It had been three days and the morning light filtered weakly through the windows of Lewis’s apartment, casting pale strips of the Monday sunlight across the room. The usual warmth of dawn was absent; instead, the air was thick with the chill of silence. The apartment was still, too still, as though even the world outside had paused to hold its breath. Lewis sat hunched on the L-shaped gray suede couch, his body slumped forward, hands gripping his knees. He looked more like a corpse that a man who was alive. He stared at the photo on the glass coffee table in front of him with his sunken and hollow eyes.

Sarah stood across from him, leaning against the wall with her arms tightly folded around herself, as though trying to ward off the cold that wasn’t there. She swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she spoke.

"I still can’t believe he’s really gone."

Lewis didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat felt too tight, like his emotions had balled up there, refusing to move, refusing to let him speak. His eyes remained glued to the photo—Thompson’s corpse. Artfully stripped of skin. Done with even more precision than any of the others, a horrific wonder in its own right. And there was nothing Lewis could do to erase that image from his mind.

For a brief second, his vision blurred, and he realized his eyes were burning—tears threatening to spill. But he couldn’t let them. Especially not in front of her.

His breathing locked in his throat, barely noticeable, but enough that he clenched his fists tighter against his knees, hoping the pain in his palms would keep him chained to reality.

An icy knot twisted tighter in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. I failed him. That was the thought running through his head like a drumbeat, each repetition louder than the last. I should have seen it coming. I should have stopped him. His hands trembled as the realization settled in deeper. He had known Thompson wasn’t the type to sit still, to just follow orders. He had known the child of a man would go off on his own, yet he had done nothing to stop it. Now he was dead. And for what?

"Are you okay?" Sarah's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts.

For a moment, it was as if she hadn’t spoken. Lewis barely heard her. His mind was far away, trapped in that room, staring at Thompson’s flayed body. How could he be okay?

He tried to respond, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t fine. He could hear it now, the bouncing rubber ball Thompson always played with, echoing against the walls of his mind. The sound of him biting his fingernails, the click of the rubber band he constantly fidgeted with. Memories of those little habits flooded Lewis’s mind, sounds that used to irritate him, but now... now they haunted him.

How can someone so damn annoying be so… missed?

Lewis blinked again, harder this time, as though trying to shake the memory loose. But it wouldn’t leave. His breathing became shallower. It was like drowning, but without the relief of water.

Sarah moved closer. She sat down beside him on the couch, her presence gentle; as if afraid she might shatter him. "Lewis," she breathed, "You don’t have to hold it all in. You can talk to me."

For a long time, Lewis stayed silent, the war raging inside him. Don’t break down. Don’t lose it. You can’t. But the weight was crushing. His chest heaved, and his breath hitched again—this time louder. But with each second that passed, the dam inside him slowly cracked. His hands trembled, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Then, in a moment of vulnerability, he let go. The walls came down.

The tears came fast and hard, his body shaking with the force of them. He hadn’t cried like this in several years. Now it was all crashing down. Every wall, every defense he had built around himself, was crumbling.

His face crumpled into his hands, his shoulders convulsing as sobs wracked his body. Each one tore through him like a serrated blade, leaving his chest raw and aching. The taste of salt filled his mouth as tears leaked through his fingers, muffling his cries.

Sarah hesitated for a moment, and then she reached out, placing her hand on his back, stroking it in slow circles. She didn’t say anything. She just let him break, let him fall apart.

"I failed him," Lewis choked out through the tears. "I should have seen it coming... It was predictable that he'd go off on his own. But I didn’t listen. I didn’t... care enough."

Sarah’s hand stilled for a second, then resumed its soothing movement, but she remained silent.

"It’s my fault," Lewis continued, his voice raw with guilt. "I was so caught up in my brother’s death, so consumed with everything going wrong that I didn’t care enough about what Thompson was dealing with. And now he’s gone. I couldn’t protect him... I couldn’t stop it."

The pain, the anger, the guilt—everything Lewis had been holding together for so long—was now unraveling. The Butcher. His brother’s death. The Flayer. Thompson. Everything was falling apart and Lewis couldn’t hold it together anymore.

He thought of Thompson, of the things he used to say. His fascination with criminals, his detached, almost robotic behavior. Thompson had always seemed like an enigma, a mystery that Lewis had no interest in solving. He had dismissed Thompson’s strange comments, brushed off his theories as ramblings, and now... now he wondered if he had ever really known him at all.

Had he ever taken the time to see Thompson for who he truly was? Or had he been too wrapped up in his own pain to care?

A bitter laugh escaped his throat, harsh and broken. "God, I didn’t even like him… not really. And now I wish I had. He was trying to tell me something," Lewis muttered. "He always tried to tell me... but I didn’t listen."

"You couldn’t have known," Sarah whispered, her voice soft, but firm. "Thompson... he had his own demons, Lewis. You weren’t responsible for that."

"I could’ve been there for him. He didn’t have to die like this. Flayed. Like some goddamn animal..."

There was a heavy silence except for Lewis’s sobs; Sarah squeezed his shoulder again, her presence grounding him. Finally, after what felt like hours, his sobs quieted. His breathing slowed, ragged and uneven, but steadier. He wiped his face with his sleeve, his eyes red and puffy from the tears. His head throbbed, but for the first time in a long while, he felt… lighter. As though letting go of the burden had left room for something else. Something that wasn’t pain.

"Where was his body found?" his voice was strained.

Sarah hesitated, her voice quieter. "Near the church."

The church. Of course. That’s where Felix would most likely go. That’s where the Butcher had likely gone after him. Lewis closed his eyes, piecing everything together. Thompson had believed, truly believed, that Felix and the Flayer were not the same person. Lewis had brushed that off at first, but now... now Thompson had died for it. The least he could do was honor that.

Lewis closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was in Felix’s mind, using the strange method Thompson had once taught him.

What would Thompson see? What would he feel?

The answer came to him like a spark igniting in his brain. A place to hide. Somewhere to be by yourself. A place to confront his demons. Felix would go somewhere hidden. Somewhere where it all began.

"I know where he is," Lewis whispered, his voice firm now, as he stood up.

Sarah frowned, standing up as Lewis reached for his gun. "Where? Who?"

"I’ll explain later. Just go to the station. Get backup. Tell them to meet me."

"Are you going alone?"

Lewis didn’t answer immediately. His hands trembled slightly as he held the gun, his fingers running over the cold metal. "We don’t have time. If we wait, they’ll disappear again. I need to finish this."

Sarah stepped closer, her voice softer, but filled with worry. "Promise me you’ll come back."

Lewis paused, his back to her. He didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "I promise."

Lewis hesitated at the door, his hand gripping the handle. His heart pounded in his chest, but there was no fear—just an overwhelming sense of finality. He wasn’t coming back from this, not really. His grief, his guilt—it had already swallowed him whole. He whispered the words, so quietly that they nearly faded into the air.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"But I might not come back alive."

And with that, Lewis walked out, his own grief and guilt pulling him forward into the unknown.

Felix moved through the darkened streets like a shadow, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been carefully avoiding the police patrols scattered throughout the city. Ever since that close encounter with the officers earlier, he knew they’d be watching his every move, expecting him to make a mistake. He'd nearly been caught more times than he could count, but he was smarter than they gave him credit for. At least, he had to be.

Now, his goal was to get back to his apartment one last time. He needed to collect some belongings—whatever hadn’t already been confiscated by the police. With every step, Felix’s mind buzzed with a constant stream of anxiety. He didn’t know what the future held for him, but one thing was certain: he couldn’t stay in Briarcliff any longer.

When he reached his street, Felix moved cautiously. He saw the police officers stationed near the building, watching every passerby, their faces stern and alert. Felix clenched his jaw and pulled the hood of his jacket lower over his head.

From where he stood, he could just make out the building that housed his apartment. Or what remained of it.

He had been running for countless hours now, and he was exhausted. Blood stained the sleeve of his jacket where the bullet had grazed him, but the wound had scabbed over by now. He needed to get in and out of the apartment without being caught by the police. The odds weren’t in his favor, but then again, when had they ever been?

It had taken him nearly two hours to scout the building. Two police officers stood near the entrance, talking and casually glancing up at the windows. Felix’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. He knew their patrols by now, their shifts. When they took breaks, when they started getting complacent. Felix waited until the two officers wandered toward their usual corner at the far end of the block to grab coffee, talking casually like it was any other day. They had no idea they were being watched.

Felix kept low as he slipped into the back entrance of the building. His pulse quickened as he found the old fire escape ladder, rusted and creaky, but still functional. Felix carefully climbed up, making sure not to make any noise that would attract attention. When he reached his floor, he peeked into the window of his apartment. No one was inside. Good.

Felix pried the window open, a skill he had honed over the years, and slipped into the apartment silently. The familiar smell of dust and mildew hit him, but the place felt cold and lifeless. Everything had been disturbed, ransacked by the police during their investigation. Some of his belongings were missing—evidence, no doubt—but they hadn’t taken everything.

Felix quickly moved around the room, grabbing the few things he could still use: his notebook, a bag, some clothes, a hidden stash of money, and a small photograph of his sister, Elaine. His hand hesitated over the photo for a moment before he tucked it into his jacket. He didn’t have time to think about the past now.

As he turned, his eyes fell on a small paper bag by the door—the one Ramona had left him. The one he had left behind. It was still there, untouched.

Suddenly, he heard a soft voice from behind him.

"Felix?"

He froze.

Turning slowly, he saw her—Ramona. She was standing in the doorway of his apartment, looking at him with wide, curious eyes. She wasn’t scared, not really. More like she was surprised. Her soft brown hair was still tied in the same messy ponytail, and she wore a casual outfit, jeans and a sweater. She looked like she had just come back from the bakery. She always did look friendly. Too friendly.

"The police have been around, asking about you," she said, stepping further inside. "They think you’re some kind of criminal."

Felix’s mind raced, but his body remained still. Ramona’s eyes were on him, searching for some kind of explanation.

"You don’t seem like one, though," she continued. "I mean, you never talk, but you seem... I don’t know. Normal?"

Normal. Felix almost laughed at the word. Nothing about him was normal. He had spent his whole life running from something—something dark, something deep inside him that he couldn’t explain. He was far from normal.

Ramona waited for a response, but Felix just stood there, his hands fidgeting slightly as he reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a clean page. His pen scratched against the paper as he wrote his response: I’m not who you think I am.

Ramona read the words, her eyebrow raised. "What do you mean? Are you in trouble?"

Felix hesitated before writing again: They think I killed someone. It’s complicated.

"Complicated how?" she asked, her tone gentle, but there was a note of confusion there now, perhaps even concern. "Felix, you need to talk to someone. You can’t just keep running and hiding. If you didn’t do anything wrong—"

He shook his head vigorously, silencing her. The last thing he wanted was for her or anyone else to get involved. His hand moved over the paper again, faster this time

You don’t understand. I’m dangerous. I can’t explain it, but I can’t be here anymore.

Ramona stared at him, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of shock and confusion. She stepped closer, her voice softer now, as though she could somehow reach the part of him that was still human, still salvageable. "Felix, whatever it is, you don’t have to run. You can tell someone. Anyone."

There was something wrong with this lady. Felix’s hands tightened on his notebook. His head swirled with memories—dark, twisted memories of his childhood. The Flayer. Those children. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t drag anyone else into his mess.

He handed her the paper bag she had left him earlier—the pastries she had given him. Ramona took it, confused.

"You didn’t eat them?" she asked, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Felix shook his head again, writing once more in his notebook.

I didn’t have time… I’m leaving for good.

"Leaving?" Ramona’s voice trembled slightly. "Where are you going?"

Felix didn’t answer. He simply wrote: I know how to escape the darkness now.

Ramona read the words, her confusion deepening. "What do you mean?"

Felix’s hand trembled as he wrote the words. The pen felt heavy in his grip, like each stroke of ink was pulling him further away from whatever sliver of hope he had left. He couldn’t meet Ramona’s eyes—not when they were filled with the concern he didn’t deserve. His breath hitched as he passed her the note, his heart pounding, the cold certainty of his decision settling into his bones. He needed to go. Before his darkness swallowed her, too.

He showed her the note: By killing it myself.

Ramona’s eyes widened, her heart skipping a beat. "Felix, what are you talking about? You can’t—"

But Felix shook his head, cutting her off. He put his notebook away and pulled his hood back over his head, signaling that the conversation was over. He had made up his mind. Without another word, he turned toward the window, ready to leave.

Ramona reached out, her hand brushing his arm. "Felix, wait. Please, don’t do something you’ll regret. We can go to the police, and I’m sure they will hear you out."

Felix paused, glancing back at her, but there was nothing left to say. He gave her a small, sad smile and gently pulled away from her grasp. Then, just as silently as he had entered, he slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.

Ramona blinked, her mind reeling. She stared down at the pastries in her hands, her heart pounding. What just happened?

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Ramona turned, startled, and quickly composed herself. Two police officers stood in the doorway, their faces serious but not aggressive.

"Ma’am, we heard some noise coming from this apartment," one officer said, his hand resting casually on his belt. "Has anyone been here recently?"

Ramona felt her heart leap into her throat. Her eyes darted to the window where Felix had just disappeared. She could still feel the influence of his words, the heaviness of whatever burden he carried. Slowly, she shook her head.

"No," she mumbled, then held up the paper bag with a smile. "No one’s been here. I just came to grab something I left behind."

The officers exchanged glances, clearly not convinced but not suspicious enough to push further. "Alright, ma’am. If you see or hear anything, let us know immediately."

Ramona nodded. "Of course."

As the officers left, Ramona closed the door behind them and leaned against it, her thoughts spiraling out of control. Why had she lied? Why had she protected him? She wasn’t even sure who Felix really was, but something in his haunted eyes had pulled at her, a desperation she couldn’t ignore. He didn’t seem dangerous—at least, not in the way the police had painted him. But what if she was wrong? What if, by lying, she was enabling something far worse?

Her hand tightened around the paper bag, her chest feeling heavy. What if Felix never escaped his darkness, and even if he did, won’t he be forever scarred by it?

Specter leaned against the wall, his sharp eyes tracking Felix from a distance as he slipped through the window and landed gracefully on the old fire escape. The boy moved like a ghost—silent and quick. Snuck in like a possum on a powerline, Specter mused with a half-smile, though he shook his head at the thought. It wasn’t night. It was the middle of the afternoon.

He’d been staking out Felix’s apartment for a day now, following nothing more than a gut feeling that the kid would eventually come back. The waiting had almost convinced him otherwise—almost made him think he’d arrived too late. But here he was. Felix "The Flayer" Carney, as slippery as an eel in wet mud.

Specter watched as Felix descended the rusted fire escape ladder carefully. Good on ya, mate. A spark of excitement lit inside Specter. He hadn’t felt this thrill in a long time. He’d almost forgotten why he had become a mercenary in the first place.

He stretched his back, wincing slightly. His injuries from the car crash three days ago were still bothering him, though he’d done his best to patch himself up. The gash on his forehead had scabbed over, the pain dulled to a manageable throb. His ribs were still tender—bloody sore as, actually—but nothing a bit of strapping hadn’t sorted out.

He couldn’t take deep breaths without wincing, but it was bearable. His leg was more or less functional now too, the fracture mostly wrapped tight, though each step sent jolts of discomfort up his thigh. His scalp wound, well, it had crusted over, leaving a faint trace of dried blood on his matted hair. The only injury that hadn’t fully healed was the gash in his palm. The skin had knitted itself back together somewhat, but it was still raw, and every time he used his hand, it stung.

But Specter was used to pain. Hell, pain was his best friend at this point.

He slipped his silenced pistol from one of his many pockets, leveling it at Felix’s back. Just one shot. Clean and simple. He exhaled slowly, finger teasing the trigger—when he noticed the people. Ah, bloody hell. There were too many eyes. Families, workers, and random bystanders all cluttered the street.

Nah, can’t do it here, bro. Be a right scene, aye, he thought to himself, lowering the gun. No need to attract the coppers. Felix was slippery, but Specter could be patient. He'd just wait until they were isolated. He’d end it where no one could interfere.

Stuffing the pistol back into his pocket, Specter took a step forward, keeping his distance as Felix rounded a corner. He whispered out softly to himself, "Eh, no worries. I’ll still get mine. Might as well take my time, let the fish wriggle round before I pull him in, eh?"

He followed the boy with a quiet grin.