Chapter 28: The Loop Begins
The morning fog clung to Gotham University's campus like a burial shroud, muffling the sounds of students shuffling between classes.
A disguised Victor Zsasz crouched behind a concrete pillar outside the psychology building, his fingers absently tracing the hidden scars that mapped his kills across his forearms. Each mark told a story. Each story ended in screaming.
Alex Thorne would make a beautiful addition to his collection.
The famous psychology consultant had captured Zsasz's attention during that televised interview—the way he'd mocked serial killers as "pathetic attention-seekers with delusions of artistry," dismissing their work as "juvenile attempts at meaning by fundamentally broken minds." Most academics spouted careful, diplomatic nonsense, but this one had compared them to stupid attention seeking idiots. He could taste the insult in every word, feel the rage burning in his chest like acid.
He'd been watching Alex for three days now, mapping his routines, studying his habits. The young psychologist was methodical—arriving at 8:47 AM precisely, always carrying the same leather satchel, always taking the same route through the quad. Zsasz appreciated routine. It made the hunt so much more satisfying when you finally broke the pattern.
What Zsasz didn't know was that Alex had detected his surveillance within the first hour.
Enhanced senses were a gift that kept giving. The Architect could hear Zsasz's elevated heartbeat from across the courtyard, could smell the metallic tang of old blood that clung to the killer's clothes, could sense the lurking tension radiating from his hiding spots. But instead of simply ending the threat, Alex decided to play.
Killing Zsasz for revenge? That's exactly what he'd want. You don't punish a man who worships death by giving him what he desires.
The game began subtly. As Alex walked toward the campus coffee shop, he caught a glimpse of Zsasz following at a distance.
Perfect.
With a thought, Alex's form began to shift—not dramatically, just enough. His height decreased by two inches, his hair darkened to brown, his facial structure softened into feminine features. By the time he pushed through the coffee shop door, he was indistinguishable from Patrick Summers, a sophomore psychology major.
"Morning, hon," the barista called out to Zsasz—a middle-aged woman named Dolores who served him yesterday. "What can I get you?"
Real Alex had already shifted again, this time from Patrick into Dolores's exact form, standing behind the counter as if he'd been there all morning. The real Dolores was in the storage room, completely unaware that her doppelganger was serving customers.
When Zsasz entered thirty seconds later, Alex looked up with Dolores's warm smile.
"Black coffee, corner booth," Alex said pleasantly, already pouring the drink for Zsasz. "You always order the same thing, sweetie. Sit in the same spot too. Creatures of habit, aren't we?"
Zsasz froze. He'd been here exactly once before, yesterday, ordering silently and paying with exact change. How could she possibly know his preferences?
"I... yes," he managed, accepting the steaming cup with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. "Black coffee."
"Be careful walking alone at night," Alex added, his tone shifting to something deeper, more concerned. "Dangerous people out there."
The words hit Zsasz like ice water. He stared at the barista's face—kind eyes, motherly smile, nothing threatening about her at all. Yet something felt fundamentally wrong about the interaction. The timing. The knowing look. The way she'd anticipated his order.
He took his coffee to the corner booth, the same one he'd sat in yesterday, and tried to shake off the unease. He was Victor Zsasz. He was the predator, not the prey. Random coincidences happened all the time.
The boy was gone. Damn it. No matter—just two more days until his new tools arrive. That's more than enough time.
Across the quad, Alex was already shifting again.
By the time Zsasz boarded the bus forty minutes later, Alex had become Marcus Williams, the regular driver who worked the university route. Same uniform, same weathered hands, same slight limp from an old service injury. The real Marcus was dealing with a conveniently timed "emergency" phone call from his wife.
"Afternoon," Alex said as Zsasz climbed aboard, studying the killer's face in the rearview mirror. "Back left seat, right? You always sit there. Like to watch the other passengers, don't you?"
Zsasz's blood turned to slush. Yesterday had been his first time on this particular bus route. He'd chosen the back left seat randomly, purely for the tactical advantage of seeing everyone while remaining partially hidden. How could this driver possibly know that?
"Just... just the usual spot," Zsasz mumbled.
"Be careful walking alone at night," Marcus added with the same concerned inflection, the same timing as the barista. "Dangerous people out there."
The words were identical. The tone was identical. Even the slight pause before 'dangerous' was identical.
Zsasz stumbled to his seat, his mind racing.
Two different people, same warning, same delivery. Coincidence? Or was someone playing games with him?
He spent the bus ride studying every passenger, searching for threats, analyzing facial expressions and body language. Nothing. Just ordinary people living ordinary lives, completely unaware that death was sitting three rows behind them.
The university library was Zsasz's final stop of the day. He liked to research his targets there, reading psychology texts to better understand how their minds worked before he broke them. Knowledge was power, and power made the art more beautiful.
But when he approached the circulation desk, his world tilted sideways.
"Psychology section again?" asked the elderly librarian, her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. "You always read the same books in the same order, dont you dear?. Abnormal Psychology, then Criminal Behavior, then Forensic Psychiatry. Very methodical of you."
Zsasz gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles went white. This was impossible. He'd been to this library exactly once, yesterday, checking out those exact books in that exact sequence. He'd been careful, quiet, forgettable. How could she possibly remember his specific reading pattern?
"I... how do you...?"
"Be careful walking alone at night," the librarian said, her voice dropping to the same concerned register he'd heard twice before. "Dangerous people out there."
The world seemed to spin around Zsasz.
Not one. Not two. But three different people. Three identical warnings. Three impossible displays of knowledge about his routine.
Someone was watching him. Someone was learning his patterns. Someone was turning his own methods against him.
But who? And how?
He stumbled out of the library as the sun began to set, his usually steady hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. The familiar routine of killing had always been his anchor, his source of control and meaning. But now that routine felt exposed, predictable, vulnerable.
From a rooftop across the street, Alex Thorne watched through binoculars as the serial killer paced nervously on the library steps. The man's body language had completely changed—his shoulders hunched, head swiveling constantly, fingers twitching against his weapons. The predator was becoming paranoid.
Alex smiled and began planning tomorrow's performance. The psychological torture was just beginning.
After all, before you could break a killer's body, you had to shatter their mind. And Zsasz's mind was already showing hairline cracks.
Soon, those cracks would become chasms.
And then the real fun would begin.
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