"Even wolves have enemies" — Some Russian
I stared at the sleeping form of my next victim, Wayne Jackson. He was a middle-aged man, six-foot-one, extremely obese, and showing signs of late-stage baldness.
It was only in times like this, during midnight, that you could see a wig stand holding a head of brown, luscious locks.
The first time I laid eyes on the contraption, I struggled to keep my laughter inside.
There was something fascinating about the way people conduct themselves when they think no one is watching. You can glimpse a bit into the psyche of a man or woman in moments like these. The way they feel comfortable enough to talk to themselves and let things slip that they wouldn't have said in any other setting.
I had seen housewives rehearse arguments with husbands who weren't there, their faces twisting with a rage they'd never dare show at the dinner table. I watched businessmen weep in parked cars, their sobs fogging up the windows. I had observed practice confessions of love to bedroom mirrors, voices cracking on words they'd never actually speak aloud.
People are never more honest than when they believe they're alone.
Wayne Jackson was no different. In the weeks I'd spent watching him, I had learned more about the man than his own family likely knew. The way he cursed at his reflection the way he adjusted that ridiculous wig three, four, five times before stepping outside. The way he whispered apologies to no one in particular as he drifted off to sleep.
It was almost enough to make you feel something.
Almost.
As I approached the sleeping behemoth, a loud noise from across the hall cut through the silence. Wayne's son had forgotten to shut his door while playing COD.
The noise of a flashbang going off was followed by the kid's voice: "You fucking cocksucker! I will have my vengeance in this life or the next!"
I feel you, dude... fucking sweats.
Wayne stirred, nearly waking from the commotion. Not that I minded. After a while of hunting trophies, one starts to lose the novelty. You start to hope that the prey does something unpredictable, something different. And after you hit the triple digits, it just becomes routine. A boring sequence of events.
Plan. Hunt. Kill.
This particular piece of shit was a serial killer. I happened upon him when he made the mistake of plugging his device into one of many compromised charging ports scattered around the city.
Long story short, software was installed onto his phone, giving me access to all his chat logs and visited websites.
Jeffrey Wayne Epstein over here would pose as a sixteen-year-old girl looking for friends in urban settings. Bright-eyed and lonely, that was the persona. Once he found a suitable underage victim, he would exchange a slow, careful series of texts with them, feeling out their vulnerabilities, building trust message by message. He even sent photos of a fake girl, some stolen images of a pretty brunette with braces and a shy smile, to lower their guard. Made himself seem harmless. Relatable. Just another kid looking for connection.
Then came the ask. Casual, like it was no big deal. He would suggest they meet up at a park, always one that was roughly halfway between where they both supposedly lived. Convenient. Considerate, even. The kind of thoughtful gesture that made a lonely fifteen-year-old think they'd finally found someone who understood them.
From what I gathered, he would chloroform the victims and take them to a secluded cabin outside of the city. After he was done playing with them, he would hack their bodies into pieces, grind them down into something unrecognizable, and feed the remains to the local wildlife. No trace. No evidence. Just another missing girl the cops would eventually stop looking for.
Now you may be asking yourself how I know all of this.
Well, this demented fuck was a best-selling crime author. When I was doing my research, I came across his novels. At first, I didn't think much of it, just another hack writing torture porn for bored housewives. But then I noticed something. The victims in one of his books, the ones killed by the main antagonist, all shared first names with the girls he had chatted with online. Girls who had disappeared one fateful day and were never seen again.
As I read deeper into what happened to those fictional victims, the details matched his routine almost exactly. The method. The location. The disposal.
I chuckled lowly at the thought of his fans praising him for his work. All those handshakes. All those thank-yous. Book signings where strangers gushed about how real his writing felt, how visceral the violence was. Meanwhile, he probably sat there glowing, savoring the private thrill of rubbing it in everyone's faces while remaining completely hidden.
….
Yeah this fucker had to go. But not here. Not tonight.
All that buildup, all that careful planning and for what? To wait. I'd learned patience over the years careful planning made the kill all the more sweet.
For now, I simply watched.
There's something almost sacred about observing someone in sleep. The way their chest rises and falls in that slow, trusting rhythm. The way their face goes slack, unburdened by the instincts that might otherwise scream at them to run. They look so peaceful. So unaware of how fragile that peace really is.
But tommorow would bring its own rewards. Tonight was for this the quiet privilege of standing in the dark, close enough to hear each breath, knowing what was coming when they didn't.
I allowed myself one last look before retreating the same way I'd come in slow and deliberate, leaving nothing behind but a shadow.
Soon enough, they'd wake to an ordinary morning.
Their last ordinary morning
—————————-
Ridgemont Park
—————————
Before I set my eyes on Wayne, he was for the most part untouchable.
No set schedule or predictable patterns. He spent his days in crowded spaces, book signings, meet and greets, literary panels, andthe occasional charity gala. Always surrounded and visible under the careful watch of the public eye.
A man like that doesn't make himself easy to reach. So I didn't try to reach him. I let him come to me.
It started with emails. Anonymous accounts, rotating domains, nothing traceable. I didn't threaten him. I didn't even mention his name. I just... helped.
Helpful articles about heart disease. Links to Reddit threads where people shared stories of loved ones lost to obesity-related heart attacks. Medical studies on the life expectancy of men two hundred pounds overweight. Testimonials from survivors who turned their lives around.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Week after week. Month after month. I became the invisible voice in his inbox, gently nudging him toward one conclusion: change or die.
And Wayne listened.
Slowly, his calendar shifted. He attended fewer events and crowds. He bought running shoes. Then a fitness tracker. Then he found a jogging trail along the edge of Ridgemont Park, wooded, quiet, and blissfully free of surveillance cameras.
It was exhilarating.
He thought he was taking control of his life. He had no idea he was handing it to me.
It only took a few days of observation to learn his routine. Which days he ran. What time he arrived. How far he pushed himself before his body started to protest.
By the fourth day, I knew exactly where he'd be gasping for air, desperate for a break a wooden bench near the halfway point, just past the old stone bridge.
That's where I waited.
Wayne's breathing came in ragged gasps, each exhale punctuated by a slight wheeze. He stumbled toward the bench and bent forward, hands braced against his knees, sweat dripping onto the pavement.
And action.
"Take it easy, man. You're making me look bad," I said with a teasing grin, pulling a water bottle from my pack. I held it out to him.
He glanced up at me, something almost bashful flickering across his face before he accepted it. "Thanks," he managed between breaths, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink.
I waited until he'd swallowed before speaking again. "I know you probably get this all the time, but you look exactly like this author I've seen on book covers. Wayne Jackson?" I tilted my head, feigning uncertainty. "Any relation?"
He seemed taken aback for a moment, but then a smug smile slowly crept across his face. "I sure hope so," he said, straightening up and puffing out his chest. "You're speaking to him."
I nodded, widening my eyes in mock surprise, offering all the appropriate reactions. I couldn't care less about stroking his ego. I just needed to keep him talking until the liquid ecstasy took effect.
The next part was easier than I expected.
A concerned jogger helping a fellow runner to their car, no one looked twice. Wayne mumbled protests at first, weak and confused, but by the time I eased him into the passenger seat, he'd gone limp. His head lolled against the window, breath fogging the glass in slow, shallow puffs.
I allowed myself one moment. Just one. I stood there in the empty parking lot, keys in hand, and let the satisfaction wash over me.
I reached across Wayne's slack body and fished his phone from his pocket. Latest model. Probably full of tracking apps, location history, a digital breadcrumb trail leading right to this parking lot. I powered it down, though I knew that wasn't enough not really. These things ping towers even when they're off and satellites could paint a picture.
I slipped his phone into a faraday bag a simple pouch lined with metallic material that blocks all signals. The phone was now deaf and mute.
I'd dump it later somewhere clever. But for now, I had a schedule to keep.
I pulled out of the lot slowly going the speed limit, made use of my turning signals and made full stop at every sign. Just another car on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. The drive ahead was long, but I didn't mind. I'd traveled enough over the years perfecting the art of making my own kill sites some time along the way, temporary spaces, carefully chosen, easily abandoned.
The cabin sat three hours north, tucked deep in the woods off an unmarked service road. It belonged to the passenger princess on my right.
I found it fitting that this was where Wayne would pay for his crimes. Poetic, almost. In his books, his killers always chose isolated places just like this somewhere the screaming couldn't carry. Wayne really knew how to get away with it. At least on paper.
I wondered if he'd appreciate the homage.
The plastic sheeting was already in place when we arrived walls, floor, table, all of it lined and sealed.
Things would get messy.
I hauled Wayne inside, his body still limp, and strapped him to the table in the center of the room. Wrists. Ankles. Chest. I pulled each restraint tight enough to bite into skin.
Then I arranged my tools beside him: a single iron pot, a small tube of super glue, and a wire cage holding two rats. They scrambled over each other, whiskers twitching, beady eyes catching the low light. They'd be the stars of tonight's show.
I'd set various rodent traps around the cabin the day prior. The rats I'd caught were hungry and desperate.
Wayne still hadn't woken up.
I slapped him hard forehand, then backhand. His head snapped left, then right.
He gasped, choking on the sudden shock and pain. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy, swimming in confusion before finally settling on me.
"Wh—where am I?" His voice cracked. "Who are you?" His gaze darted around the room, taking in the plastic, the restraints, the cage. Panic flooded his face. "Oh god, HELP! Can anyone hear me?!"
I delivered another pimp slap. The sound echoed off the plastic walls.
He went quiet.
"Is it money you want?" he whispered, his voice stripped down to something raw and pleading. "I'll give you any amount. Just ask. Anything."
I said nothing. Just smiled and stared at him, drinking in the sight of him squirming against the restraints. His eyes darted frantically around the room searching the walls, the ceiling, the shadows looking for an escape that didn't exist.
I let the silence stretch. Let him marinate in it.
Finally, I leaned in close.
"Tonight's the night."
I watched the words land. Wayne was a crime author, after all. He'd done his research, studied the genre. And I could see the exact moment recognition flickered behind his eyes the reference clicking into place.
Dexter.
He knew.
I couldn't hold back my laughter anymore. It spilled out of me, sharp and genuine, echoing off the plastic-wrapped walls.
I'd been binge-watching the show recently a guilty pleasure, really, and I'd started slipping quotes into my work. A little game I played with myself. Most of my guests were too disoriented to catch the references. Others simply hadn't seen the show.
But Wayne? Wayne understood.
That made this so much better.
"You're fucking insane," Wayne breathed. "You're, this is, do you hear yourself? You're laughing. You're laughing and quoting Dexter like this is some kind of performance. Like I'm not a real person. I have a family. I have a son, for Christ's sake. He's fourteen. Fourteen. Is this funny to you? Is any of this actually funny to you?"
While he finished his rant. I gave him my most deadpan stare.
This fucker really has no shame.
"You done?" I asked. "Because that was quite a performance. Really. Oscar-worthy." I slow-clapped, the sound muffled by my gloves. "A son. Family. You almost had me there." I tilted my head. "Tell me, Wayne, did your victims have families too? Did little Melissa Porter cry for her mother before you strangled the life out of her? Did any of those children get to beg the way you're begging now?" I spread my arms wide, gesturing at the plastic-wrapped walls. "You recognize this place, don't you? You should. You built this room. Chose this cabin because no one could hear the screaming." I smiled. "I thought it was only fitting that you die where they did."
I gestured to the items beside him. "Let's talk about what happens next."
Wayne's eyes darted to the table, pot, super glue and lastly it the cage with its two starving occupants scratching against the wire.
I could see his mind working trying to connect the pieces, praying he was wrong.
He wasn't.
"Rats are remarkable creatures," I said, lifting the cage to eye level. "Survivors. They'll chew through almost anything to escape danger." I tilted my head. "Even flesh. Even bone."
"Please" Wayne's voice was barely a whisper now.
I set the pot on his bare stomach. He bucked against the restraints, gasping at the cold iron, but I held it steady while I ran a bead of super glue around the rim. Thirty seconds. That's all it took for the seal to become permanent.
Then I dropped the rats inside.
They squeaked and scrambled, claws skittering against the iron walls, against the soft skin of his stomach. Wayne whimpered, his whole body going rigid.
I reached for the lighter fluid.
"Here's the thing about rats," I said, dousing the top of the pot. "When they get hot, they panic. And when they panic…" I pulled a matchbook from my pocket. "They dig."
I struck the match. The flame flickered, small and bright, casting long shadows across Wayne's tear-streaked face.
"You built this cabin to hear children scream," I said quietly. "I thought it was only fair you got a turn."
I touched the flame to the pot.
flame caught instantly, spreading across the top of the pot in a soft blue whoosh. It was almost beautiful the way the fire licked and danced, hungry and alive.
Wayne screamed.
A sound that barely sounded human.
I pulled up a chair and sat down.
The rats felt the heat before Wayne did. I could hear them inside squeaking, frantic, claws scraping against the iron walls as they searched for an escape. The pot was already beginning to warm, the metal conducting the heat downward, turning their little prison into an oven.
"The interesting thing about rats," I said, raising my voice over Wayne's sobs, "is that they're not stupid. They know they can't go up. They know the walls are too hot to climb." I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "So they go down. It's pure survival instinct."
Wayne thrashed against the restraints, veins bulging in his neck, tendons straining like piano wire. The table groaned beneath him but held firm. I'd reinforced it myself.
"STOP! PLEASE- I'LL CONFESS! I'LL TURN MYSELF IN! I'LL-"
"To who?" I asked calmly. "The police who couldn't catch you for six years? The FBI agents who closed three of your cases as runaways?" I shook my head slowly. "No one's coming to save you, Wayne. No one even knows you're gone."
The first rat broke through.
I knew the moment it happened Wayne's scream changed. Shifted into something higher, sharper, edged with a new kind of agony. His body convulsed, back arching off the table as far as the restraints would allow.
"There it is," I murmured in glee.
I watched his stomach move beneath the potwatched the skin ripple and distort as the rats clawed their way deeper, burrowing into the soft tissue to escape the heat above them. Blood began to seep out from under the rim, dark and thick, pooling on the plastic sheeting beneath him.
Wayne's words had dissolved into something incomprehensible now. Babbling. Begging. Fragments of prayers and curses tangled together, punctuated by wet, gurgling screams.
I thought about his victims.
Emily Vance, who disappeared walking home from school.
Marcus Chen, whose parents still held candlelight vigils every year, still believed he might come home someday.
Samara Williams, whose case went cold because there wasn't enough evidence. Because Wayne was careful. Because Wayne was smart.
I wondered if they screamed like this. If they begged. If Wayne sat and watched them the way I was watching him now.
Probably.
The fire was starting to die down, but it didn't matter anymore. The damage was done. The rats had found their escape route a warm, wet tunnel carved directly through Wayne Jackson's intestines.
His screams had faded to whimpers now. Shock was setting in. His skin had gone pale and waxy, his eyes glassy and unfocused, staring at something I couldn't see.
I stood up and walked over to him.
"You wrote a book once," I said softly, leaning close to his ear. "The Devil You Know. Chapter sixteen. The detective says something I've never forgotten." I paused, waiting until his eyes flickered toward me one last moment of recognition. "'Evil doesn't always look like a monster. Sometimes it looks like your neighbor. Your teacher. Your favorite author.'"
I straightened up.
"You should've taken your own advice, Wayne."
His breathing was shallow now. Rapid. The wet, sucking sound of it told me his lungs were filling with blood. Minutes left, at most.
I didn't stay to watch the end.
I'd seen enough death to know there was nothing poetic about the final moments. Just biology winding down. A machine running out of fuel.
I peeled off my gloves, bagged them, and took one last look around the cabin. Everything would burn. The plastic. The table. The rats. Wayne.
Nothing left but ash and silence.
I struck a fresh match and tossed it onto the gasoline-soaked floor.
I would be back to cremate the body. For now I took a one final look at my handywork.
Then I walked out into the cool night air, the cabin already glowing orange behind me, and disappeared into the trees.