"Please…" the woman cried, hands clasped together, her voice trembling with fear. She sat on the wet asphalt, rain soaking through her clothes, her eyes fixed on the man standing before her — a man wrapped in a dark cloak.
"Spare my life, please," she whispered, hands still pressed together in prayer.
The Laughing Maniac watched her in silence. His knife hovered near her throat — steady, merciless.
"Why should I spare you?" he asked, his tone calm, almost curious.
"I—I'll give you money. As much as you want! Just don't kill me!" Her voice cracked, her eyes flickering with a fragile spark of hope.
"Five thousand bucks," the Maniac said, his lips curling into a faint grin.
"Oh… thank you! Thank you!" she gasped, fumbling in her pocket. "Five thousand dollars," she repeated, pulling out the money with trembling hands. "Here! Please, take it!"
He took the cash slowly, savoring the moment.
"You may leave," he said quietly.
The woman sprang to her feet and ran — heels splashing through puddles, breath ragged, desperate.
For one fleeting second, freedom felt real.
Then her scream ripped through the night.
She collapsed onto the asphalt, clutching at her legs — or what was left of them.
Blood spread beneath her like spilled ink.
"My—MY LEGS!?" she shrieked, voice breaking with agony.
"I said you may leave," the Maniac replied, flicking blood from his blade.
"But I never said you'd survive."
Her eyes widened — shock twisting into despair, then madness.
"Ahah… ahahaha… AHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA!"
Her laughter turned hysterical, broken… until pain finally silenced her.
Her body went limp. The rain did the rest.
Water poured harder, washing thin rivers of blood into the gutters.
But her body remained — pale, motionless, lifeless.
"Ah… ahhah… bhahhahahaha…"
The Maniac's laughter echoed down the empty street.
"You really thought you could escape from me? Ahahahahahaha!"
When the sound finally faded, he tossed the money back onto her body.
"Take your money back," he said softly, smiling. "I changed my mind."
Sirens wailed in the distance — growing louder, closing in.
"Again."
His shadow melted into the darkness.
Moments later, two police officers burst into the street.
"We're late… again," one muttered, staring at the scene.
"If I ever catch you, Maniac," the other growled, fists trembling, "you'll feel every scream your victims ever made."
"Calm down," the first said quietly. "He might still be listening."
The second swallowed hard, eyes locked on the body.
"…Right."
The night went on — quieter now, but no less alive.
In the southern part of the city, life still pulsed. Skyscrapers loomed over the streets, neon lights buzzing, people laughing, running, living.
Most of them were just kids.
But between those towers were alleys — dark, narrow, unforgiving.
Places where people disappeared.
Where crime and death traded hands like old friends.
From one of those alleys stepped a man in a blue suit. Every thread of it was pressed and perfect. Behind his glasses, brown eyes watched the street with quiet calculation.
A black suitcase swung by his side.
He entered a tall apartment building and stepped into the elevator.
Inside stood a teenage boy in an orange hoodie, leaning against the wall, phone glowing in his hands. The hood cast a shadow over his face. His thumbs moved fast across the screen — typing something the man couldn't quite see.
"Good evening, kid," the man said casually.
"Oh… hey, man. What's up?" The boy didn't look up.
"Nothing much. Just got off work. How's your girlfriend doing?"
The boy froze. "I don't have a girlfriend, old man." He looked up briefly.
"What about Sarah?"
"Shh! Don't say her name out loud."
"Why? I thought you two were already dating."
"Not yet," he muttered. "Haven't confessed."
"Come on, be brave. Do it tomorrow."
"I dunno... What if she rejects me?"
"Losing is part of winning," the man said with a grin.
The boy chuckled awkwardly. "Alright… maybe I will."
The elevator beeped softly. For a second, the man noticed a flicker on the boy's phone — a symbol he didn't recognize.
"By the way," the boy said, eyes still on the screen, "why do you always come home so late? Your office closes at five, right?"
The man blinked. "Well… I go out with my coworkers after work."
The boy finally looked up and smiled faintly.
"Sure you do."
Ding.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
"Oh... bye, old man," the kid said with a lazy grin, stepping out.
"Good night, kiddo," the man replied.
The boy disappeared around the corner, his orange hoodie fading into the dim light.
The doors closed again, sealing the man inside the quiet box.
For a moment, he stood still. The faint hum of the elevator filled the silence.
He's a good kid, the man thought. No parents, yet he still smiles… like life hasn't crushed him.
He looked down, chuckled softly. Maybe that's what strength really is.
But the smile faded.
Still… he asks too many questions. Always watching. Always curious. Maybe that's just how kids are... or maybe not.
Ding.
Eighteenth floor.
He stepped out. The corridor stretched before him — clean, silent, lifeless.
Every door shut. Every light steady.
He walked down the hall, polished shoes echoing softly.
At door 367, he stopped.
He unlocked it and stepped inside.
The apartment was pristine — every line straight, every surface shining.
But it felt wrong. Too sterile. Too empty.
He locked the door behind him and exhaled slowly.
The suitcase landed gently on the bathroom counter. He unlatched it — click.
The lid opened like a secret revealed.
He reached inside and pulled out a neat stack of papers — each page perfectly aligned, edges sharp, untouched by chaos.
He set them on the closed toilet lid, then reached deeper.
Beneath them lay a folded black cloak, its fabric stiff with dried blood.
And under that — a knife, sealed in plastic, the steel edge faintly tinted red.
He stared at them for a long moment. His reflection in the mirror was calm — almost kind — but the eyes staring back weren't human.
He lifted the cloak, placed it in the sink. Then the knife.
The faucet squeaked. Water flowed, turning crimson as it touched the blade.
He watched in silence, the red spirals disappearing down the drain.
Then, barely audible, he whispered to his reflection:
"Tomorrow… another hunt."