Toronto breathed at night like a dying god — sputtering neon, oil-stained wind, and the scent of rot under concrete.
Caleb moved through its arteries like a ghost.
He'd been watching the bastard for three days. No pattern. No routine. Just indulgence. Strip clubs. Gambling dens. D-list after-hours lounges packed with vulture meatheads and washed-up criminals playing king for a night.
Vance "Trench" Malloy — a name that made his teeth itch. Caleb had seen that rat face smirking beside Jamal when Rachel's skull hit pavement and Isaac begged for breath.
And now Trench strutted through life like nothing mattered — like he hadn't stood shoulder-to-shoulder with death itself.
Tonight, he parked outside a club in the west end, high-end but cheap in soul — all chrome and glass and basslines meant to distract.
Caleb watched from across the street, hood up, gloves tight.
He'd already slashed Trench's front tire, but not enough to flatten it outright. It'd lose air slow — just enough for Trench to notice once the drinks wore off.
Just enough to get him into an alley.
Just enough to be taken without witness.
Trench stumbled out of the club an hour later, laughing with two girls, drunk on confidence and coke. They kissed him on the cheek and disappeared into a cab.
Trench drove for a few blocks, rays of street lights and shadows flickering on and off of his face as he rolls through dimly lit streets mixed with shadows, Trench feels his rim grind onto pavement.
He lit a cigarette. Swore at his flat. Popped the trunk.
"fuck! Of all times now I gotta piss"
Caleb followed him down the alley like a shadow with purpose.
No hesitation.
No noise.
Just motion — swift and sure.
One arm looped around the throat, the other slamming a chloroform-soaked rag to the face. Trench bucked once, slammed into the dumpster, and clawed at the air.
Then he slumped.
Caleb looked down at the unconscious man and whispered:
"Time to scream, motherfucker."
Time passes as these two souls find themselves now many kilometers from that alley way.
A slaughterhouse, it groaned in the wind — a metal skeleton half-swallowed by the weeds of urban neglect.
Inside, it smelled like old death. Iron. Oil. Rot that never left the bones of the place.
Trench hung from a rusted meat hook, arms chained overhead. His feet dragged the floor in wet arcs of blood. A swinging bulb threw shadows across the stained concrete. Broken mirrors lined the wall — reflections of horror, bent and cracked.
Caleb sat on a stool across from him, coat off, sleeves rolled, a small toolkit of pain laid out on a plastic tarp beside him.
A scalpel.
A claw hammer.
A gas torch.
A mason jar half-filled with cleaning lye.
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Watched Trench stir. Groan.
"Wakey wakey."
Trench blinked. His mouth was stuffed with gauze. His nose bled. His left ear oozed from a ragged cut.
Caleb leaned in, his face lit orange from the lighter flame.
"I know you remember me," he said calmly. "I know you remember my wife's screams. My son's blood."
He tugged the gauze free, letting Trench choke on air and fear.
"This isn't about revenge," Caleb whispered.
"It's about answers."
He didn't wait.
The hammer came down on Trench's left index finger — snap — the scream exploded like thunder against tile.
The man screamed, the decibels reverberated and shook the thin steel walls.
Caleb didn't flinch.
"Tell me about Sergeant Crowe."
Trench spat blood. "I—I don't—"
Snap. The middle finger. Snap. The ring.
"Next lie, I take your eye."
Ten minutes later, Trench's left hand looked like broken glass inside a bag of meat.
Caleb's hands shook, but he didn't stop.
Trench begged. Wept. Pissed himself.
Then he broke.
"She—she's in deep," he stammered. "She's on their take, she launders the money, reroutes patrols, feeds false warrants. She's the goddamn brain. We dont move unless she gives the nod, the bitch is the bosses rite hand for fuck sakes!."
"And Jamal?" Caleb's voice was a cracked whisper.
"He's holed up in the port district. Warehouse #6, we use it as a personal garage. Private security. Real clean. You go there, you'll die."
Caleb dipped a scalpel into the jar of lye, watching it bubble. "I'm already dead."
He slashed a shallow cut across Trench's thigh — then poured.
The scream shook and bounced off the walls, sounds made, like echoes of the damned in hell.
Thirty minutes later, Trench was no longer, all that remained was a husk, dangling like meat.
Caleb stood over him, drenched in sweat, blood on his boots, his eyes empty.
He walked out without a word.
The Raven waited on a rusted beam above the door. Watching.
It tilted its head, eyes shining in the dark.
Caleb met its stare.
"I'm not who I was," he muttered.
"And I don't care anymore."
End of chapter 8.