The sun had yet to rise over the city, and last night’s chill still clung to the streets, biting at anyone brave enough to be out this early. It was quiet, with only a few early risers and the occasional passerby getting a head start on their day. The café Lewis sat in was a small, hole-in-the-wall spot, known only to locals. It had dark wooden beams running across the ceiling, vintage light fixtures that gave off a warm glow, and a few scattered tables, most of which were empty at this ungodly hour. The aroma of fresh coffee beans filled the air, mingling with the soft jazz playing from old speakers mounted in the corners.

For a moment, it felt as though the world had shrunk down to just this place, with Lewis at the center of it. He stared down at his black coffee. His fingers hovered over the cup, feeling the heat radiate through the porcelain, steam rising in lazy swirls from the cup. He glanced at his watch—4:28 a.m. Two minutes left.

He adjusted his suit, though it was already perfectly in place, and then looked out the window at the gloomy, pre-dawn sky. The streets were still mostly empty, though he could spot a few early risers walking by. Almost immediately, Sarah walked in, right on time.

Her brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she had dark circles underneath her tired green eyes. She wore a casual sweater and jeans, an outfit that showed she’d been up late. Her eyes scanned the café before they settled on Lewis, and she gave him a small smile as she approached, sinking into the chair opposite him and placing her bag on the floor beside her.

"You’re early," she remarked, her voice thick with fatigue.

"I couldn’t sleep. Needed something strong to keep me awake after going through those files all night," Lewis said, as he took a gentle sip of his coffee, ignoring the heat. "You want some coffee? I can grab it for you."

Sarah shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. "Already had three cups at home. If I drink any more, I’ll be jittery for days."

Lewis chuckled softly, taking another sip of his coffee. It was still too early for pleasantries. "So, you called this meeting. What’s on your mind?" he asked, getting to the point.

Sarah leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she looked him square in the eye. "I’ve been going over the case files on the Flayer."

"The Flayer?"

"Yeah, that’s what they’re calling him now," Sarah replied. "I’m sure the Butcher and the Flayer are two different people."

Lewis didn’t react. "Thompson already told me the same thing. Took a bit of convincing, but he made a solid argument."

"Sounds like Thompson," Sarah said with a small smile. "Well, since we’re all on the same page now, I need your deductive expertise on something specific."

Lewis straightened up slightly, intrigued. This was his chance to get closer to the Flayer, the killer responsible for his brother’s death. He wanted—no, needed—to be involved. The Butcher could wait.

"Go ahead," he said.

Sarah reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the table toward him. "This is the case file on Rebecca Lee. I’ve already gone over it with Dr. Miller during the autopsy, but I want to see if you can pick up on anything we might have missed."

Lewis opened the folder, flipping through the photographs and notes carefully. His eyes scanned every detail as he spoke aloud. "The killer’s cold, detached. Didn’t care about sadism or enjoying the kill—he just did it. No defensive wounds. She didn’t fight back, which tells me he took her by surprise and probably incapacitated her quickly."

Sarah nodded, folding her arms. "I figured all that out too, and with Dr. Miller’s help during the autopsy. But it’s not enough. I need more. Something I don’t already know."

Lewis closed the folder and looked up. "Alright. Then tell me what you already know."

Sarah’s fingers tapping the table softly as she spoke. "We did a background check on Rebecca. Turns out she was dating a guy named Richie Caldwell. He got her involved in a drug pickup, a deal which went bad."

Lewis listened intently. "Go on."

"After some digging, we found out Rebecca killed some dealers who threatened her in self-defense. She managed to get away and make it back to her apartment. That’s when the Flayer struck. No witnesses, no other evidence except for a broken window in the kitchen. The fuse box was tampered with, and the security cameras were disabled before he even got inside."

Lewis muttered under his breath. "Smart. He knows what he’s doing."

Sarah nodded. "There’s one more thing. I think the Flayer kills on Saturdays."

Lewis shook his head slowly, setting the folder back on the table. "That’s not right."

Sarah frowned. "What do you mean? Rebecca was killed on a Saturday, and so was—" She hesitated, biting back the name she didn’t want to say.

Lewis finished for her, "Martin Lawrence."

There was silence for a moment, but Lewis didn’t allow himself to show any emotion. "He kills when they’re vulnerable. Saturdays are just coincidence."

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, considering his words. After a moment, she nodded. "That makes sense. So he thinks of himself as some sort of judge?"

Lewis flipped through the file again, more quickly this time, then pointed to the map included in the report. "I believe so. So far, his kills have been limited to the Cliffside district, between Ashbury Street and Haversham Lane, to be specific."

"Do you think he lives within that area?" Sarah asked.

"It’s possible, but not certain," Lewis replied. "What’s certain is that neither Rebecca nor Martin went outside those boundaries before they were killed. That gives us a starting point."

Sarah leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "Okay, so you’ve narrowed down his whereabouts, but we still don’t know who his next target will be."

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his hair. "That part will be difficult. The Flayer is harder to understand than the Butcher."

Sarah tilted her head. "Why would anyone want to understand him?"

Lewis hesitated, and then replied, "It’s something Thompson mentioned earlier. Said we can’t catch him unless we figure out why he’s doing this."

Sarah smirked. "You and Thompson seem to be getting along. How’s the Butcher case going?"

Lewis folded his arms. "Thompson thinks the Butcher’s next target is the Child Killer."

"Why him?"

"The Butcher hunts predators," Lewis explained. "The Child Killer preys on the most vulnerable—children. If the Butcher sees him as the ultimate predator, he’ll go after him."

Sarah leaned back in her chair, nodding. "Makes sense. The Child Killer’s been slipping through the cracks for months. We’ve never gotten close to finding him. And the way he’s been avoiding capture…" she trailed off, her eyes distant.

Lewis snapped his head up. "Wait. Say that again."

"What?" Sarah asked, confused.

"Say that again."

"The way he’s been avoiding capture?"

Lewis shot to his feet, his eyes wide. "The Flayer is going after the Child Killer, too."

Sarah blinked, taken aback. "What? I think you’re jumping to conclusions, Lewis. We can’t be sure of that."

Lewis paced the length of the café, lost in thought. "Think about it. Both of them target predators—criminals. But for different reasons. They both know about the Child Killer, and they’re both going to go after him."

Sarah frowned, trying to process the connection. "I understand why the Butcher would go after him, but why the Flayer? He hasn’t gone after real predators so far."

Lewis stopped pacing and turned to face her. "The Flayer sees himself as some sort of executioner, right? And he operates only between the boundaries of Ashbury Street and Haversham Lane. Well, the Child Killer is the only criminal left operating within those boundaries. Not to mention that the Child Killer has been evading the law for months—he fits the profile perfectly."

Sarah rubbed her chin thoughtfully, the pieces falling into place. "That actually makes sense."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. And the Butcher’s out there hunting him, too. We’re caught in the middle of this."

"But where do we find the Child Killer?" Sarah asked, shaking her head. "We've combed through every lead, and he’s still out there."

Lewis didn’t miss a beat. "The reports on the Child Killer say that the children usually disappear around Mill Street Junction, Crestwood Avenue, Calloway Drive and Brookstone Road, doesn’t it?"

"Yeah, but we’ve conducted routine investigations in those areas. Nothing’s come up."

"Because the Child Killer is smart. He’s disguising himself—maybe as a taxi driver or a delivery guy. He’s slipping under the radar."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Sarah’s eyes lit up with understanding. "And the Butcher and the Flayer won’t care about subtlety. They’ll find him."

"Exactly," Lewis said, already walking toward the door. “We need to set up real surveillance, not routine investigations. Send a team to search those areas. Increase patrols; focus on anyone who seems out of place—taxi drivers, delivery workers, anyone who could blend in easily. If we can find the Child Killer then we’ll have a good chance of finding the Flayer and the Butcher as well."

Sarah stood, grabbing her bag. "Alright, I’ll talk to the captain and set it up. We need to move fast if we’re going to get ahead of the Butcher and the Flayer."

Lewis nodded, already halfway out the door. "We have a lead, and I don’t intend to lose it."

With that, he disappeared into the early morning. Outside, the sky was just beginning to brighten, but the city still lay shrouded in the heavy darkness before dawn. It was the kind of darkness that softened the edges of the world, turning everything into shadowy shapes. And Lewis knew very well what was lurking within those shadows—people like the Butcher and the Flayer. Hunters, moving silently through the same city streets, stalking prey of their own.

And somewhere in those shadows, the Butcher walked now.

The cold air of the gloomy morning bit at the Butcher’s exposed skin as he walked along the empty streets. His breath clouded the air in front of him, but he didn’t feel the chill—not really. He had other things on his mind. The new cowhead mask he wore clung tightly to his face. Ivan had burned his last one during his attempt to escape. He touched the edge of the mask, feeling the coarse texture of the material, and kept walking. Ivan had been running for hours now, covering a surprising amount of distance in his flight from the Butcher. But that didn’t matter. The Butcher was relentless, and he knew he would find him soon enough.

This part of the city was long forgotten. Buildings stood in various stages of decay, windows shattered, and streets were cracked and overgrown with weeds. The fact that Ivan had stumbled into this place was just perfect. Far from the prying eyes of the police or any witnesses. The Butcher would have time to finish the job.

He paused beside a street post, studying it carefully. There were splotches of blood on the cold metal, and deep scratches along the surface where someone had leaned heavily against it. Ivan had been here, trying to steady himself. The Butcher crouched down, inspecting the ground around the post. Thin trails of blood led away, toward an old, rundown clinic. His lips curled beneath the mask.

Without a second thought, he rose and walked toward the clinic. The door creaked open, and the scent of antiseptic hit his nose, mingled with the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. Ivan’s blood. The flickering fluorescent lights gave the interior an unnerving, almost haunted look. The Butcher followed the thin streaks of red, his cleaver clutched tightly in his gloved hand.

He knew Ivan was still here, somewhere in the back. Most likely resting, trying to tend to his injuries. The Butcher’s heart pounded with excitement. Ivan had fought harder than most of his prey, but that only made the hunt more exhilarating. It had been too long since he’d felt this kind of rush. The thrill of the chase. The Butcher had stalked many predators in his time, but Ivan was truly worthy.

The closer he got to the examination room at the back, the stronger the smell of blood became. The Butcher’s pulse quickened. His boots echoed loudly against the tile floor as he pushed the door open.

And then he froze.

Ivan lay on the examination table, his head twisted unnaturally to the side, neck clearly broken. His mouth was contorted into a misshapen smile, peaceful yet sickening at the same time. A deep slice ran from his clavicle down to the base of his neck. The Butcher stepped closer, his breath catching as he realized what had been done.

Ivan’s skin had been peeled back skillfully, revealing the raw, bloody muscles, tendons, and sinews beneath that resembled cheap beef. His once gray eyes stared up at the ceiling, wide and unblinking, as tears glistened on his cheeks. The fluorescent lights illuminated every detail—the exposed tissue, the slick sheen of blood that had soaked through the examination table and formed a pool beneath it.

Each drop that fell onto the floor echoed loudly in the silence.

The Butcher’s vision went red. His breath came in rough gasps, the muscles in his neck straining. His chest burned with something far worse than rage—it was humiliation. To have his prey, his carefully hunted kill, stolen from him was a violation.

A deafening roar erupted from him, animalistic and filled with pure, unfiltered rage. He swung his cleaver at the wall, the force of the blow sending a crack spiraling upward like a jagged lightning bolt. The sound of the plaster breaking filled the room, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough. His hand gripped a heavy steel stool, and he hurled it across the room with such force that it shattered a glass cabinet, the shards raining down like toothed snowflakes.

His breathing became erratic, struggling to find its usual rhythm as he stood amidst the destruction, fists clenched so tightly around the cleaver that his knuckles turned white beneath his gloves. The Flayer had stolen his kill. His hunt. His moment. The Butcher let out a guttural growl, kicking over a nearby medical cart, sending syringes and tools scattering across the floor.

"Mine!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury.

He slammed his fists against the examination table, pounding it repeatedly as he screamed in frustration. The impact sent bottles of antiseptic and other medical supplies flying, scattering haphazardly across the room. Each hit was a blow to his pride.

After what felt like an eternity, the Butcher’s fury waned. His chest heaved with each breath, and sweat trickled down his neck beneath the mask. Slowly, he sat on the cold floor, his eyes still locked on Ivan’s mutilated body. He didn’t move for a long while, just staring, his mind churning with a dangerous cocktail of rage and disappointment.

Minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional drip of blood from the examination table.

Eventually, the Butcher slowly rose to his feet. He walked over to the corner of the room, where a small reflective surface—a cracked mirror—hung beside a medical cabinet. As he approached, something on the floor caught his eye. A thick pool of blood had gathered near the cabinet’s base, and lying in the midst of it was a single strand of auburn hair.

The Butcher crouched down, picking up the hair between his gloved fingers. He inspected it, turning it over in the dim light. Did this belong to the Flayer? Had the bastard left behind this one, tiny clue?

For a brief moment, hope flared within him, but the cold logic of reality quickly smothered it. This wasn’t enough. The strand of hair wasn’t enough.

He dropped the hair back into the blood and turned away from the mirror, from the broken glass, from Ivan’s ruined body. His cleaver still stood lodged in the wall, but he didn’t bother retrieving it. It wasn’t important now.

The hunt had changed.

The Butcher wasn’t interested in chasing other predators anymore—not until this matter was settled. The Flayer had committed a grave sin by interfering with his hunt, by stealing his prey. And for that, there would be consequences. The Flayer had to be dealt with before the Butcher could return to his true purpose.

He left the clinic without a second glance, his boots crunching over broken glass and pill bottles all over the room. His mind was calm once more, but beneath that calm surface, a storm brewed—one that wouldn’t abate until the Flayer was dead at his feet.

The Butcher walked back into the cold, desolate morning, his mask still clinging tightly to his face, his hands itching for the thrill of the next hunt. This time, it wasn’t about satisfaction.

It was about vengeance.

Specter sat in his beat-up car outside the clinic, his eyes glued to the clinic. The early morning light hadn’t fully broken through the dark clouds yet, and the chill still hung in the air. He hadn’t arrived at the clinic until about half an hour ago, and since then, he’d been debating whether he should follow Ivan inside.

Taking a swig from his flask, he tossed it onto the passenger seat with a dull thud. He didn’t really care that it spilled some bourbon onto the leather—he had bigger things on his mind. The radio hummed softly, playing "Take On Me" by A-ha. Specter’s voice joined in as he hummed along to the chorus.

"Take on meee," he sang quietly, eyes narrowing as he watched the Butcher step out of the clinic and disappear into the gloom. "Who’d have thought Ivan had dealings with that cleaver-swinging nutter?" Specter muttered to himself.

As soon as the Butcher was gone, Specter turned off the engine and sat back for a moment. He reached over to the glove compartment, pulling it open and rummaging through the mess of pill bottles inside. Each one rattled emptily as he cursed, "Bugger. Fuckity fuck. Empty. All bloody empty."

He needed something to take the edge off.

Finally, Specter’s hand found what he was looking for. Tucked beneath some old documents was a small bottle labeled "Emergency Only: Diazepam, lithium, oxycodone." He shook it, smiling as the pills rattled inside.

"Perfect," he said. Opening the bottle, he poured a few into his hand. "My Trinity." He popped the pills without water, swallowing them dry.

Next, he grabbed his MP4 player and earpiece from the center console. He popped in his earpiece and scrolled through his playlist, landing on a song that always lifted his spirits: "Best Day of My Life" by some indie band he never seemed to remember. He hit play and tapped his foot to the rhythm as the first few bars came in. The upbeat tune filled his ears, momentarily washing away his anxieties.

Specter stepped out of the car and inhaled deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He exhaled with a content sigh. "Let’s crack on," he whispered to himself as he half-danced, half-walked toward the clinic. The beat of the song in his ears pushed him forward as he hummed along, throwing in a few awkward twirls for good measure. He might have looked like a lunatic, but he didn’t care.

As he approached the entrance, he noticed small trails of blood leading inside. "Should’ve let me take ‘im to the hospital," Specter mused, still humming. He pushed the door open, the sound of it creaking eerily in the quiet morning air.

The clinic was just as rundown inside as it was outside. Specter’s eyes caught sight of a shelf lined with pill bottles and sachets. With a quick hop and a skip, he danced over to it, still humming, and began inspecting the labels.

Most of the medications were old—probably expired. Specter wasn’t much of a stickler for expiration dates, but he checked anyway, just to make sure. "2009... 2010... Yeah nah, these are done." He shrugged and stuffed a couple of bottles into his pocket.

Continuing his mini-rave through the clinic, he grabbed a bottle of some liquid medicine, kissed it, and shook it with a grin. He chuckled to himself, took a small sip, and winced at the taste.

Specter then danced his way to the back of the clinic, where the trail of blood had led. When he entered the examination room, the music playing in his ears almost came to a halt. Almost.

Ivan’s body lay on the examination table, his skin peeled back like the layers of an onion. Specter paused his music and whistled softly. "Holy shit. Looks like Ivan here pissed off more than one psychi." He stepped closer to the table, inspecting the grisly scene before him. "What a way to go, eh? Sorry, mate." Specter muttered, shaking his head.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the body. "Got a job to do, mate. No time for a funeral, eh?" He waved dismissively at Ivan’s corpse and unpaused his music, letting the cheerful tune fill his ears once more.

Feeling the beat again, Specter wandered over to the wall where the Butcher’s cleaver was still embedded. He gripped the handle and yanked it free, twirling it around with no difficulty. The heavy blade made a satisfying whump each time he tapped it against random objects in the room. With one final twirl, Specter flung the cleaver across the room, watching as it embedded itself into the floor. He then broke into an exaggerated dance move, throwing his hips into it with wild abandon.

As he spun around, something caught his eye on the floor. A single strand of auburn hair lay amidst the blood and broken glass. Specter bent down, plucking the hair between his fingers. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply, a manic grin spreading across his face.

"Smells like I found my target," he whispered, twirling the hair between his fingers. Without another thought, he tossed the strand aside and moonwalked out of the examination room, feeling the pills he’d popped earlier start to kick in. A few minutes later, Specter moonwalked back into the room, pausing in front of Ivan’s body. He cocked his head to the side and said, "Just to be clear, Ivan—I’m not dancin’ ‘cause you’re dead. I’m dancin’ ‘cause I can…" He threw in another twirl for emphasis before leaving the room again.

Back in the clinic’s main hallway, Specter pocketed a few more pills from the shelves, humming along to the music as he went. With his loot in tow, he strolled out of the clinic and back to his car. He climbed into the driver’s seat, tossed the newly acquired pills into the glove compartment, and grinned.

"Gotta have some souvenirs," he said, patting the dashboard as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and Specter cranked up the volume on his music, belting out the chorus of the song that still played through his earpiece.

As he pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the deserted road, Specter sang aloud, his voice echoing inside the car. "This is gonna be the best day of my life!"

He grinned as he sped down the empty streets of Briarcliff, the pills doing their work and his mind buzzing louder than ever.