A pair of college students had been living together off campus.
The girl had been boiled, cooked, dismembered into thousands of fragments, and scattered across every corner of the university grounds.
The boy had been nailed to a chair, his abdomen split open, every organ torn out, and his body cavity stuffed with water-filled condoms, bloated like a grotesque parody of life.
This wasn't a crime of passion.
It wasn't revenge.
It wasn't even insanity in the common sense.
It was ritualistic.
Cold.
Deliberate.
Uncomfortably close to some kind of sacrament.
As Luke Hayes and Damon Vale walked back toward campus, Luke clutched his chest the entire way, breathing unevenly. The images hadn't left him. They probably never would.
Damon, by contrast, looked almost normal.
But Alex's earlier words about the surveillance cameras wouldn't leave his mind.
Avoiding every camera.
Dumping hundreds of body parts across campus.
Leaving no trace.
That wasn't something a normal person could do.
⸻
Damon's phone vibrated.
"Luke, head back to the dorm," Damon said quietly. "I'll be back later."
Luke didn't argue. He just nodded and staggered away.
Damon turned toward the late-night barbecue stand just outside the campus gate.
"Hey," he said into the phone. "Why're you calling this late?"
"I heard about your school," Evelyn said on the other end. He could hear a hairdryer humming—she was getting ready for bed. "Jesus. That's… nasty."
"Your intel's fast," Damon replied, scanning the grill.
His throat tightened. Meat wasn't happening tonight.
"Two beers," he told the vendor. "Grilled vegetables only."
"If this weren't so perverted," Evelyn laughed dryly, "I'd almost think you did it. You psychopath."
Damon snorted and sat down.
"I'm not that far gone. I don't butcher classmates for fun."
"Yet," she said lightly. "Give your condition time."
"I think I've already crossed that line."
"At least our targets deserve it," she countered. "We're not killing innocents."
"Listen to us," Damon said. "We sound like budget vigilantes. Like we're yelling justice in the name of the moon."
Evelyn laughed.
"Honestly? Yeah. But we're no different from underground street racers. We just play a more… permanent game."
A pause.
"You're really going to the UK?" Damon asked.
"Unfortunately. I tried pitching conflict zones—Somalia, Syria. My mom cried. My dad shattered a glass. So… London it is."
"As a woman, you should probably avoid war zones."
"Says the serial killer."
They both chuckled, then her tone shifted—serious now.
"The club's falling apart," she said. "If I leave, Mark's gone. He only joined because of me."
"You don't owe him anything."
"I know. And Damon—listen. I'll find you a hospital over here. Somewhere good. You can come as an exchange student. Treatment, observation, whatever it takes."
The vendor set the beer down.
"Thanks," Damon said, lifting a bottle and drinking straight from it.
"I'm serious," Evelyn pressed. "This isn't something you can keep ignoring. Right now, it's controlled. Family connections, careful planning. But one day…"
"I know," Damon said quietly.
He did know.
He'd always known.
Mercenary work crossed his mind sometimes—foreign battlefields, violence with rules—but his family would never allow it. And he knew his limits. He was skilled, yes—but not elite. Not immortal.
"I'll wait to hear what you find," he said.
"That's all I ask."
A brief silence.
"By the way," she added, lighter again, "what about that girl you mentioned before? The one chasing you?"
"We haven't talked in a while."
"You're hopeless. You're ice-cold."
"You told me yourself," Damon said, "that after my diagnosis, it's better not to drag anyone else down."
She didn't argue.
⸻
That was when Damon noticed them.
Two men had taken a table nearby.
One was broad-shouldered, wearing a military-style camouflage hoodie, posture relaxed but coiled.
The other was thinner, younger-looking—and wearing sunglasses at night, which alone made him unsettling.
Between them sat a small black dog. Compact. Muscular. Alert.
The dog ignored the meat scraps at its feet.
That alone was wrong.
"Nothing," Damon said into the phone. "Just tired. Get some rest."
After hanging up, he kept watching them from the corner of his eye.
They weren't eating casually.
They weren't chatting aimlessly.
They were waiting.
The dog suddenly trotted over to Damon and began circling him.
For the first time that night, Damon felt genuinely uncomfortable.
Not fear of death.
Not fear of violence.
Instinct.
"Back," the man in camouflage said calmly.
The dog paused, stared at Damon—deeply, intently—then returned to its owner.
The man in sunglasses leaned close to his companion, whispering. The camo-clad man nodded, then glanced at Damon with something like interest.
Damon placed cash on the table and stood.
As he passed them, the black dog bared its teeth—not barking, not lunging.
Warning.
"Leaving already?" the man in sunglasses asked casually, lifting his bottle.
Damon stopped, surprised, then nodded.
"Yeah. Heading back."
The man in camouflage muttered, almost to himself,
"I'd suggest you stay a little longer."
The man in sunglasses shook his head slightly.
Damon hesitated—then crossed the street toward campus.
⸻
Watching him go, the man in camouflage grinned.
"Why didn't you let me stop him? Newcomers usually get a… trial."
The man in sunglasses sighed.
"No need. He reeks of blood. Your dog smelled it immediately. That's not a normal rookie—and not someone who dies easily."
He took a slow drink.
"Forcing him before the story begins would cause unnecessary conflict."
A pause.
"When the time comes," he added, "we'll find him again."