The date was August 28th, 20XX.
The city below hummed, buzzing, ceaseless and restless, like a machine that had forgotten how to power down. The buildings were so tall they clawed at the heavens with jagged towers of glass and metal, each surface painted in shifting advertisements that screamed louder than the voices of the people below.
Neon screens glared down on the city like unblinking eyes, giant billboards stacked on one another. Each billboard promised something new, luxury cars with bodies so polished you could see your reflection, drinks that could shave ten years off your age, pills that could make you thinner, happier, smarter. Streaming services offered endless dreams, dramas, false romances. Miracle diets, miracle jobs, miracle lives.
Yet beneath all the shine, beneath the hollow cheer of it all, there was a different message. One far louder. One that drowned out the jingles, smiling actors and bright cartoon mascots.
"The notorious serial killer publicly known as the Butcher has claimed another victim. Police urge all citizens to stay indoors after dark until the killer is apprehended. Authorities are working with city surveillance to track his movements. Please, if you have information, contact the Crime Division immediately."
The words echoed from every direction. A chorus of warning, bouncing off concrete and steel. People on the streets paused, faces tilted upward toward the towering holographic displays, their eyes wide and hollow. Some looked sick. Others looked tired, as though they'd heard it all before and could do nothing about it. A mother pulled her daughter closer, dragging her across the street before the light even changed. A group of salarymen smoking under an awning crushed their cigarettes in silence and disappeared into the crowd.
Shortly after the screen flickered revealing a new image, specifically an image of The Butcher himself. He was grotesque, more beast than man, built like a slab of meat carved from the wrong end of a carcass. His body was round, barrel-like, yet tall and wide enough to swallow a doorway. His head was shaved smooth, shining beneath the studio lights that had captured his mugshot months ago. Fat cheeks sagged over a jawline long since lost to gluttony, the skin oily, glistening as if it sweated grease even while still. His eyes were small, too small for the slab of flesh around them, buried beneath folds of skin.
Murmurs rippled through the pedestrians.
"It's been months now… how the hell is he still out there?" someone muttered, voice thick with disbelief.
"Tch, the cops are useless. Cameras on every corner and still nothing—" another spat, bitterness dripping from his tone.
Somewhere faraway, inside a crumbling apartment complex, one such man watched the broadcast. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, buzzing and flickering like a dying insect, bathing the room in sickly white. The walls were yellow with nicotine stains, peeling wallpaper sagging in strips, and the floor was a graveyard of greasy takeout boxes, shattered bottles, and cigarette butts ground into the wood.
It was him, the butcher, slouched forward, his enormous bulk sinking the chair beneath him. A cigarette smoldered between fat fingers, the ash curling dangerously close to falling on his gut. His lips twitched as the news anchor repeated his description. A grunt escaped him, something between amusement and irritation, as if hearing his own infamy fed something dark inside him.
Two monitors glowed in the corner of the room, throwing pale blue light across his piggish features. One screen replayed the news broadcast, the anchor's strained voice describing him yet again. The other held a paused image that chilled the air around it: a young girl, no older than twelve, frozen mid-smile at some long-forgotten birthday party. Streamers blurred in the background; her cake half-lit with candles. She looked innocent, untouched by the shadows of the city. The way The Butcher stared at the picture made bile rise in the throat of anyone who might have seen it. His next victim.
Then creak.
A floorboard groaned.
The Butcher's grin faltered. He reached over to the flickering television and shut it off with a heavy click. The apartment sank into silence, broken only by the faint buzz of the bulb and his labored, wheezing breaths. Slowly, he stood, the wooden chair complaining under his weight, joints groaning like bones being snapped. His eyes swept the room, scanning the shadows as a low growl rumbled from his throat.
Turning toward the wall, he plucked something from a rusty nail: a pig mask. Its paint had long since cracked, flaking at the snout, one eyehole larger than the other as if it had been chewed by rats. He slid it over his face like a priest donning sacred vestments, and muffled laughter bubbled from behind the mask
"So…" he muttered, voice thick and gluttonous, "you finally came."
The door burst open.
A figure strode in, tall and lean, his silhouette carved sharp against the hallway light. No badge, no uniform. Just a long coat draped across broad shoulders, boots that struck the rotting floorboards with hollow echoes. His face was swallowed in shadow, but the air around him radiated intent, the kind of authority no title could grant.
The Butcher tilted his head, letting the mask squeak as it shifted. He gave a snort that rattled the room, spreading his arms wide as though welcoming an old friend.
"You came alone?" he jeered, voice dripping with mockery. "To think someone as smart as you would be so foolish." His fingers flexed, curling into fists like slabs of meat. The pig mask gleamed faintly as he leaned closer, his breath rattling. "Don't worry," he chuckled, "I'll give you a proper funeral."
Then he lunged, every step shaking the rotting floorboards. His fists came down like sledgehammers, each swing heavy enough to rattle the walls. The air hissed with every arc of his arm, his massive frame moving faster than it had any right to. He roared behind the pig mask, a sound that was half bellow, half laugh, his sheer size meant to overwhelm and crush.
But the man in the coat didn't meet him with rage. He slipped through each attack with precision, turning sideways, leaning just enough to let the blows skim past. His movements weren't flashy, no wasted gestures nor unnecessary flairs. Every shift of his weight carried the grace of a veteran fighter, someone who'd fought too many battles to count.
A counterstrike to the ribs; quick, sharp, and merciless. Followed by a knee driven into the gut, forcing air from the monster's lungs and finally a palm strike under the chin, snapping his head back with a crack.
The Butcher staggered, wheezing. His body trembled under the onslaught, sweat slicking the rolls of fat beneath his mask. His breath came ragged, high-pitched, like a whistle through a broken kettle. Still, he forced a laugh, choking between each word.
"Y-you think this is enough?!"
The man in the coat exhaled through his nose. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Huh, what the hell are you on about" he muttered.
A pistol flashed into his left hand.
BANG!
The Butcher screamed as the bullet ripped through his right knee. His massive frame toppled sideways, smashing into a pile of bottles that shattered around him. He howled, clutching at the wound, but before he could recover—
BANG!
The second shot tore through his other leg. He collapsed fully now, thrashing, his mask cracking against the floorboards with a hollow snap. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading in dark rivers, the stench of copper filling the suffocating air. He writhed like a slaughtered animal, his meaty hands scrabbling uselessly at the floor.
"Y-you can't kill me, the judges think I'm mentally unstable" he stammered, voice breaking. "So, all you can do is arrest and send me to Jail" a smirk slowly made its way back to his face "If you kill me, you'll wind up behind ba—"
"Frankly, I don't care" the mysterious figure cut him off with a cold voice, immediately wiping the smirk off the butcher's face
No… no, wait, please!" he cried, his voice a strangled whine. "I—I can change! I'll do the time! Just don't—don't kill me—"
The stranger walked closer, slow and deliberate, boots clicking against the wood. He crouched in front of the broken hulk of a man, his pistol leveled steadily at the pig mask. His other hand rose to his face, covering his mouth as laughter escaped, low at first, then swelling into something sharp, unsettling. The sound was almost human, almost but it carried a cruel edge that turned it monstrous.
"Begging?" he said, tilting his head. The words dripped venom. "Is that how they begged too?"
The Butcher's body froze, his wheezing louder, his eyes wide behind the cracked mask.
The man began listing names. Not all. Just a few. Each one heavy, the Butcher's trembling lips opened, but no words came out. His whole body quaked, terror stripping him bare.
The stranger pressed the barrel of the pistol harder against the mask, right at the forehead.
"Prison would be letting you off easy," he said coldly. His finger tightened against the trigger. "You don't deserve the luxury of bars."
The Butcher whimpered, shaking violently.
----
[30 Minutes Later]
"FREEZE! POLICE!"
The door banged open again, wood splintering under the force. Armed officers poured inside, weapons raised, red and blue lights flashing from the stairwell behind them. Shouts filled the apartment, boots thundered against the floor, the whole room bursting with chaos.
At their head was a younger detective, breathless from the climb, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. "Detective Arthur!" the young man called out to the mysterious figure. "I brought reinforcements, but… seems you didn't need them." His eyes widened as he took in the scene, the butcher laying in a pool of his own blood
Arthur holstered his weapon without a word. His expression didn't change. He simply stood and stepped away as officers swarmed Butchers corpse.
Then he slowly walked up to the chief, arms together like he was waiting to be arrested.