The bell above the bakery door chimed, a cheerful sound at odds with the gray afternoon. It loosed a thick, buttery wave of air that clung to Ken's clothes, a comforting scent of sugar and warmth. He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the glass display case. It was a shrine to confectionary perfection. Cupcakes stood in perfect , colorful rows like soldiers on parade. Pastries gleamed under the warm lights, promising flakes of heaven.
A woman with a flour-dusted apron and a bright, genuine smile met his gaze. "What can I get for you, sir?"
"Today is my daughter's birthday. She is a little girl," Ken said, a rare softness touching the edge of his voice. He pictured Merry, all pigtails and missing front teeth, her eyes lighting up. She had asked for a chocolate cake, specifically a "princess chocolate castle." This would have to do.
"Of course, sir. All our cakes are delicious. Pick any one you like."
His eyes landed on a chocolate cake, a majestic thing of dark, glossy frosting and intricate, hand-piped swirls. "I'll take that one," he said, pointing.
The baker nodded, her movements quick and practiced as she lifted the cake and slid it into a pristine white box. "Happy birthday to your daughter. I wish her a long and happy life."
"Thank you," Ken said, handing over the cash. Their fingers brushed for a moment, a brief, impersonal contact. "She will be very happy with this cake."
He turned to leave, the sweet scent of chocolate rising from the box, a promise of a happy evening. He didn't see the man until it was too late. A figure in a cheap suit, moving too fast, smelling of desperation and stale coffee, slammed into him as he rounded the corner. The box flew from Ken's hands. It hit the tiled floor with a soft, sickening splat. The perfect swirls were now a muddy ruin.
The man's face went crimson. "Oh no, I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't see you. I'm in a hurry. I have to buy some buns for my wife . I can pay you for that. Please, accept it." He dug frantically into his pockets, his hands shaking as he pulled out a wad of crumpled bills.
Ken offered a wry, disarming smile. "It's okay, really. Accidents happen sometimes. I should have been paying more attention to surroundings. I was just so excited for my daughter's birthday." He looked from the man's panicked eyes to the ruined cake. "I can get another one. Use that money for your wife's buns. That would make me happier."
The man's eyes darted around, wild and unfocused, before returning to Ken's unnervingly calm face. "Thank you... I was in a hurry to get a bun for my wife." He seemed to relax, just slightly, the tension in his shoulders slumping before he disappeared into the store.
Ken turned back to the counter. He checked his wallet, then his pockets. The larger cake had taken most of his cash. Not enough. "I'll take a smaller cake, please," he said.
The baker's professional smile had vanished. It froze, then evaporated. She stared at him for a few silent, heavy seconds, her friendly demeanor replaced by something guarded. A flicker of something else in her eyes. Recognition? Fear?
"What happened?" Ken asked, his voice even. "Why the shocked look?"
"Nothing, sir," she said, her voice suddenly flat, all the earlier warmth gone. Her hands moved automatically, her practiced ease now seeming stiff and robotic as she boxed up a smaller, simpler cake.
Ken walked out into the fading afternoon light and climbed into his small car. He placed the new cake carefully on the back seat, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb, the baker's strange expression lingering in his mind for a moment before he dismissed it.
The drive was quiet, the city shrinking in his rearview mirror. He was almost half way home when he reached the bridge. The road dipped beneath it, plunging the car into the deep shadow of the underpass. The darkness swallowed him whole. Without warning, the engine sputtered once, a sick, gurgling sound, then died with a final, metallic cough. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was absolute, a physical weight.
Ken glanced at the fuel gauge. Empty. His brow furrowed. That wasn't possible. He'd filled the tank that morning; he had the receipt in his wallet. But there was no time to question it. He was late for his daughter birthday party . Lily , ken's wife is waiting at home. He grabbed an empty water bottle from the back seat and stepped out into the oppressive stillness of the tunnel.
The only sound was the sharp, lonely echo of his own footsteps on the concrete. The air was cold and damp, smelling of exhaust and wet stone. The gas station was back the way he came, a long walk in the wrong direction. He was halfway through the tunnel's length, a silhouette against the distant mouth of light, when he heard it—a faint noise from the deeper darkness behind him. It wasn't a footstep. It was a drag, a scrape of fabric on grit.
Ken wasn't alone.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden quiet. He slowed his pace, every nerve ending screaming, his eyes straining to pierce the gloom. A figure detached itself from the shadows, merging with the weak light. Something in its hand caught a glint of steel. An iron rod.
Ken started to turn, his body reacting a split-second too late. The rod was already swinging in a vicious arc. It crashed down against his skull, and the world dissolved into a silent, screaming flash of blackness.
When Ken woke, the pain was a hot, jagged spike driving through his temple. He slowly pushed himself up, the rough texture of a wooden chair beneath him. He was in a dingy, cramped room. The windows were sealed shut with warped planks of wood. The air, thick with the smell of mold and the cloying sweetness of decay, turned his stomach. A single bare bulb cast a sickly yellow light.
What happened? Who brought me here?
He tested his bonds. Ropes, tight and biting, held his wrists and ankles to the chair. They were amateur knots, but strong. The old wood creaked under his strain, but nothing gave. He was a prisoner.
Then he heard the sound. A melodic humming, drifting from a closed bathroom door, accompanied by the hiss of running water. His gaze snapped towards the sound, his ears straining. The tune was cheerful, a child's nursery rhyme, and it went on and on, uninterrupted, for what felt like an eternity. Ten minutes, maybe more. Just the humming and the water. He couldn't see anyone. A cold knot of primal panic began to twist in his gut, but years of discipline forced it down. His face remained a mask of calm.
The bathroom door creaked open.
A figure emerged, whistling the same jaunty tune. He was young, with a lean, wiry build and eyes that were too bright. He moved with a loose-limbed grace that was unnerving, a predator at ease in its den. Bare feet slapped against the grimy floor as he padded into the small kitchen area, completely ignoring Ken. He started singing to himself as he opened a cupboard, took out a packet of instant noodles, and began to cook. Five minutes later, the singing stopped.
The man reappeared, holding a steaming plate. He set it down on a small table, then settled into a chair directly opposite Ken, studying him with a bright, curious gaze.
"Hello, bro. What's up," he said, his voice dripping with an unsettling cheerfulness. "I'm Mike. Of course, I'm a killer... a serial killer. No, maybe I'm a psycho. They call me different names. It's rude, isn't it? How people name someone without knowing the person ? these people don't care about other people feelings, disgusting people . Sometimes i feel very bad . my mother gave me a beautiful name," mike". She is very nice person . Then she sold me to pay for my father's operation, but that's another story. It doesn't matter to you, anyway. You're going to die today."
Mike let out a wild, high-pitched laugh that bounced off the squalid walls. "Isn't it funny? A few hours ago, you were worried about your life and everything . Now you're here. You don't have to worry about anything . you can leave this earth. You're welcome, buddy."
Ken's expression remained perfectly still. His eyes were locked on Mike's. He said nothing. He simply watched, cataloging details, assessing the threat.
Mike's grin faltered, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. He leaned forward, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Why are you looking at me like that? Aren't you scared? I'm going to kill you, buddy. Are you so scared you forgot how to be scared or what? Hahahaha! I think you're already dead!"
Ken's face didn't twitch. His breathing didn't change.
Mike's confusion deepened into raw anger. His knuckles were white where he gripped the chair. He shot to his feet, his voice rising, cracking with frustration. "You think someone's coming for you? A hero? Sorry to disappoint, buddy. Nobody is coming for you. I said no one. The only thing they'll find is your body after few days! Hey! Come on! What the hell? Why are you so silent? Are you mute? I want you to speak. Hey! Speak... SPEEEAAAK, BUDDY!"
For the first time with a victim, Mike was completely lost. This wasn't right. This wasn't the game. He didn't know what to do. He had to know why this man wasn't afraid.
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Ken sat alone in the humming silence, listening. He heard footsteps crunching on gravel outside, then Mike muttering furiously to himself, the words indistinct but the rage clear.
Mike yanked open his own car door, his hands tearing through the seats, the glove compartment. His breathing was ragged, his movements frantic. He was looking for something—a tracker, a wire, anything to explain this anomaly. Finding nothing, he turned his attention to Ken's small car, which he'd parked nearby.
He pulled open the back door and scanned the interior. Nothing. Just a lingering scent of sugar and a small cake box on the seat. But then his eyes caught it. A faint crease in the seat's upholstery that shouldn't be there. Something was wrong.
His fingers dug under the edge of the backseat. They closed around a small, flat, wooden box. It creaked as he pried it open. Inside was a stack of photographs. Mike's face went pale, the blood draining away, leaving a waxy, gray pallor.
They were pictures of dead bodies. Men and women, their faces frozen in masks of pure terror. The photos were glossy, high-quality prints, shot with a clinical, horrifying precision. His hands began to tremble as he flipped through the glossy images. His eyes darted back and forth, searching, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing.
Then he stopped. His breath hitched in his throat.
His gaze locked onto one of the photos. His face contorted, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He stumbled backward, his legs suddenly weak as if the bones had turned to water. He recognized the face in the picture. He remembered the case. Ten years ago. A string of killings that had terrified the entire country, a ghost story whispered in the dark.
That's when he realized. The pieces clicked into place with the cold, final sound of a coffin lid closing.
The man sitting calmly in the house… the man responsible for the bodies in these pictures… was also a killer.
And Mike's heart skipped a beat as the cold, terrifying truth hit him with the force of a physical blow.
He had just kidnapped a serial killer far worse than himself.