The sizzle of meat in a pan was the only sound in the apartment. Rich, smoky air curled around the ceiling light, thick with garlic, rosemary, and something else—something coppery.
A man flipped the cut with practiced grace, the sear perfect, the edges just starting to crisp. Blood—still fresh—hissed against hot steel. A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He didn't hum, didn't speak, didn't blink much. Just cooked.
Behind him, a thin trail of red dripped from the countertop. A cleaver rested beside it, bits of flesh clinging to the edge like pink ribbons. Two fingers, still twitching with muscle memory, lay forgotten on the floor like discarded garnishes.
He reached for a bottle of wine. Merlot. Aged. Poured a glass with a flick of the wrist, then plated the meat with mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach.
He sat. Bowed his head.
"A good man died today," he said quietly. "And I'm grateful for the opportunity."
Then he took the first bite.
Outside, the city roared with traffic and neon lies. Inside, the man chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring more than just the taste. A ritual, not a meal.
Across the room, a blood-stained journal lay open on the table. Scribbled in harsh ink, one line repeated over and over:
"I don't do this for pleasure."
But the smile said otherwise.
He chewed slowly.
The meat was tender—surprisingly so. He'd brined it overnight, then pan-seared it just long enough to seal in the juices. The rosemary hit first, then the iron.
Across the room, the body waited.
Laid out on the metal table like a broken offering, arms separated at the joints, legs carved at the thighs. The ribcage had been opened with surgical precision—ribs bent back like a gutted animal. A missing chunk on the right side made the corpse appear almost hollow.
The man took another bite.
The silence in the apartment felt thick, reverent. No music, no news, only the gentle scrape of a fork on porcelain and the occasional drip of blood from the edge of the table.
One eye on the corpse was still open, staring upward at the ceiling fan, glassy and confused.
He noticed it.
Reached over. Closed it with two fingers.
Then returned to his meal.
Few minutes earlier
After hours driving in the late streets of Chicago, a wolf masked man drove into a house in a small neighborhood. He brought an axe with him and so as soon as he arrived at the house he parked the Van he drove somewhere near before wearing his mask.
"My name is not important, what important is one devil's soul taken by a monster itself"
He said
Step 1: park your vehicle somewhere near and not too far, don't forget the supplies
The van's engine hummed softly as it died in the shadows. The wolf mask, cold and unfeeling, settled onto his face like a second skin. He double-checked the heavy axe strapped to his back — a tool of necessity, not cruelty.
Footsteps swallowed by night air, he moved silently toward the house. The streetlights flickered, indifferent witnesses to the night's grim intention
Step 2: Approach with patience and purpose.
No sudden moves. No wasted noise. The lock gave way easily — years of practice had honed the skill, but tonight was different. Tonight, the ritual was more than habit. It was necessity.
Inside, the faintest creak of floorboards echoed in the silence like a heartbeat. Shadows danced as the moonlight spilled through the cracked windows. He paused, listening. The house breathed—ignorant of the visitor it had invited.
Step 3: swing the Axe
He found the man alone, half-awake, vulnerability shining in his eyes. The axe swung with measured force, a clean, dull thud against flesh and bone. No screams; just the quiet giving way to stillness.
Step 4: Make it manageable — never leave a body whole.
The room was still warm. Not from the body, but from the act. The axe, now resting against the kitchen wall, dripped slow and steady like a broken faucet.
He rolled up his sleeves, not out of disgust — but discipline.
From the duffel bag, he pulled out a heavy-duty tarp, industrial gloves, and a long, clean knife. Everything had a place. Everything had a function.
Kneeling beside the corpse, he exhaled through the wolf mask. The floor beneath him was slick.
"You were bigger than I thought," he muttered quietly. No rage. No remorse. Just observation.
Piece by piece, he worked. He wasn't careless. He wasn't fast, either. The process was sacred. Each joint was separated with learned ease — anatomy had become second nature long ago.
Every part went into thick black bags, double-sealed. Labeled, not with names, but symbols only he understood.
By the time the first light of dawn bled into the windows, the kitchen floor looked clean — like nothing had happened.
But the drain whispered differently.
Step 5: escape... Now...
He washed his hands slowly, watching the pink swirl disappear down the sink. Not on the handles. Not under the fingernails. Cleanliness wasn't about guilt — it was about control.
He moved with precision, collecting the plastic bags, now tied and weighed. No rush. Rushing is what gets you caught.
Outside, the early morning fog began to thicken, cloaking the street in silence. The van sat patiently, right where he left it — not too close, not too far.
The bags went in the back, covered by an old mattress and a box of broken furniture. Just junk to anyone looking in.
Before stepping into the driver's seat, he took one last look at the house.
The door was locked again. The lights off. The house stood just as it did before — except now it kept a secret behind its quiet walls.
As he drove off into the gray, he whispered through the mask:
"Lesson complete. The first of many."