Officer Daniels had never been one to shy away from strange occurrences. During his fifteen-year tenure with the force, he had seen his fair share of horror—gruesome scenes that would forever haunt him. The Butcher’s murders were one of them. Yet, nothing in his career had prepared him for the call that came in that day.

The morning was quiet. The kind that lulled you into a false sense of peace. The sickly sweet gray hue from the barely shining sun was still covering the entire city. Daniels was nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee in his squad car; his thoughts drifting aimlessly as the city slowly woke up around him. The morning had been uneventful, and he found himself idly watching a group of teenagers loitering on a nearby corner. They were loud, obnoxious, and had prompted a noise complaint earlier, which Daniels had to address. As he took a sip of his coffee, relishing the peace, the radio crackled to life.

"All units, we have reports of a multiple casualty incident on Broadview Avenue. Possible freak accident with several fatalities. Officer Daniels, this is in your jurisdiction. Respond immediately."

Daniels nearly spilled his coffee as he fumbled for the radio. "This is Officer Daniels. I’m en route."

He threw the cup into the holder and hit the sirens, the adrenaline already pumping through his veins. Broadview Avenue wasn’t far, but the distance felt like miles as he sped through the city streets. He could sense it—a gut feeling that this wasn’t going to be just another accident. As he neared the scene, his suspicions were confirmed. Even from a distance, he could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

Then, as he turned the corner onto Broadview, he saw it—the aftermath of what could only be described as a nightmare. Wrecked cars were scattered like toys, their metal frames crumpled and torn apart as if a giant hand had crushed them. Scattered debris, shattered glass, and bodies. So many bodies.

Blood was everywhere, a thick, red sea that stained the asphalt, turning it a dark, sickening crimson. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of burning rubber, gasoline, and something else—something metallic and sharp that clawed at the back of Daniels’ throat.

He stepped out of his car, his boots squelching in the blood-soaked ground. His hand instinctively went to his gun, though he knew it wouldn’t help. What he was facing wasn’t something he could shoot. It was something far more terrifying.

Only one person was standing among the carnage. He was a young man barely out of his teens with auburn hair and amber eyes, his face pale and expression vacant. He stood on the sidewalk, trembling, his clothes splattered with blood, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. The contrast was jarring—how could anyone walk away from such devastation without a scratch?

Daniels approached him cautiously, his instincts on high alert.

"Son, are you okay?" he asked, keeping his voice calm, though inside he was anything but.

The young man didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring ahead as if he were lost in a trance.

***

Hours earlier, Felix had made a decision to end it all. He had chosen Broadview Avenue, a busy street where death would be swift and certain. He didn’t want to suffer anymore; he just wanted peace, an end to the torment that had plagued him for years.

As he stepped onto the road, his heart was pounding, but a strange calm had settled over him. He could see the cars rushing toward him, their headlights glaring like the eyes of predators. He closed his eyes and whispered a final apology to the world.

"I’m sorry."

The first car was just inches away from releasing him from the dark place he had been roaming for years. He could feel death’s embrace, and it felt soothing, relieving… beautiful. The driver tried to swerve to avoid Felix but they both knew that it was too late for that... Felix was going to die.

However, fate had other plans.

A powerful gust of wind, sudden and unnatural, swept across the street. It wasn’t just a breeze—it was like the hand of fate itself, pushing Felix back onto the sidewalk. He stumbled, falling to his knees as the car screeched past him, missing him by a hair.

Felix’s calm shattered, replaced by a wave of frustration. Why couldn’t he even do this? He screamed in his mind, cursing whatever force had saved him. But as he looked up, he realized that the wind was only the beginning.

The darkness in him had been triggered, and it was angry.

The car that had swerved to avoid Felix lost control. The driver, a middle-aged man with a look of sheer terror on his face, struggled to regain command of the vehicle, but it was too late. The car veered wildly across the road and collided head-on with another vehicle coming from the opposite direction.

The impact was brutal. The driver’s head smashed through the windshield, the glass slicing into his face as his skull split open. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the road, painting it in a ludicrous display of death itself.

The second vehicle, a compact SUV, was thrown into the air by the force of the collision. The driver inside, a young woman, let out a scream that was cut short as the SUV flipped. The world turned upside down before the vehicle landed on its roof and crashed into a streetlight with a bone-crunching thud. Her body was reduced to a mangled heap of flesh and bone, her final scream dying in the wreckage.

As the streetlight toppled over, it crushed a pedestrian who had been standing just a few inches from Felix, recording the scene on her phone. Her body was flattened instantly, her phone still clutched in her hand, recording nothing but the sky.

A motorcycle rider, trying to avoid the wreckage, skidded and lost control. The rider was thrown off the bike, his body sliding across the blood-slicked road. He hit the ground hard, his helmet shattering on impact. Along with his skull. The riderless motorcycle, still under momentum, zoomed into a fire hydrant.

The collision was loud, echoing through the street like a cannon shot. The force of the crash sent the motorcycle’s front end upwards and sideways, propelling it through the air in a deadly spiral. It crashed through the front window of the store just behind Felix, its metal frame tearing through the glass like paper.

Inside the store, a young woman who had been browsing the aisles didn’t even have time to react. The motorcycle struck her with such force that she was pinned against the counter, her body crushed as blood sprayed across the shelves. The impact caused the store’s shelves, boxes and other objects to topple like dominoes, the glass and debris raining down on the other customers. Four more people died instantly, their bodies buried under the rubble.

Outside, the driver of a third car, in a panic, veered off the road and onto the sidewalk. A group of pedestrians had gathered there, frozen in horror as they watched the chain of events that looked like something straight out of a horror movie. The car plowed into them, metal meeting flesh with a sickening crunch.

One man was thrown into the air, his body flipping head over heels before crashing into a nearby building. His head hit the wall with a sickening thud, his neck snapping instantly. Another woman was dragged under the car, her body being torn apart as the vehicle’s wheels ground her into the pavement. A young boy, no older than twelve, was caught by the car’s bumper, his small frame crumpling under the force, his life extinguished in an instant.

The moment the car had killed everyone on that sidewalk, it crashed into another streetlight, which fell and crushed the driver instantly. The force was so strong that his body was nearly split in two, his blood mixing with the growing pool on the street.

As if the carnage wasn’t enough, a delivery truck barreled down the road, the driver trying desperately to stop as he saw the destruction ahead. But the truck jackknifed, its massive frame tipping over as the driver lost control. The truck fell onto its side, skidding across the road before finally coming to a stop.

The driver was killed instantly, his body thrown against the dashboard with such force that his chest caved in, his ribs shattering like glass. But the real danger was the truck’s cargo—steel pipes, heavy and callous, broke free from their restraints and rolled into the street.

One of the pipes smashed through the windshield of a nearby car, decapitating the driver instantly. His headless body slumped forward, blood pouring from the gaping wound as the car rolled to a stop.

Stolen story; please report.

Another pipe impaled a man who had stepped out of his car to help. The metal rod pierced his chest, the tip emerging from his back as it pinned him to the ground. His mouth opened in a silent scream, blood bubbling from his lips as he gasped for air that would never come.

Yet another pipe careened into a parked car, puncturing its gas tank. The explosion that followed was deafening, a fiery blast that sent flames and shrapnel in all directions. If there had been survivors before, there weren’t any longer. It was the final purge as the blast engulfed everyone nearby, turning the scene into a hellscape of fire and blood.

But not Felix. Felix stood untouched, trembling in the center of the carnage. Blood splattered his clothes, but none of it was his own. The darkness within him had done its work, and it had spared him. But the cost was unimaginable.

***

Officer Daniels approached Felix cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He had seen enough to know that something beyond comprehension had happened here. The young man before him was at the center of it all, yet he seemed like just another traumatized witness, a survivor of unspeakable horror. But something in Felix's vacant stare, the way he stood amidst the carnage untouched, told Daniels that this was no ordinary survivor.

Felix didn’t move, didn’t react, as Daniels came closer. He just stood there, trembling, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the massacre, beyond the reality of what had just taken place. Another world where he felt safe.

The ocean. The beautiful, cold, blue ocean. The waves crashing against the rocks. I want to go to the ocean. The beautiful, cold, blue ocean.

In his mind, he could feel the cold water surrounding him, washing away the blood and the memories, pulling him under into a quiet, blue oblivion.

But no matter how hard I try to reach it, the ocean always remains just out of reach—taunting me with its impossible serenity.

"Son," Daniels tried again, his voice softer this time. "Are you okay?"

Felix slowly turned his head to face the officer. His eyes, those amber eyes that once might have held warmth, were empty. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much, someone who had crossed the threshold of sanity and was now wobbling on the edge.

For a moment, it seemed like Felix might say something. His throat worked as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. Instead, his body began to shake more violently, as if the terror inside him was too much to contain.

The ocean was now red. Blood-red. The dead were swimming in it. Rotten heads bobbed up and down. Corpses were laid on the shore. He was flaying them with that blood-stained dagger. Just as he flayed the children.

Without warning, Felix doubled over and vomited onto the sidewalk, his body convulsing with the force of it. The retching was violent, as if his body was trying to expel not just the contents of his stomach, but the horror he had just witnessed.

Daniels took a step back, instinctively reaching for his radio. He had to call for backup, for paramedics, for anyone who could help make sense of this nightmare. But even as he fumbled with the radio, his eyes never left Felix.

"Dispatch, this is Officer Daniels," he said into the receiver, his voice tight. "I’m going to need immediate assistance on Broadview Avenue. Multiple casualties, severe—no, catastrophic—damage. One survivor, in shock. Send everything you’ve got."

As he spoke, Felix collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He began pounding his fists against the sidewalk, the sound of flesh hitting concrete echoing in the eerily silent road. His knuckles split open, blood mingling with the dirt and grime on the ground, but Felix didn’t stop. He hit the ground over and over, trying to inflict some sort of punishment on himself for all the carnage.

The shack was hidden deep within the overgrowth at the edge of the Cliffside District, a part of Briarcliff where the industrial zone had begun to decay, leading up to a rocky outcrop that overlooked the river. From the outside, the shack looked like nothing more than a crude assemblage of wood and metal, almost camouflaged against the thick trees and bushes surrounding it. The roof was patched with rusted sheets of tin, and the walls were covered in moss and vines, blending it further into the natural environment.

Inside, the main room was as rough as the exterior suggested. The floor was uneven, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. A single, dim light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, flickering shadows that pranced across the walls. The air was thick with the smell of blood and rust, a combination that would have repulsed anyone else but comforted him.

Against one wall was a heavy, scarred table covered with an assortment of tools. The tools looked as if they had been scavenged from a butcher's shop, a mechanic’s garage, and a torture chamber all at once. Rusted pliers, a bone saw, a meat hook, and a hammer with dried blood on its head.

But this was just the surface. The true horror lay beyond a hidden door at the back, a door that blended impeccably into the wall, concealed so perfectly that only he knew where to push to gain access. Behind it was the Butcher’s sanctuary, the place where he planned, where he prepared, and where he reflected on his work.

The secret room was systematically organized, a stark contrast to the crude outer chamber. The walls were lined with hooks, each holding a cleaver, a chef’s knife, a meat tenderizer, or an axe. Some of the tools were still stained with the blood of his previous victims, left to dry as a reminder of the hunt. Others were spotless, cleaned thoroughly, gleaming under the dim light.

In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, its surface smooth and polished. Above it, pinned to the wall, was a series of photographs—each one of a person, each one crossed out in red ink. The Butcher kept these as trophies, reminders of the hunt, of the life he took.

On another wall was a crude map of Briarcliff, but it was no ordinary map. To an outsider, it looked like a mess of scribbles and lines, but to the Butcher, it was a detailed representation of the city's underbelly. It showed every hidden alley, every forgotten tunnel, and every sewer that ran beneath the streets.

From the wealthy Cliffside District, perched on the city’s higher grounds and filled with residential neighborhoods and commercial centers, to the rundown Riverside District, a place where the city’s labor force toiled away in factories and warehouses. Both districts were his hunting grounds, but lately, his attention had been drawn to Cliffside.

The Butcher stood in front of the wall, holding a cleaver in his right hand. He was calm as he used the tip of the blade to carve words into the wood.

"Saturdays. At the Cliffside District. Boundaries are: Ashbury Street to Haversham Lane," he murmured, the words coming out in a low voice.

He took a step back, admiring his work. The Flayer’s territory was becoming clearer, the boundaries of his hunting ground taking shape in the Butcher’s mind. He was striking in the very heart of Cliffside. But the Butcher wasn’t just interested in the where—he needed to understand the why, the how. He had already identified the days the flayer most likely struck, the time, and even the areas within the district where the bodies had been found. But there was still something missing.

But as he studied the words on the wall, a memory surfaced, unbidden. The image of Rebecca’s mutilated corpse flashed before his eyes—her skin scrupulously peeled back, her entrails spilling out, and the clinical detachment with which the Flayer had done his work.

The Butcher's grip on the cleaver tightened. Anger bubbled up inside him, starting as a slow burn in his chest before erupting into a full-blown fury. He slammed the cleaver into the wall, the blade sinking deep into the wood with a resounding thud.

"Detached," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage.

He pulled the cleaver out and swung it again, harder this time. The wall shook with the impact, splinters flying as the blade dug deep. The Butcher’s mind was consumed by thoughts of the Flayer—this impostor, the pretender who dared to tarnish the sanctity of the hunt.

"Detached!" he roared, his voice echoing in the small room as he slashed at the wall again and again. The shack shuddered with each strike, the walls creaking in fear.

For several minutes, he continued to attack the wall, his fury pouring out in each violent swing. The pictures of his previous victims rattled on the opposite wall, but they remained untouched, as if the Butcher’s rage was solely reserved for the unseen Flayer.

After what felt like an eternity, the Butcher forced himself to stop. He stepped back, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the effort. The wall in front of him was scarred with deep gouges, but the words he had carved earlier remained legible.

The Butcher stared at the damage he had wrought, his emotions slowly giving way to a cold, calculating calm. The hunt was sacred, and it had to be done with a clear mind. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him.

"Yes," he muttered to himself, nodding as if convincing himself of the truth. "The hunt must be consecrated."

He turned away from the wall and his eyes fell on a photograph pinned to the far side of the room. The image was of a man, tall and lanky, with pale gray eyes and a kind smile. The Butcher recognized him instantly—a predator, just like him. The infamous Child Killer. He wasn’t an ordinary target; he was someone who enjoyed the suffering of others. Someone who found purpose in the kill. A worthy prey.

The man’s name was Ivan, and he had eluded the authorities for the past three years, all because nobody would suspect the beloved high school teacher of being a vicious serial killer. But the Butcher saw through it all. This was his next target, the one who would remind him of what the hunt was truly about.

He licked his lips, the thrill of anticipation coursing through him. "A new prey," he whispered, his voice faint and filled with hunger.

He walked over to the wall of weapons, his fingers brushing over the various tools until they settled on a cleaver. It was one of his favorites—sharp, perfectly balanced, and with a handle that fit his hand as if it was made for him. The blade was clean, spotless, reflecting the twisted pleasure in his eyes.

With the cleaver in hand, the Butcher walked to the corner of the room and lifted a trapdoor that had been carefully concealed beneath a pile of rags. Beneath it was a well-covered hole, the entrance to an underground system. A network of tunnels and forgotten sewer lines, leading from the industrial wasteland of the Riverside District to the bustling heart of Cliffside.

As he descended into the darkness, his mind was clear and he had a renewed purpose. He had to remind himself of the hunt. The flayer could wait—now, there was fresh prey to stalk.

The Butcher moved through the underground system with the comfort of a predator in its element, his footsteps silent, his breath steady. The city above was alive with noise and activity, but down here, in the bowels of Briarcliff, there was only the sound of his heartbeat and his soft chants that grew louder with each step.

"Hunt. Hunt. Hunt. Hunt."

Each word was a promise, a vow to himself. He would find his prey, and the Butcher would remind himself of what it meant to be a true predator.