Zian ran forward, darting through the sewers.
A flood gutter leading upward caught his attention. Light spilled from it, but not the kind born of sunlight.
He squeezed through the narrow opening, his doubled size barely fitting, and emerged into an alley.
'This looks familiar...'
The place looked exactly like the world he had left behind.
Brick buildings loomed on either side, fire escapes zigzagging down their walls. Narrow alleys twisted between the structures, littered with trash.
But when his eyes landed on a discarded newspaper fluttering against a dumpster—he only saw meaningless symbols.
Either he landed in some foreign country, or this was a completely different world altogether.
'First I need information,' his whiskers twitched as he analyzed his surroundings.
His training as a Marine and CIA operative had honed him to adapt anywhere—though adapting as a rat was a first.
To his right stood what looked like an old apartment building—three stories of weathered brick with peeling paint around the windows.
An exposed water drainpipe ran down the building's side, its metal brackets offering ideal footholds.
Zian rushed toward it, each leap carrying him higher until he reached a second-floor window.
The glass was dusty, but he could see through.
Inside, a dirty apartment stretched before him.
Takeout containers littered a coffee table, empty beer bottles formed small towers on the floor, and the air probably reeked of unwashed clothes and stale cigarettes.
A man with a big belly was lying on top of a sagging couch, eyes glued to a television screen.
'I don't recognize the language either,'
But that was a small issue. His only priority was finding a quick way to kill his target.
'Let's profile the victim first,'
Zian didn't rush in blindly. The man's routine was simple; drink, mutter curses to himself. His soft, sluggish body showed he wasn't athletic at all.
To get a better understanding, he slipped through the window and began checking the house.
Other rats scattered at the sight of a steroid-pumped version of their kind, making things much easier.
'Single toothbrush in the bathroom. Plates are scarce. No pictures of anyone else. Clothes are all men's. Safe to assume he lives alone.'
An idea began to take shape in his mind, each plan sliding into place like pieces of a puzzle.
Before he became a serial killer, the CIA had called him the Analyzer—for the way he dismantled even the most dangerous missions. Killing a single target was hardly an issue.
When the man finally slumped onto the mattress, snoring loudly, Zian moved to execute his plan.
One by one, he stacked bottles beneath the bed, testing their weak points with his teeth.
'Now for the second phase,'
He slipped into the kitchen. Grease clung to the stovetop, and dishes rotted in the sink.
His eyes locked onto a plastic bottle near the stove.
'Cooking oil.'
Cap was loose—probably from the man's last attempt at preparing something edible. Zian climbed the bottle, using his claws to grip the slippery surface.
The weight nearly toppled him as he pushed it off the counter.
It hit the floor with a dull thud, the cap flying off and oil spreading across the linoleum in a dark slick.
Not enough.
He found another bottle wedged behind a stack of takeout containers. Then a third tucked away in a cabinet.
Each one sent more oil spreading across the apartment's floor, creating a treacherous path from the living room to anywhere the man might try to run.
He almost looked like that famous rat, but instead of cooking delicious food, he was cooking a crime scene.
Tonight, the sauce would be blood, and the main course was human meat.
'Done.'
He crept to the bed, studying his target one last time before moving in.
The man's snores filled the room, rattling like a clogged engine. Zian crouched above the chest, waiting for the perfect moment.
His whiskers twitched. Patience was everything.
'Now!'
Zian lunged forward, his razor-sharp teeth tearing into soft flesh. Blood spurted as he ripped away a chunk of the man's lower lip.
The target's eyes snapped open. A scream began building in his throat, but the worst part was just coming.
Zian's claws found the man's cheekbone as his teeth sank into the left eye socket. The eyeball burst like a grape between his jaws.
"What the—AHHHHH!"
The man's hand swept across his face, trying to grab his attacker, but it already launched itself toward the right ear.
His teeth punched through cartilage with a wet crunch. He twisted his head, tearing the ear clean off.
"AHHHHH!" Blood painted the pillowcase crimson as the man rolled off the bed in pure panic.
His feet hit the oil-slicked floor. Down he went, arms windmilling uselessly as he crashed into the arranged bottles beneath the bed.
crack!
Glass exploded around him. Each bottle shattered exactly where Zian had weakened it.
"Help! Someone help me!"
Unfortunately, the apartment walls were thick, and this wasn't the kind of neighborhood that bred Good Samaritans.
The man thrashed, but the oil made every movement treacherous. Each attempt to stand sent him sliding back.
Zian dropped from the bed, landing on the man's chest. No hesitation now. He went into full carnage mode.
His teeth sank into the remaining eye. The pressure resisted for a heartbeat, then burst with a pop, spraying blood across his snout.
The scream that tore out of the man's throat wasn't human anymore—it was pure, animal terror.
"God, no! I can't die like this—" His words broke off into a howl.
But no matter how much he screamed, no one came to help.
'Don't resist. You're just making it harder for yourself.'
Zian's attack pattern was cruel. Ears gone. Eyes destroyed. Nose mangled beyond recognition.
'Just need to bleed him to death,"' Zian thought, biting into the man's neck for the fifth time.
This wasn't rage. This wasn't madness. It was simply a mission—another box to tick so he could revive his daughters.