city was waking up in earnest. He glanced over his shoulder every few minutes, trying to make sure no one was following him, though the growing crowds made it impossible to tell. Still, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that someone was watching him, a creeping sensation that seemed to grow with every step.

"Is it Specter?" Felix muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the thought. No, it couldn’t be. Specter was dead. With his own eyes, he had seen it. Quickly, he rubbed his temples as if trying to massage away the paranoia, his head jerking from side to side, searching the sea of faces for something—anything—out of place.. His breath quickened as his feet beat faster against the ground. Soon, he broke into a run, not a sprint exactly, but an urgent jog that carried him through the tight press of pedestrians. No one seemed to notice or care about the young man dodging between them, eyes wide with panic.

Even as he ran, Felix could hear the screams. But they weren’t the screams of children this time—they were Ivan’s. The man with the pale gray eyes who had haunted Felix’s nightmares. But wait… that wasn’t right. Ivan hadn’t screamed when he was flayed alive, had he? The memory was foggy, twisted. How do you know that, Felix? You killed him, didn’t you? The voice in his mind was relentless. Of course you did. You enjoyed the feeling of sinking your knife into his tender flesh…

He clenched his jaw, trying to silence the voice, but it persisted. You liked it. Admit it. He ignored the taunting and kept running, his heart racing, his mind spiraling. No one was following him, was there? Was it just the darkness in his mind?

From a distance, concealed in the shadows, the Butcher watched as Felix ran down the street, weaving between pedestrians like a man possessed. The Butcher had been observing him for some time now, careful not to get too close. He was hidden in the shadows of a narrow alley, his expression concealed by the new cowhead mask he wore.

It had been simpler than he’d expected to locate Felix Carney, the man he suspected to be the Flayer. The auburn hair? A rare sight in this part of the city, especially in Cliffside, where the people were as gray and grim as the weather. The Butcher had followed that trail, piecing together Felix’s identity: Felix Carney, a foreigner, most likely.

The Butcher stood motionless, studying Felix from a distance. He could have ended Felix’s life right there, could have charged through the crowd and brought his cleaver down on him before anyone even realized what had happened. But he didn’t. Something about Felix gave him pause. There was no arrogance in Felix, no confidence, no detachment—the typical traits of a predator. Felix wasn’t like the other killers the Butcher had encountered. This man, who had trespassed on his territory and killed several people, was different. He didn’t look like a predator at all.

Yet the Butcher could sense something hidden within him, something dark and dangerous. A part of Felix that Felix himself seemed to fear. The Butcher narrowed his eyes, considering the possibility. Could it be a split personality? He’d heard of such things before, cases where people were unaware of the monster lurking inside them. The thought intrigued him.

Felix suddenly turned a corner and disappeared from view, but the Butcher wasn’t concerned. He had already memorized the streets, the twists and turns of Briarcliff. Moving swiftly but quietly, he ducked down a side street, sticking close to the alleyways, staying in the shadows. He moved with the grace of a seasoned hunter, his footsteps soundless as he walked along the narrow paths that ran parallel to the main street. He passed by rows of rusted fire escapes and old brick buildings blending into the hidden parts of the city.

When he re-emerged from the alley, Felix was within sight again, just up ahead. The Butcher watched him from behind a row of parked cars, hidden but close enough to study his movements. Felix was acting strange, his eyes darting back and forth, his body tense. He seemed to be fleeing from something—but from what? There was no one chasing him except the demons of his own mind.

Could it be that Felix didn’t even know what he was? The Butcher’s theory grew stronger as he watched. If he has a split personality, he might not even be aware of the Flayer. That would explain the fear in Felix’s eyes, the nervousness, the desperation to escape something he couldn’t see.

The Butcher felt a rush of excitement. He wouldn’t kill Felix. Not yet. That would violate the rules of the hunt. He only hunted predators—those who knew they were predators. To kill Felix now would be meaningless. No, he would wait. He would wait until the Flayer—the true monster—emerged. Only then would the hunt be truly complete.

Felix turned down another street, and the Butcher followed, staying hidden. He moved along a row of dilapidated warehouses, slipping between two large industrial buildings. From this vantage point, he could see Felix, but no one could see him. The Butcher’s hand tightened around the hilt of his cleaver as he imagined the moment when the timid young man would give way to the ruthless killer hidden inside him.

Specter’s eyes fluttered open, the world spinning around him. The stench of gasoline filled his nostrils, pungent and overwhelming, and the buzzing in his head was deafening. He blinked through the blood trickling down from a gash on his forehead, trying to gather his bearings. His body was one big ache, pain rippling through every limb. He tried to move, only to feel the seatbelt digging into him, adding to his misery.

"Aw, bloody hell," he muttered, coughing through the pain in his ribs. One of them, maybe two, was broken.

What the hell happened? The memory slowly came to him. I was drivin’ with Felix. Was takin’ him to… He paused, his thoughts tumbling over each other. Where was I takin’ him? Ah, right— Then that car had come out of nowhere, crashing into them. The impact, the metal screeching, the world turning upside down.

His leg throbbed, feeling bruised, maybe even fractured. Then there was his hand. Lifting it to his face, he saw a deep gash in his palm where the skin had split open.

Not as dodgy as it was back in 2005, mate. His mind drifted back to that year, to the time a group of kids had jumped him, pinned him down, and left him beaten in the alley for being "different." Different was a polite word for what they'd called him. The thought brought a pained chuckle to his lips, a soft, manic sound that was equal parts pain and madness. "Well, would ya look at that? Still kickin’, you bunch of eggheads!" he whispered to himself.

He groaned as he unclicked the seatbelt, dropping unceremoniously to the roof of the car. With a grunt, he pulled himself from the upside-down wreckage, falling hard onto the pavement. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through his leg and ribs, but he grinned through it, letting out another mad chuckle. "Could be worse, eh? Could be way bloody worse."

For a moment, he lay there, staring up at the gray morning sky. He could hear the murmurs of people gathering around the wreckage, the chatter of onlookers who came to gawk. Like a pack of pīwakawaka around a bit of kai, eh? he thought grimly. People were always drawn to disaster, weren’t they?

Absent-mindedly, Specter felt the pill bottles still clutched in his hand. He fumbled with the cap of one, popping it open and dumping a handful of pills into his mouth. Swallowing them dry, he tasted the sharp aftertaste of blood still on his tongue. His scalp throbbed from a gash that was oozing more blood to mix with the mess on his forehead.

"I’m bloody invincible, mate. Built like a brick shithouse!" he exclaimed, spitting blood onto the pavement as he staggered to his feet. His leg wobbled beneath him, threatening to give out, but he leaned heavily against the overturned car for balance.

People were still watching, some holding up their phones to take pictures, others whispering amongst themselves. None of them stepped forward to help. Specter noticed them and spread his arms wide, his lips pulling into a grin—wide, unsettling, the grin of a lunatic.

"Nothin’ can stop me!" he shouted. "Not cars, not guns, not even bloody death, bro!"

He limped forward, each step sending a dull throb through his body. But the adrenaline coursing through his veins blocked out most of the pain, at least for now. He kept rambling to himself, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear. "I’m a walking miracle, mate. Tough as old boots, eh?"

But beneath the bravado, his mind continued to buzz as usual. A real bloody miracle, Specter. But you were never good enough, eh? Not for the old man. Not when Theo was the golden boy, ay?

The thought was like a knife twisting in his gut, but Specter countered with his usual method: deflection. "Who needs those jokers, anyway? Just a bunch of flash Harrys who care more about dosh than their own bloody family," he muttered. "Yeah, nah, all I need’s a couple of Panadol and some good, fresh air."

He opened the pill bottle again, this time more carefully, and tipped two more into his hand. Diazepam and Oxycodone. Perfect. He quickly swallowed them, though he could already feel the first wave of pills kicking in. Or was it just the adrenaline? Either way, the dizziness hit him hard.

He stumbled, barely catching himself against the side of a nearby building. Specter chuckled, taking a deep breath as he wiped the blood trickling down his face. His palm stung like hell, but he’d deal with that later. For now, there was something he needed to do.

Turning his head in the direction Felix had run, Specter muttered, "Yeah, nah, can’t let ya scarper off, Felix. Not after you made me bleed more than I have in yonks."

His smile widened, a hysterical grin that exposed his bloodstained teeth. He limped down the street, his broken leg dragging behind him. The dizziness was getting worse, but he pushed through it, fueled by a cocktail of drugs, adrenaline, and sheer stubbornness.

The police lab buzzed with quiet activity as forensic technicians moved between counters filled with microscopes, DNA analyzers, and computers displaying strings of complex data. The air smelled faintly of chemicals, and the cold, sterile lighting gave the room an almost otherworldly feel. Lewis and Sarah sat side-by-side in the waiting area, watching technicians examine evidence from their recent case.

Sarah sighed, tapping her foot impatiently. "We’ve wasted enough time already."

Lewis gave a small nod but said nothing, his eyes fixated on the team of specialists. After what felt like an eternity, the forensic specialist in charge finally approached them. She was holding a tablet in her hand.

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

"You might want to take a look at this," she said, displaying a close-up of a hair strand on the screen. "This hair matches someone named Felix Carney. He’s not in our system, but based on the background checks we've run, we found some records showing that he came to Briarcliff about eight days ago. However, other records show that he might have come much earlier."

Lewis leaned forward. "Much earlier?" he echoed. His mind worked quickly. The timeline was too perfect to ignore. Felix Carney. The Flayer. It fits. He clenched his jaw and nodded to himself. "Felix could be the Flayer."

Sarah, however, wasn’t as convinced. "Hold on," she interjected. "We can’t jump to conclusions. We know nothing about him yet."

But I do, Lewis thought to himself. The Flayer appeared two weeks ago. Felix Carney arrived two weeks ago. It’s not a coincidence. He’s the only person with auburn hair at the scene of the crime. That’s enough. He’s hiding in plain sight.

Lewis stood abruptly. "I’m going to talk to the captain. I need to be put on the Flayer case," he said, making for the door.

Sarah frowned. "Lewis, we still can’t be sure that Felix is connected to the Flayer."

He spun to face Sarah. "I’m doing this because the Butcher is involved," he said, his voice cold. "That’s all."

Lewis left the lab, though deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care about the Butcher. He needed to confront the Flayer—to make that bastard pay.

He soon reached Captain Monroe’s office and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. From inside, a gruff voice answered, "Who is it?"

"Lewis Lawrence, sir."

"Come in."

Captain Monroe sat behind his cluttered desk, leaning back in his chair. He rubbed the bridge of his sharp, eagle-like nose and sighed. Lines of exhaustion, from handling more than his fair share of murder cases, marked his face. "What do you need, Lawrence?"

Without hesitation, Lewis launched into his request. "Captain, I know you’re stretched thin, but I need to be put on the Flayer case with Sarah Holloway."

Monroe let out a long breath, massaging his temples. "Lawrence, we’ve already assigned Halloway to handle it. She’s more than capable. You’re knee-deep in the Butcher investigation, and I can’t have you juggling both cases."

Lewis didn’t blink. "With all due respect, Captain, the Butcher is directly connected to the Flayer now. He’s hunting him down. If the Butcher’s involved, we need to treat this as one case."

Monroe stared at him for a moment, as though weighing his options. "Even if I do put you on the case, your personal feelings could interfere. You—"

"My feelings won’t get in the way," Lewis cut in, his tone firm. "I’m the best chance you have at catching the Flayer before the Butcher does. I know how to handle this."

Monroe sighed deeply, staring Lewis down for a long moment. Finally, he relented. "Fine, Lawrence. You’re on the case. But don’t screw this up, or you’ll never see another high-profile investigation again."

Lewis gave a quick nod. "Understood, sir."

Without another word, he left the captain’s office and walked down the hall, lost in thought. He soon spotted Thompson leaning against the wall, casually licking a lollipop while bouncing a small rubber ball.

Thompson noticed him, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a small pop. "Sarah called. Said you’ve found the person with the auburn hair?"

Lewis nodded. "His name’s Felix Carney."

Thompson twirled the lollipop between his fingers. "Never heard of him. Is he new?"

"Yes," Lewis replied. "He arrived in the city around the same time the Flayer’s murders began. And a strand of his hair was found at the crime scene. That’s too much of a coincidence to ignore"

Thompson gave a small smile. "You think he’s the Flayer."

Lewis’s eyes narrowed. "It all fits."

"For someone so smart, you have a bad habit of being wrong," Thompson said casually, bouncing the rubber ball against the wall.

Lewis sighed in frustration. "All the evidence points to him."

Thompson caught the ball mid-bounce and looked at Lewis with a lazy smirk. "Doesn’t mean he’s the Flayer."

"How else do you explain his hair being at the scene?" Lewis demanded, barely able to hide his irritation.

Thompson shrugged. "Could be a setup. The Flayer might have planted it to throw us off. The oldest trick in the book."

"And where would the Flayer get Felix’s hair from if they’re not connected?"

"That," Thompson said, popping the lollipop back into his mouth, "is what we need to figure out."

Lewis shook his head. "Well, until you have proof otherwise, I’m treating Felix and the Flayer as one and the same."

Thompson chuckled. "You were the one who suggested a fourth party could be involved. What if Felix is just that—an innocent fourth party? Or have you forgotten that now that you’ve got someone to pin your brother’s murder on?"

Lewis stiffened but remained silent.

"Look," Thompson continued, "the Flayer’s too careful. He wouldn’t leave a strand of hair unless he wanted us to find it. Think about it."

Lewis didn’t respond, just clenched his fists and turned to walk away.

Thompson called after him, still bouncing the ball. "What about that third party? Did you find anything on them?"

Lewis didn’t turn around. "We analyzed everything. Nothing. Whoever it was, they’re a ghost."

"Interesting, just like the Butcher," Thompson murmured, almost to himself.

Before he left, Lewis glanced over his shoulder. "We’ll go through Felix’s digital footprint, track any online activity, and cross-reference surveillance footage from around the city. When we find him, you want to come along?"

Thompson’s grin widened. "Of course. I’d love to see how wrong you are."

Felix had been running for what felt like ten hours. In reality, it had only been about two at best. The afternoon sun blazed down on Briarcliff, casting harsh shadows on the streets. Felix didn’t know where he was headed, but one thing was certain—he couldn’t go back to his apartment. He leaned against the side of a building, trying to catch his breath. His clothes were torn, stained with dried blood from the car accident earlier. His shirt had a rip at the shoulder, his jeans scraped, and he still smelled faintly of gasoline. He was a mess.

The street was alive with people—mothers pushing strollers, men returning from work, kids heading home from school. Felix looked around; nobody gave him more than a fleeting glance. Good. They shouldn’t care about him. They had no reason to.

Or maybe they should, Felix. Maybe they should all be scared of you. Maybe you should peel their skin apart. You like that, don’t you?

"No," Felix muttered, shaking his head as if he could shake off the voice. But it persisted, nibbling at the corners of his mind. The voice, the darkness inside him, the part that wouldn’t let him rest. He screamed, loud enough to make a few people nearby stop and stare. An old woman glanced at him nervously before hurrying away, and a man gave him a suspicious look. Felix didn’t care. He just kept walking, faster now.

Just a lunatic to them. The voice laughed cruelly in his head. They don’t know what you’re capable of.

He glanced up at the nearest street sign—Clifton Avenue. He kept walking, his heart still racing, trying to shake the creeping paranoia. But then he heard it. Sirens. The familiar wail of police sirens. Felix's pulse quickened. They aren’t here for me… Right? Why would they be?

Because you killed Ivan. You killed Ms. Harper.Tthose people on Broadview Avenue are dead because of you. You’re a murderer, Felix.

Without thinking, Felix broke into a jog, trying to disappear down an alleyway. Maybe he was being paranoid, but better safe than sorry. His pulse hammered through his veins frantically as the sirens grew louder. Suddenly, the police cars screeched to a stop next to him. The doors swung open, and three officers stepped out, their hands on their guns, but they weren’t raised. Not yet.

Felix’s chest tightened as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The world around him blurred—faces, buildings, sounds—all becoming distant. His vision tunneled as the sirens blared in his ears, louder than they had any right to be.

Oh God. This is it.

He turned and ran. He didn’t know why his legs were moving so fast, but he couldn’t stop. Panic fueled him. He dashed through alleys, across intersections, but it wasn’t enough. He rounded a corner and found himself blocked by six people. They had set a trap.

There was a young woman with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, wearing jeans and a brown jacket. Her gun was holstered at her side, but her sharp green eyes locked onto Felix with a resolve that made his stomach drop. Beside her was a man—impressively tall, with an athletic build. He looked like he had been through hell, his face tired but determined. His eyes, a deep brown, were intense, like a lion sizing up its prey. Felix didn’t want to look at him for too long. The man wore a plain suit, but everything about his demeanor screamed authority.

Then there was a third man, shorter than the others, with messy brown hair and pale blue eyes that seemed distant, unfocused. He looked out of place, almost absent-minded, as he sucked on a lollipop, not even holding a weapon.

Behind them were three more uniformed officers, heavily armed and prepared for anything.

"I don’t want to hurt you, Felix," the woman spoke first, her voice calm, almost soothing. She slowly raised her hands, trying to show him she meant no harm.

But Felix couldn’t process what she was saying. All he could feel was the panic, the walls closing in around him. He took a step back, then another. They’ll throw me in jail. I know it. I just know it.

Lewis stood tense, watching Felix closely. The street was growing louder, with people starting their day, but Lewis had his focus locked. Felix was cornered, looking like a man haunted by ghosts only he could see.

Felix looked so fragile—almost too fragile to be the same man who had flayed his brother alive. But Lewis couldn’t afford to show emotion. Whether Felix was the Flayer or just an accomplice, he had answers. Answers that Lewis needed.

Sarah stood beside him, her hand hovering near her weapon, her voice calm and measured as she spoke to Felix. "We don’t want to hurt you," she said, slowly inching forward. Her tone was gentle, non-threatening, but Felix wasn’t buying it. He looked ready to bolt at any second.

Lewis narrowed his eyes, watching Felix’s every twitch. Despite the fear in Felix’s eyes, there was something deeper there. A strange innocence. It threw Lewis off—how could this timid man be the monster who had taken his brother? The doubt gnawed at him, but Lewis pushed it aside. Regardless of what Felix looked like, he had to know something. They had to take him in.

Suddenly, a loud crash broke the silence. A rusted sedan, perched precariously on the sloped street, groaned as its wheels gave way. It rolled forward with a heavy creak, gathering speed before crashing into the car ahead with a deafening crunch of metal on metal. The sound echoed down the street, freezing everyone in place for just a heartbeat. The officers turned, guns raised, confused by the noise. That split second of distraction was all Felix needed.

Lewis’s heart sank as Felix bolted, disappearing around the corner like a startled animal. "Damn it!" Lewis shouted, raising his gun. He fired a shot, the bullet grazing Felix’s shoulder. He saw the blood spray, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Felix kept running, vanishing into the maze of alleyways.

More gunshots echoed from the other officers, but none found their mark. Just as Lewis prepared to follow, a figure stepped into his line of sight – a hulking mass of muscle and menace. The Butcher.

The cleaver gleamed in the morning light as the hulking man blocked the alley, his cold eyes glinting with amusement. It was the first time Lewis was seeing him but that didn’t matter. He fired at the hulking figure in front of him, but the bullets seemed to do nothing. The Butcher merely smirked before slipping back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

"That son of a—" Lewis began, but a sudden crackle cut his words off.

An electric wire that had been knocked loose snapped from the pole, swinging wildly through the air. Lewis didn’t even have time to react before Thompson tackled him to the ground. The wire hissed and sparked, narrowly missing them by inches as it swung wildly through the air.

But others weren’t so lucky.

Lewis heard the screams before he saw it. The wire struck the three officers behind them. Their bodies jerked violently as electricity surged through them, their screams cutting through the air like knives. In mere seconds, they were dead. Smoke curled up from their charred uniforms, the smell of burnt flesh filling the alley.

Lewis couldn’t look. He clenched his fists and slammed them into the pavement, his voice trembling with guilt. "I shouldn’t have shot. I didn’t know the Butcher and Felix would be working together…"

Thompson stood, dusting himself off, his usual detached calmness returning. "They aren’t working together," he corrected.

Lewis looked at him, confused. "He helped him escape."

Thompson grinned, twirling his lollipop. "Of course he did. He doesn’t want someone else taking his prey."

He watched as Thompson wandered over to the charred bodies of the two officers, crouching down to inspect them. A childlike grin spread across his face, eyes glinting with fascination. Then, with a burst of glee, he said, "It’s like watching two lions fight over the same gazelle! Oh, this is going to be so much fun. The Butcher, the Flayer, and now Felix? It’s a game of predators hunting predators!" He chuckled, the sound eerily infectious.

Lewis just stared at Thompson, a sinking feeling in his gut. There was something deeply wrong with this man, something unsettling in the way he delighted in the carnage. Thompson remained dressed in his rumpled, casual clothes—a faded graphic tee, paired with jeans and worn-out sneakers. He looked like someone who had rolled out of bed and walked into a murder scene without a care in the world, completely unbothered by the surrounding horror.