It was night again, and a cold breeze swept through the streets, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Donald McCallister sat at the bar, nursing his favorite bottle of whiskey, his eyes fixed on a petite, beautiful young woman seated across the room. She was delicate, with soft brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and a nervous energy that made her even more intriguing to him.

Donald took another swig from his bottle, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, when a dark-skinned man slid onto the barstool next to him, signaling the bartender for a drink. The man was tall, with a lean but muscular build, and a commanding presence.

"Rough night?" he asked, glancing at the bottle of whiskey in front of Donald.

Donald took a swig, nodding slightly. "You could say that."

The man chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink as it arrived. "Let me guess. You’re thinking about the Butcher?"

Donald glanced at him, then back at the girl. "Aren’t we all? City’s been on edge since the first murder five years ago. And now he’s flaying them like a goddamn work of art."

The man chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to reverberate through the bar. "Yeah, I hear you. But I hear he’s got a code—only goes after the ones who’ve got it coming?"

Donald kept his eyes on the girl, watching her every movement, every flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "That’s what they say. Still, I wouldn’t want to be on his list." His gaze darkened, a predatory glint flashing in his eyes. "If you are, then you might want to start praying."

The man followed Donald’s line of sight, noticing how he stared at the girl. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "She got you thinking, huh? Go talk to her. Worst she can do is say no."

Donald chuckled, his grin widening. "Nah, I’m just enjoying the view," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Girls like her? They’re like fine wine. You don’t just gulp it down. You savor it. Appreciate it. Make sure the moment’s right."

The man stood up, tossing a few bills onto the counter. "Well, don’t wait too long. You never know when your luck might run out."

Donald raised his glass in a half-toast. "I’ll keep that in mind."

The man gave a final nod and walked away while Donald’s attention remained fixated on the girl. He watched as she sipped her drink, her eyes darting around the room, and then back down to her phone. She looked nervous, out of place—like she didn’t belong in a place like this.

Eventually, she stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder as she made her way to the exit. Donald waited a few seconds, letting her get a head start, before he casually slid off his stool and followed her out the door. He made sure his hoodie was pulled up, covering his face as he stepped into the chilly night.

The girl walked briskly down the sidewalk, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. She glanced over her shoulder a few times, but Donald was careful to keep a safe distance, blending in with the other late-night wanderers. The cold breeze tugged at her brown hair, lifting it gently before letting it fall back into place. She turned down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut that would take her home.

Donald smiled to himself, his heart pounding in anticipation. "Just as I predicted," he muttered under his breath, quickening his pace as he followed her down the darkened alley. "Excuse me," Donald called out, his voice casual and non-threatening.

The girl jumped slightly, startled by the sudden interruption. She turned to face him, her wide eyes taking in his charming smile. Donald caught her eye and flashed a smile, the kind that had always made women stop and stare. She hesitated, her frown softening just a bit, and he knew he had her attention.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you," he said, his tone casual, almost friendly. "Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. It’s pretty late, and this part of the city isn’t exactly safe."

The girl hesitated, glancing around the dark, deserted alley. "I’m fine, thanks," she replied, her voice a little shaky.

"I know a safer route you could take other than this alleyway. It’s a little out of the way, but worth it to stay away from trouble."

She looked uncertain, glancing ahead at the shadowy path that lay before her. The alley was dark, with barely any light to guide her way, and the thought of walking through it alone made her stomach twist. Donald seemed harmless enough, and he wasn’t being overtly pushy. He just seemed concerned.

Finally, she nodded. "Alright, lead the way."

Donald smiled, a small, reassuring grin, and gestured for her to follow him. He led her out of the alley and down a different street, one that was quieter, more secluded. As they walked, he kept the conversation light, engaging her in small talk about the weather, the city, anything to keep her distracted.

The girl responded politely, though her nervousness was still evident in the way she glanced around every now and then. She hadn’t noticed that the streets had grown emptier, the buildings more rundown, until they turned a corner and found themselves in front of an abandoned building.

The girl looked at the dilapidated building, her heart rate spiking. "Um, I think I can find my way home from here," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Donald’s charming smile never wavered. "Just relax," he said soothingly, reaching into his pocket.

Before she could react, Donald pulled out a small vial and a cloth, quickly pressing it over her mouth and nose. The girl struggled, her eyes widening in panic, but the drug worked fast. Within moments, her body went limp in his arms.

Donald caught her before she fell, leading her to the empty building and gently lowering her to the ground. He worked quickly, gagging her with a strip of cloth before pulling on a pair of gloves. He had done this countless times before, and every move was practiced.

"Just relax," he murmured again, more to himself than to her.

But as he began to position her, something made him stop. A cold, unsettling feeling washed over him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He felt a presence—something dark, something wrong. He glanced up, peering into the shadows beyond the building.

Nothing. Only darkness.

He shook his head, dismissing the feeling as nerves. He had this under control. No one was around. No one would find them here. He continued his work, unbuckling his belt slowly .

But then he heard it—a low, deep voice that rumbled from the shadows in front of him.

"A new prey."

Donald’s blood turned to ice. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body betrayed him, locking in place as the belt slipped from his numb fingers. Each heartbeat thudded in his ears, drowning out everything else as he forced himself to turn, dreading what he knew he’d see.

Standing at the edge of the shadows was a massive figure, towering well over six feet tall. The man was shirtless, his muscular body showing his strength, wearing only rough denim jeans and heavy boots. But what caught Donald's attention was the mask—a disturbing cowhide mask shaped like a cow’s head, with hollowed eyes staring directly at him.

The Butcher.

Donald’s breath faltered, suspended for a moment before he could exhale, as the man stepped forward, the heavy cleaver in his hand catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. The Butcher moved slowly. He was a predator sizing up its prey.

Donald whispered in terror, "The Butcher…"

He tried to shout, to run, but before he could react, the Butcher moved—a blur of brutal strength—and grabbed Donald by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Donald’s legs kicked out helplessly as he gasped for air, his hands clawing at the iron grip around his neck.

The Butcher didn’t kill him—not yet. Instead, he slammed Donald against the wall with bone-crushing force. Donald wheezed in pain, his vision blurring as he struggled to stay conscious.

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The girl, still groggy from the drug, managed to gather enough strength to stumble to her feet. She was disoriented, but the sight of the horror before her jolted her into action. She half-ran, half-crawled toward the exit, her heart pounding in her chest as she fled the building.

Donald, lying on the floor, tried to push himself up, his entire body trembling with fear. The Butcher crouched beside him, bringing the massive cleaver to Donald’s face. The cold metal pressed against his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine.

"I’m going to give you a ten-second head start," the Butcher said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "Run."

Donald’s eyes widened in terror. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one who hunted. But now, he was the prey.

"One…" the Butcher began to count.

Donald scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest as he stumbled toward the door. He had to get out. He had to run. He couldn’t die here, not like this.

"Two…"

Donald pushed himself to run faster.

"Three…"

By the time the Butcher reached ten, Donald was outside, sprinting down the street as fast as his legs would carry him. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t dare stop. The night was still and silent, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, and the Butcher’s voice counting down, counting down to his death.

The Butcher watched Donald flee into the night, his blue eyes gleaming behind the cowhide mask. He stood still for a moment, listening to the distant sound of footsteps fading into the darkness.

A low, guttural chuckle escaped his lips.

The thrill of the hunt was exhilarating. Donald McCallister was just another piece of prey in a long line of predators. But to the Butcher, he was so much more. He was a challenge, an opportunity to indulge in the violent, twisted pleasure that came from hunting other killers.

The Butcher hefted his cleaver onto his shoulder, his boots crunching against the gravel as he stepped out into the night. The girl had gotten away, but that wasn’t his concern. She wasn’t the prey tonight.

Donald McCallister was.

Slowly, the Butcher followed the trail of his fleeing victim, his mind already savoring the moment when he would finally catch him. This was the part he loved the most—the chase and the fear that radiated from his prey as they realized there was no escape.

He had given Donald a head start, but that was only to make the game more interesting. The Butcher was a master tracker, and he could find his prey anywhere, no matter how far they ran or how well they hid. He had done this countless times before, and each time, the result was always the same.

They ran. He hunted. They died.

The Butcher’s breath fogged in the cold night air as he moved through the empty streets,

down his forehead as he approached a nearby wall.

He leaned against it, trying to his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of his prey. He could sense Donald’s fear, could practically taste it in the air, and it motivated him tremendously.

Soon. Very soon.

Donald didn’t know how long he had been running. His legs were numb, his lungs burned with every breath, and his heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. He had never been this terrified in his entire life.

He had a head start, but even Donald knew that was just a cruel joke. The Butcher wasn’t the kind of man who let his prey escape. No, this was all part of the game—the hunt. Donald had heard the stories, had laughed them off as exaggerations, urban legends to keep people in line. But now, with the Butcher after him, none of it seemed exaggerated at all. It was real. Too real.

Donald's legs ached, but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. He needed to find a way out, a way to survive. He dashed into an empty warehouse, the darkness swallowing him whole as he staggered inside. His chest heaved and sweat dripped, trying to think. There had to be a way out of this. He just had to find it. But no matter how hard he tried to calm himself, the image of that cowhide mask, those hollow eyes, and that glistening cleaver kept flashing in his mind.

He was going to die.

His eyes darted around the warehouse, searching for something—anything—that could help him. The darkness pressed in from all sides, but eventually, his hand brushed against something cold and solid. A metal pipe. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

He gripped the pipe tightly, his knuckles turning white. The silence in the warehouse was more frightening than he could have imagined. The only sound was his own breathing. Was the Butcher nearby? Watching? Waiting?

He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t stand still and let that monster catch up to him. Donald made his way to the back of the warehouse, slipping out through a side door. He was back in the maze of alleyways, his pulse still racing.

"All I need to do is get to the main road," Donald muttered to himself, scanning the dark streets around him. His eyes locked on an old fire escape attached to a crumbling building. The high ground—that could give him an advantage.

He climbed up quickly, his body protesting with every movement. His muscles ached, his hands slick with sweat as he pulled himself onto the roof. From up here, he could see more of the alleyways below. He scanned the darkness, searching for any sign of the Butcher.

Nothing.

The moon barely peeked out from behind thick clouds, casting the streets below in deep shadow. Donald’s breath came in shallow gasps as he stared into the darkness. Everywhere was quiet. Too quiet.

Suddenly, a noise behind him—a soft creak of metal. Donald whipped around and swung the pipe with all his might. But there was nothing there. His grip tightened on the pipe, his heart hammering in his chest. Was he losing it? He could hear the Butcher’s laugh, that low, mocking chuckle that danced around in his mind. Was it real, or was he imagining it?

Donald gritted his teeth, frustration and fear mixing in a volatile cocktail. He threw the pipe over the edge of the roof, the clattering sound echoing through the empty alleyways below. He hoped it would draw the Butcher’s attention, bait him into showing himself.

Without wasting any more time, Donald ran to the edge of the roof and quickly slipped into an adjoining building through a broken window. Shards of glass crunched under his boots as he landed inside. He crouched low, his breathing ragged as he grabbed a shard of broken glass, holding it tightly in his trembling hand.

He pressed himself into a dark corner, hidden from view, and waited. His eyes flickered around the room, scanning the darkness for any movement. But there was nothing. No sound, no sign of the Butcher. The silence was maddening.

The Butcher was big—too big to be so quiet. Donald knew that. He knew that someone of the Butcher's size shouldn’t be able to move with such stealth, but the stories had warned him. The Butcher wasn’t human. He was something else. Something worse.

Suddenly, a faint creak of wood behind him.

Donald spun around, his reflexes driven by raw fear, and slashed out with the shard of glass. The sharp edge sliced deep into flesh, and for a moment, Donald felt a flicker of hope. But when he looked up, he felt a chill tickle his spine.

The Butcher stood before him, towering over him like a nightmare brought to life. The cut on his arm oozed blood, but he barely flinched. He looked down at the wound, then back at Donald with those hollow, dark eyes behind the cowhide mask.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The Butcher's gaze bore into Donald, freezing him in place, turning his blood to ice.

Then, the Butcher chuckled—a low, dangerous sound that made Donald tremble. "You wouldn’t be worth hunting if you didn’t fight back," he said, his voice deep and calm, as though he was discussing the weather.

Donald’s paralysis broke, and he scrambled backward, trying to get away. But the Butcher was faster. He reached out, grabbing Donald by the collar with one massive hand, and effortlessly slammed him against the wall. Donald felt the impact in his bones.

As if death finally dawned on him, Donald’s fear turned to adrenaline, giving him a burst of strength. He reached for the knife hidden in his boot and slashed it across the Butcher’s face. The blade grazed the cowhide mask, leaving a crude cut across it.

But instead of pain or at least anger, the Butcher seemed… amused.

With a grunt, he slammed Donald into the wall again, harder this time. Donald coughed up blood, but he refused to let go of the knife. He clutched it tightly, his only hope left in the face of this monster. When the Butcher stepped closer, Donald gathered what little strength he had left and stabbed the knife into the Butcher’s side, twisting it viciously.

The Butcher grunted, a deep sound of acknowledgment, but to Donald’s horror, that was all. The brute barely reacted. The Butcher’s eyes gleamed with a sick, animalistic pleasure as he pulled the knife from his side and casually tossed it away. Blood dripped from the wound, but it didn’t seem to faze him at all.

Donald’s heart sank as the Butcher raised his cleaver, his very presence like death itself. Donald scrambled backward, his body shaking with terror. "I—I don’t deserve this, man… Please, not like him, not like the other guy…" he cried, his voice cracking with desperation

The Butcher’s head tilted to the side, a glint of confusion flashing behind the mask. "Other guy?" he repeated, his voice low and almost… curious.

Donald’s hands trembled, desperate, as he backed against the wall. "The… the one they found. Flayed. I heard about it. Martin. That’s his name, right?" His voice turned into a desperate sob. "I swear, I didn’t kill anyone! Just—just don’t do me like that… not like him."

"Flayed?" the Butcher echoed, his voice deep and dangerous.

Donald nodded frantically, not even sure the Butcher was listening. "Yeah… everyone’s talking about it. Said it was you. Said you skinned him alive. Jesus, please, just make it quick. Please…"

For a moment, the Butcher seemed genuinely puzzled. Then, his confusion melted away, replaced by that familiar predatory thrill as his sadistic grin widened beneath the mask. "Flayed?" the Butcher murmured again, his voice growing cold once more. "This is more my style."

With a brutal slash, the Butcher’s cleaver sliced through Donald’s groin and crotch area, the blade tearing through flesh and muscle with horrifying ease. Donald screamed—a raw, primal sound that echoed through the building, his blood splattering across the floor in thick, dark pools.

The Butcher stepped back, watching with grim satisfaction as Donald writhed on the floor, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. In his last moments, Donald’s trembling hand reached for a nearby shard of glass, but he never made it. His body finally went limp, the life draining out of him as the darkness consumed him whole.

The Butcher stepped over the body, the thrill of the kill already fading as he left the building. He wiped the blood from his cleaver, sliding it back into its sheath as he walked away.

"Martin? Flayed?" he muttered to himself as he disappeared into the night.

Flaying wasn’t his style. Whoever did that wasn’t hunting for satisfaction—they were hunting for something more monstrous. And that unsettled him. For the first time in years, the Butcher felt a sliver of fear. Not for himself—he had long since stopped fearing death—but for the hunt. For the unknown force that had entered his domain.

There was someone or something else out there, something that might be even more dangerous than him. The thought remained in his mind. A fear he could not shake.

But then the fear turned to excitement.

The hunt was on again, but this time, his prey wasn’t just another criminal. This time, he was hunting an apex predator that rivaled him. And he wasn’t sure who—or what—he was up against.