It had been three days since Ivan killed Bob Bush, and the Butcher had been vigilantly monitoring him ever since. The Butcher stood silently in the shadows outside of Ivan’s apartment, staring up at the window from the cold darkness of the night. Nobody noticed him, everyone was too occupied with their phones, their thoughts or the conversations they had with others as they walked by. The chill in the air didn’t bother him; it rarely did. His mind was elsewhere, focused entirely on Ivan.
Ivan had left his light on. No surprise there. The light always stayed on when Ivan didn’t have an unfortunate soul tied to his bedpost, waiting to meet their grisly fate. He only turned it off when he was ready to sleep, when the blood had been cleaned up and he had satisfied his hunger for blood. The Butcher knew this. He knew much more—when he left his apartment, when he returned, even the way he moved.
On weekends, Ivan was a complete shut-in but during the week, he was someone else. He was the kind high school teacher that all the kids loved. He had that disarming smile, that false air of harmlessness. But once the clock struck 7:00 p.m., he became a predator, a monster hiding in plain sight. By then, Ivan would slip out of his apartment, get into his taxi, and lure unsuspecting children into his car. They’d trust him—why wouldn’t they? He looked safe, spoke kindly. Then he’d drug them, take them back to his apartment, and indulge his sick fantasies. was when he hunted, picking up unsuspecting students, drugging them, and taking them back to his carefully constructed slaughterhouse. But not tonight. The Butcher had other plans.
The Butcher’s eyes flicked up to the darkening sky. 7 p.m. was close—he could feel it in his bones, the thrill of the hunt stirring to life in his chest. Ivan would be getting ready soon. His hand tightened around the handle of the cleaver strapped to his side. The Butcher turned to face Ivan’s apartment one last time then with a low grunt, he moved on, disappearing further into the shadows, down the street. It wasn’t time to strike just yet.
Inside his apartment, Ivan glanced at his wristwatch. The time read 6:49 p.m. He hurried to the window and peered outside, his gaze scanning the street below. Everything seemed normal, the streetlights casting their usual pale glow over the street. A few people moved about but nobody seemed suspicious. Good. He’d check again in exactly seven minutes—no more, no less. It had to be seven minutes. That was the rule.
The streets are beautiful tonight, the monster murmured, lounging lazily on the bed. Don’t you love how they trust you? The little lambs, walking into the wolf’s den to play.
Ivan didn’t answer aloud, but he nodded. Gathering his things—his keys, wallet, drugged handkerchief, deodorant—he took a moment to brush his hair thoroughly in the mirror. The monster watched him, amused.
You look good, Ivan. Today’s going to be a good day. I can feel it.
Ivan smiled at the monster, its words comforting him. "Yes, today will be a good day," he said softly to himself. Everything was in his control. Everything was in his control, just as it always had been. He glanced at his watch again—6:56 p.m. Good. He had used only seven minutes. He rushed to the window again, peering outside, and once more, everything seemed normal. However, a strange shiver crept up his spine. It wasn’t the cold—it was something else.
You’re feeling nervous again, Ivan. Calm yourself. You’re in control. You’ll always be in control, the monster murmured from the bed, now standing beside him and placing a ghostly hand on his shoulder.
Ivan nodded to himself, pushing away the creeping paranoia. He had nothing to worry about. He was always careful. Always.
At 7 p.m. sharp, Ivan left his apartment. He descended the stairs calmly, stepping out into the cool evening air. People were still walking about. Ivan took a moment to glance left, then right, ensuring no one was watching. Satisfied, he made his way to his taxi.
The car sat parked, under a dim streetlight. The paint dull, the bumper scratched from years of careless driving. It was an unassuming vehicle, the kind that blended in with the city. But to Ivan, it was something more. It was a weapon, a trap. Once inside, his victims never left the same.
Ivan settled into the driver’s seat, running a hand over the steering wheel. He started the engine and drove down the quiet streets, heading to a place not far from where he was, remote but frequented just enough by unsuspecting students.
After a while, he arrived at Mill Street Junction, a remote intersection near the old train yards. It was quieter than usual, but that didn’t bother Ivan. It was perfect, really. Fewer witnesses. The streetlights flickered weakly, and the only sound was the distant hum of traffic from the main roads. Ivan stepped out of the taxi, scanning the area. Normally, he would see a couple of stragglers—students heading home late, maybe a passerby—but tonight, there was no one. It was almost too quiet.
"Maybe I should try somewhere else," he muttered, reaching for the door handle.
But then, something caught his eye. A shadow moved in the distance, flickering just outside of the light’s reach. Ivan’s breath hitched. He didn’t turn around immediately; instead, he slyly glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing. The street was empty.
It’s just nerves, Ivan. It’s all just nerves. Nobody’s here. The monster’s voice was reassuring, as always.
Ivan chuckled to himself. Of course, the monster was right. Why would anyone follow him? No one knew about him. No one could ever know. He was too vigilant.
As he fumbled with his keys, the feeling crept back. The presence. Like eyes burning into the back of his skull. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. And this time, Ivan turned around sharply, pulling a knife from his pocket, ready for anything.
But he wasn’t ready for the Butcher.
A sharp, heavy blow came out of nowhere, slamming his face into the side of the taxi with brutal force. His knife fell from his grip, clattering uselessly to the ground. Ivan collapsed, groaning as the taste of blood filled his mouth. His lip was split, swelling quickly. His forehead throbbed, and he could already feel a bruise forming.
Still on the ground, he swiftly grabbed his knife then swung blindly, catching the Butcher’s leg with a shallow slash. But the beast barely reacted. Instead, he raised his cleaver high and swung it down toward Ivan’s head with terrifying speed. Ivan rolled away just in time, the cleaver missing him by inches. He staggered to his feet and ran, his heart pounding in his chest.
Ivan’s movements were wild, his breaths short and sharp, like a caged tiger sensing death’s approach. He darted left, then right, each path blocked by a dead end or by shadowy, hulking shapes. No matter where he turned, it was a dead end or the Butcher was already there, herding him like prey down the long, narrow street. The Butcher’s footsteps never quickened, his cleaver hanging loosely at his side, as if he had all the time in the world.
Before long, Ivan found himself in the old train yards. The area was desolate, a decaying industrial zone filled with rusted cranes, abandoned silos, and overgrown train tracks. It was the perfect hunting ground.
Ivan ducked behind a rusted train car, trying to calm his ragged breathing. He peered out from behind the metal, catching a glimpse of the Butcher moving slowly towards him. The Butcher stopped suddenly, tilting his head, as if he were sniffing the air.
Run, now, Ivan! Run now! the monster screamed in his head, but Ivan shook his head. No, he couldn’t just run blindly. The Butcher was too smart for that. He needed to be smarter.
Ivan looked around, scanning the area for something, anything. His eyes fell on an old lever attached to the rusted undercarriage of the train. Quickly, he stuffed his jacket into a crevice between the train cars, leaving it as a decoy. Then he reached for the lever, his fingers trembling. The Butcher’s footsteps were only feet away now. He could hear his heavy breathing, the sound of leather gloves tightening around the cleaver's handle. The beast was close enough to smell Ivan’s sweat.
But then the Butcher froze, staring at the jacket Ivan had left behind. For a moment, he hesitated.
That split-second confusion was all Ivan needed. He yanked the lever, releasing a steel cable that snapped free from the undercarriage. The side of the train car, already rusted and weakened, collapsed toward the Butcher. Ivan dashed forward just as the debris fell, slamming into the Butcher with a bone-crunching thud. His cleaver clattered to the ground as he was buried beneath the metal.
Run now, Ivan! Run! the monster urged.
Ivan didn’t hesitate this time. He darted between the rusted tracks, his feet pounding against the pavement, his mind unable to believe what had just happened. He had outsmarted him, brought the hulking monster down beneath a ton of rusted metal. The Butcher was dead. Ivan almost allowed himself to smile. Almost.
Behind him, a loud crash echoed through the night. Ivan skidded to a halt and turned slowly. His breath froze in his throat as he saw the impossible.
From beneath the crumpled metal, the Butcher rose—slowly, cautiously —his massive form dragging free from the wreckage as though shaking off dust. His chest gaped where the metal had torn flesh, but he moved as if the wound were a mere scratch. His cleaver, already back in his hand, glinted dangerously under the moonlight, and his eyes—those cold, rage-filled eyes—locked onto Ivan.
"That should have killed you," Ivan muttered, panic seizing his chest. "You aren’t supposed to be alive."
Ivan stumbled backward, his legs weak, fear crawling up his spine like ice. The monster in his head screamed at him to run, but his body froze as if shackled to the ground. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the Butcher as he slowly approached him, blood tricking down his body, staining the ground beneath him
As soon as he reached Ivan, the Butcher swung his cleaver at Ivan’s head. Ivan ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade, feeling the rush of air as it passed. The Butcher was already swinging again—faster this time. Ivan barely managed to twist out of the way, but the blade caught his thigh, slicing through flesh. A searing pain exploded through his leg, and Ivan crumpled to the ground with a pained groan, clutching the wound as blood poured from the gash.
The Butcher stood over him like a demon from the pits of Hell. His eyes gleamed with a sick, animalistic pleasure as he watched Ivan clutch his wound in pain.
The knife, Ivan. Your knife! the monster screamed inside his head.
Ivan fumbled for the knife still in his pocket, pulling it out and slashing wildly at the Butcher’s forearm. The blade bit into his flesh and blood sprayed, but the man didn’t even flinch. He growled—a low, rough sound—and brought his boot down hard on Ivan’s shoulder with enough force to dislocate it with a sickening crunch.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Ivan screamed in agony, his vision blurring as pain shot through his body like wildfire. His arm hung uselessly at his side. He tried to push himself up, but the Butcher leaned in close, his voice guttural as he whispered, "Run."
Ivan’s breathing steadied, the fear dissolving into something colder. His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles hurt. He wasn’t going to die here—not like this. His heartbeat, once frantic, now pounded with a new rhythm: rage.
His eyes darted around, desperate for anything that could help him. That’s when he saw an old chemical drum not far from where he lay. His eyes brightened. If he could just get there…
He crawled, his body screaming in pain with every inch, toward the drum. The Butcher followed, his pace slow, savoring the moment. He didn’t care. Why would he? Ivan was broken, bleeding, and crawling on the ground like a worm. He wasn’t going anywhere.
When Ivan finally reached the drum, he grabbed a broken pipe lying nearby and punctured the barrel. Chemical liquid spilled out, spreading across the ground. Ivan didn’t hesitate. He scraped his knife against the metal to create a spark.
The liquid ignited instantly, flames roaring up between them. The fire exploded in the Butcher’s face, catching his neck and mask, forcing him to step back with a snarl of rage. The heat and smoke stung Ivan’s eyes, but he pushed through the pain. He had to move. Now.
With his good arm, Ivan pulled himself to his feet, staggering forward. His dislocated shoulder throbbed, and his leg was drenched in blood, but he limped as fast as he could away from the Butcher. He didn’t dare look back.
When he finally allowed himself a glance, he saw the fire illuminating the Butcher’s figure. The flames had melted parts of his mask, revealing more of his face—a face that would have been handsome or even regal under normal circumstances, if not for the fact that it was twisted in a monstrous expression of rage. His long black hair, now singed at the edges slightly covered his blue eyes that burned with fury, not pain. Just raw, unfiltered anger.
For a brief moment, Ivan stood there, paralyzed.
The Butcher turned toward the riverbank, a small stream that ran through the decaying industrial zone. The chemical fire licked at his face and mask as he walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
Ivan watched, horrified and awestruck at the same time. But the brief reprieve was all Ivan needed. Without another glance, Ivan let out a shaky breath as he limped into the night. How long would it take for the Butcher to recover? Minutes? Hours? Days? Ivan couldn’t afford to wait around to find out.
He kept running, the pain in his leg growing worse with every step, but he forced himself forward. His head ached as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had set a trap for the Butcher, crushed him under a train car, and then set him on fire. And yet, the Butcher was still standing. Still coming for him.
The pain in his leg finally became too much to bear and Ivan fell on the roadside. Blood dripped steadily from the wound in his thigh, pooling on the dirty ground beneath him. He carefully removed his belt and tied it around his upper thigh, tightening it to slow the bleeding. He looked around, desperate for a solution, for a way out. But it struck him, sudden and unstoppable, like a locomotive at full speed.
He wasn’t in control anymore.
Lewis sat hunched over the case files, tapping his fingers in frustration. Control—he needed something to control in this case. But every lead felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The living room was modestly upscale, a reflection of his middle-class upbringing with a touch of ambition. The L-shaped gray suede couch he shared with Thompson felt well-worn yet expensive, the kind of furniture bought when one finally feels they've "made it." Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with books and various police case files. A minimalist glass coffee table sat in front of him, littered with case files, papers, and pens. The floor was covered in a thick, plush rug that muffled footsteps, while modern pendant lights casted a soft glow over the room. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with true crime novels and legal texts. A large, black television hung on the far side of the room, and while it was capable of delivering cinematic visuals, tonight it served as a distraction for Thompson, who was slumped into the opposite end of the couch.
The television played an animated show with colorful characters—something Thompson had found while channel surfing. It was a generic, slapstick cartoon filled with exaggerated action and cheesy one-liners. The kind of show most people wouldn’t give a second glance, yet Thompson watched with a quiet, lazy fascination.
"A hundred and twenty murders in the past five years, right?" Lewis asked, eyes glued to the stack of files.
Thompson, without looking away from the TV, mumbled, "Uh-huh."
"Thompson, are you even paying attention?" Lewis snapped, looking up from the stack of papers.
Thompson blinked, pulling his gaze away from the television. He yawned, stretching lazily. "Yeah, yeah. I’m listening," he said, though the bags under his eyes and the drowsiness in his voice suggested otherwise.
Lewis frowned, tossing a file onto the glass table. "I’ve been going over these cases for hours, and all you’ve done is stare at that stupid show. How can you sit there watching cartoons when we’re trying to catch a goddamn serial killer?"
Thompson rubbed his tired eyes, his usual unemotional voice carried a hint of nonchalance. "I’m not a night owl, Lewis."
"I don’t care. This is important. We have to find the Butcher."
"It’s not like we’re going to crack the case tonight, Lewis. Besides," Thompson said, settling deeper into the couch, his posture a study in apathy, "I’m just trying to keep my mind clear. If you focus on this stuff too hard, you’ll end up going mad."
Lewis glanced at the files in his lap and then back at Thompson, incredulity in his voice. "Don’t you want to bring the Butcher to justice? Isn’t that why you convinced me the Butcher and the person that murdered Rebecca and Martin are different people?"
Thompson’s eyes flickered over to Lewis before he shook his head. "No, it’s because you were wrong, is all."
Yup, he doesn’t care about catching the Butcher.
Thompson sighed, his gaze returning to the TV. "I do want to catch him," he began, as if reading Lewis’s mind, "but more than that, I want to understand him. Knowing his every move won’t help us unless we figure out why he’s making them."
Lewis blinked, stunned by the response. Understanding him? No wonder Thompson hadn’t caught the Butcher in the five years he’d been on his trail. The man had all the brains but none of the drive. Lewis wanted to lash out, to demand why Thompson wasn’t doing more, but he couldn’t find the right words. Instead, he leaned forward, tapping the case files with his fingers.
"He’s a sadistic serial killer who takes pleasure in hunting down his victims. What more is there to understand?"
Thompson shrugged, his voice as calm as ever. "There’s always more to understand. And until we do, we can’t stop him. Simple."
Lewis could feel his patience thinning. "Understanding him isn’t going to stop him. Catching him will. We need something—anything—that ties him to a crime scene. Sweat, fluids, hair samples. Was any of that ever found at one of his murders?"
This time, Thompson turned to face him, biting one of his fingernails. "We found something once. Remember Case 3098, Jenna Richardson? May 17th, 2020. The infamous Angelmaker. The one in the warehouse over in Hillside. She was found hanging upside down, her throat slit clean and her body had three gashes. We found a blood sample on the ground near the body. Thought it was hers, but the tests came back inconclusive—some of it wasn’t hers."
Lewis sat up, interested. "And?"
"We ran the DNA, checked every database we had access to. Came up blank. Whoever the Butcher is, he’s either a ghost or he’s never been in the system."
Lewis shook his head, refusing to accept what Thompson had said. "That doesn’t make sense. He’s human. He bleeds, sweats, leaves fingerprints. He exists like everyone else."
Thompson turned his attention back to the cartoon, watching as a goofy animated character faced off against a large, snarling monster. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Or maybe he isn’t human."
Lewis scoffed but didn’t press the point. He flipped through the files again, eyes scanning over the gruesome photos and descriptions. "Judging by the way he slashes his victims and the way he manages to overpower them and track them, I’d say the Butcher might have had military training. Or maybe he was a surgeon. Someone with experience in anatomy."
Thompson let out a soft chuckle. "Or a butcher."
Lewis shot him an annoyed look. "This isn’t a joke."
Thompson shrugged, not missing a beat. "You ever think about what it’s like to be him?"
"What?" Lewis asked, taken aback.
Thompson leaned back, finally pulling his gaze from the TV. "You’re chasing the Butcher. But you’re not thinking about why he’s hunting. It’s not the ‘how’ that matters, Lewis. Not really. It’s the ‘why’. The reason behind the blood. The moment a man chooses to become a hunter instead of prey."
Lewis rubbed his temples; dealing with this man – no, child – in front of him was more exhausting than going over the case files. "I already know why he kills. He’s a sadistic psychopath who goes after other criminals. He gets off on power, on violence."
Thompson shook his head, a patient yet exasperated look crossing his face, like a teacher disappointed with a student. "It’s not about power. It’s about the hunt. Think about it."
Lewis sighed, clearly frustrated. "This is ridiculous."
"Alright, hear me out," Thompson said, his voice gentle yet insistent. "Close your eyes for a second."
Lewis stared at his partner, debating whether to argue, but ultimately sighed in defeat. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch. "Fine. But as soon as this doesn’t work, we’re going back to the case files."
"Sure," Thompson said, in his unnervingly calm voice that irked Lewis for reasons unknown to even him. "Now, imagine you’re out there. It’s nighttime. The city’s dark, and you’re in the shadows, waiting. Hunting. You know your prey is nearby—someone dangerous, someone who thinks they can get away with the worst kinds of crimes. A predator like yourself."
Lewis frowned but continued to follow along, imagining the scene. He could feel the darkness surrounding him and the cold breeze against his skin.
"You’re not doing this because you have to," Thompson continued. "You’re doing it because you want to. You live for this. The thrill of it, the power it gives you over another predator. The superiority you feel."
Lewis swallowed, as Thompson’s words seeped deeper into his mind.. It was unsettling how easily the imagery filled his mind. His heart raced slightly as he immersed himself deeper into the scenario. The excitement. The control. He could feel it, almost taste it. It was intoxicating. A mix of terror and exhilaration washed over him. Was this what the Butcher felt? Or was this his own darkness?
"I’m not..." Lewis muttered, his voice shaky. "I’m not a killer."
Thompson, ignoring Lewis's obvious discomfort, continued his slow, hypnotic speech. "This isn’t about you. It’s about the Butcher. You don’t just kill anyone. You choose your victims carefully. You hunt other predators like yourself. But to you, these people are beneath you. Lesser predators. You’re the apex, and this is about control. Dominance. You don’t kill out of hate. You kill because you enjoy knowing that these people—these monsters—fall under your control. You’re proving something."
A strange, unsettling chill ran down Lewis's spine. He could see it now—feel it, even. He could feel the cleaver in his hand, the blood on his skin, the overwhelming sense of satisfaction that came from bringing down another predator. It was too real. The darkness was suffocating him, wrapping around his mind like a vice. He saw his previous victims. He could already picture who he would kill next…
"So, who do you think the Butcher will go after next?" Thompson’s voice cut through the fog.
Lewis snapped awake, feeling like he had just woken from a strange, dark dream. He gasped for air, his hands shaking slightly as he regained his bearings. He looked at Thompson, who was still calm, leaning back on the couch, completely unfazed.
Thompson’s eyes bore into Lewis’ as he asked, "Who’s the next predator?"
The words slipped out before Lewis could stop them. "The Child Killer."
Thompson nodded, as if the answer was obvious. "Makes sense. He’s been active for months, slipping away from the police, evading capture, and preying on children. The Butcher would see him as the ultimate prey—another predator, but one who goes after the most vulnerable of all. A true monster." He turned back to the TV, the cartoon continuing to play in the background. "If I were the Butcher, that’s who I’d go after next. Someone worthy of the hunt."
Lewis sat in stunned silence. He had been forced into the mind of a killer, to think like the Butcher. But why did it feel so real? Why had it been so easy to slip into that mindset? Am I capable of something like that? Lewis thought, horrified at the notion. The darkness he had felt in those few minutes—it remained at the edges of his conscience. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see blood there.
Thompson most likely sensed his unease because he spoke up again, "You aren’t a killer, Lewis. And you aren’t even remotely like the Butcher. We don’t think like he does. If we want to catch him, we have to ignore the rules, because that’s what he does."
Lewis’s phone rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked down at the screen and saw Sarah’s name flash across it. He quickly answered. "Hello?"
"Hey, Lewis," Sarah said on the other end. "We need to talk. I’ve been going through the cases again, and I found something we need to discuss first thing tomorrow morning. Can we meet at four-thirty?"
Lewis nodded, his mind still trying to shake off the dark thoughts from earlier. "Yes, four-thirty works. I’ll be there."
"Thanks," Sarah said before hanging up.
Thompson stood up, stretching lazily. "You two might as well make it a date. Sounds romantic."
Lewis didn’t even smile. "Are you sleeping here tonight?"
Thompson paused as he headed toward the hallway. "Yeah. Don’t worry, I won’t steal your teddy bear." With that, Thompson disappeared down the hall, leaving Lewis alone with his thoughts.
The files on the coffee table stared up at him, the black-and-white photos of victims glaring back like ghosts from the past. Lewis picked up one of the files, the details of another gruesome Butcher murder staring him in the face. But as he looked at it, he couldn’t help but wonder.
The Butcher... no. I’m not like him. But then why did the darkness feel so close?
He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. But it remained, haunting him, as he stared at the faces of the dead.