You have no idea, you will regret this, didn't you
The man's voice cracked as he screamed, his throat raw from repeating the same warning again and again. Pain twisted through his body like something alive, something hungry. Blood kept coming, slow at first, then faster, soaking into the cold floor beneath him. It spread in uneven patterns, like a stain that refused to be erased.
The room smelled metallic. Thick. Suffocating.
He tried to breathe but every inhale burned. Every movement sent sharp waves through his ribs. He did not even know which bone was broken anymore. It all blurred together into one endless ache.
Mark stood in front of him, silent.
That silence was worse than the violence.
The man laughed weakly, though it came out more like a choke. "That bastard looks like… hm, he's dead."
Mark did not respond. His eyes remained fixed, cold and distant, as if he was looking at something far beyond the broken man in front of him.
The bullet had already been fired. The damage was already done.
Mark did not want to say anything. Words felt unnecessary here. Words were for people who still believed in explanations, in reasons. This place had none.
When he looked around, the box, if it could even be called that, was soaked in blood. Not splashes. Not stains. Covered. As if the room itself had been dipped into it.
And yet, there was a strange order to the chaos.
Clean this mess, Shaun has not eaten for days.
The voice echoed in his head. Calm. Detached. Almost bored.
Mark exhaled slowly. He knew what that meant.
He was waiting for his food.
Again.
He had seen it before. The way the creature moved. The way it dragged its prey, not out of hunger alone, but something else. Something darker. Something that enjoyed the chase more than the kill.
He would see that dog chasing bones.
No.
Not bones.
That was the bad and horrible mistake.
They were never just bones.
Returning, Mark dragged the body without ceremony. The dead man's arm scraped along the floor, leaving behind a faint trail that blended into the already existing stains. The sound of it was quiet, but it echoed in the stillness.
He cleaned the mess after, methodically, almost professionally. As if this was just another task. Another duty.
There were others.
Always others.
Three of them, this time. One of them was new. You could always tell. The way they cried louder. The way their fear was still raw, still desperate. Not yet dulled into acceptance.
The dead man was his brother.
Pity again.
Mark stared at him for a moment longer than necessary. Not out of sympathy, but out of recognition. Faces started to blur after a while, but sometimes, something stayed. A detail. A resemblance.
"Hey, feel your own good. I'm advising you not to cry. Our boss hates crying."
His voice was calm. Almost gentle.
The boy sniffled, tears streaking down his face, mixing with dirt and fear. His hands trembled as he wiped his face, trying to obey, trying to survive.
"I'll fucking tear that woman in half, I swear…"
BANG.
The sound shattered everything.
For a moment, there was nothing. No breath. No thought. Just silence ringing in the ears.
Then the body fell.
A bullet pierced through his head, clean and precise. Blood followed a second later, splattering against the wall in a pattern that almost looked artistic.
Mark did not flinch.
He stood there, steady, as if he had expected it.
As if this was always going to happen.
He's used to it.
But the others never were.
Their screams stayed trapped in their throats, too terrified to come out. Their eyes widened, horror settling deep inside them, carving itself into their memory.
And somewhere beyond the walls, something moved.
Slow. Heavy. Anticipating.
Because Shaun had finally been fed.
The sound of the gunshot did not fade quickly.
It stayed.
Not in the air, but inside their heads.
Ringing. Echoing. Burning itself into memory.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Not even Mark.
The body lay on the ground, twitching faintly, as if it had not fully accepted death. Blood spread slowly, crawling across the floor, merging with older stains that had long lost their origin.
This place did not remember names.
Only endings.
The remaining two men stood frozen, their fear now too deep to even show properly. One of them tried to speak, his lips trembling, but no words came out. It felt like his voice had been stolen from him.
Mark shifted his gaze toward the door.
He did not need to hear footsteps.
He just knew.
The air changed first.
Colder.
Heavier.
Then the door opened.
Slowly.
No urgency. No hesitation.
She walked in.
Her presence filled the room without effort. The soft sound of her steps against the floor felt louder than the gunshot that came before. Every movement was controlled, measured, as if nothing in this world could ever rush her.
Mark straightened slightly.
Not out of respect.
Out of instinct.
"he cried," he said calmly, his voice steady as always.
Boss did not respond immediately.
Her eyes moved across the room, taking in every detail. The blood. The bodies. The fear hanging thick in the air. She observed it all in silence, like someone inspecting work that had already been completed.
Her gaze stopped at the corpse.
A faint pause.
Disappointment.
"I told you," she said softly, her voice almost gentle, "I don't like noise."
The two remaining men broke further.
One of them collapsed to his knees, unable to hold himself up anymore. His hands hit the floor, shaking violently as he struggled to breathe.
"Please… we won't say anything… we swear"
"Stop."
The word was quiet.
But it crushed him instantly.
He went silent.
Boss tilted her head slightly, watching him. There was something curious in her expression now, like she was studying how fear reshaped people.
"How long do you think you'll survive?" she asked.
The man stared at her, confused, terrified, unable to think.
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
Not warmth.
Not kindness.
Something far worse.
"Wrong question," she murmured. "You should be asking how you want to die."
The other man tried to hold back his tears, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders shook, breath uneven, fear slipping through every crack.
Mark watched them.
Different faces.
Same ending.
"Boss," he said quietly, "Shaun has been fed."
At the name, something shifted.
From somewhere deep inside the building, a low sound echoed. Not clear. Not loud. But alive.
The men heard it.
And that was enough.
Their fear turned into understanding.
Boss turned her gaze toward the direction of the sound. For a brief second, her expression softened. Not with affection.
With satisfaction.
"Good," she said.
Then she looked back at them.
"Let's not waste anything."
The man on his knees shook his head rapidly. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to crawl back, but his body felt too heavy, too slow.
"No… please… I have a family… I didn't do anything…"
"You all say that."
Her voice remained calm.
That calmness made it unbearable.
She stepped closer.
He flinched but did not move away.
He couldn't.
Boss crouched in front of him.
For a moment, they were face to face.
"You know what I hate the most?" she asked softly.
He stayed silent, frozen.
"I hate liars."
Her hand lifted slowly, almost gently, forcing him to look directly into her eyes.
"And everyone lies when they're about to die."
His breathing broke apart.
"I'm not—"
BANG.
The second body dropped.
Silence returned again.
Heavier.
Thicker.
Mark did not react.
He stepped forward, already prepared for what came next.
Cleaning.
Dragging.
Feeding.
Repeating.
But as Boss stood, something changed.
Just for a second.
A flicker in her eyes.
Something rare.
Interest.
Somewhere far beyond this place, something had moved without her permission.
And that was unacceptable.
---
The light was din though the cafè was shining the crowd of course it have to be here as it is so famous for its cookies... Chocolate one. The smell lingering everywhere distracting everyone, but it was not able to distract one person... Damian, dedicated to his newspaper like a lifeline maybe a new case. Damain vose, is new to these jobs, secret police. But it was his childhood career intrest cases and murdered these sounds amazing to solve right?
A group of weirdos.
That's what people called them.
Cops.
Or at least, that's what they were supposed to be.
But no one really saw them that way.
"I mean… Damian and his friends," someone had once said with a laugh, like it was some kind of joke.
Maybe it was.
Maybe they really did look strange to others.
They didn't act like normal officers. They didn't talk like them. They didn't even think like them.
They noticed things others ignored.
And that made people uncomfortable.
Damian leaned back slightly, his eyes scanning the space around him, but not really seeing it. His mind was somewhere else.
Always somewhere else.
"Damian…"
A voice pulled him back.
"…you're doing it again."
He blinked once, slowly, then looked at them.
All of them sitting there.
Talking.
Laughing.
Normal.
Or at least trying to be.
Damian exhaled quietly, running his fingers through his hair before speaking.
"Hm… how are you all so calm…"
His voice was low, almost to himself, but they heard it.
One of them frowned. "What?"
"You all are just sitting here," Damian continued, his tone sharpening just a little, "like nothing is happening."
Another one sighed. "Don't start again."
But he didn't stop.
"You call this normal?" he said, looking at them one by one. "You call this fine?"
The air shifted.
The lightness at the table disappeared.
"You all are monsters."
The words landed heavy.
No one laughed this time.
"Excuse me?" one of them said, clearly annoyed now.
Damian leaned forward slightly, his eyes darker now, more focused.
"Stop pretending," he said. "Stop acting like you don't see it."
"See what?" someone snapped.
"This," Damian replied instantly. "Everything."
His jaw tightened.
"You all are bleeding and you don't even realize it."
Silence.
Confusion.
Irritation.
But beneath all of it… a small hint of unease.
"Damian, enough," one of them said, more serious now. "You're overthinking again."
He shook his head slowly.
"No."
A pause.
"Some murders happened."
Simple words.
But the way he said them made it feel heavier.
Different.
Not like a report.
Not like information.
Like something personal.
"They're not normal," he continued. "Not random. Not messy."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table, slow, controlled.
"Someone is doing this carefully."
No one interrupted now.
Because they could hear it.
That certainty in his voice.
"That someone…" Damian murmured, almost to himself, "…knows exactly what they're doing."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
Not a happy one.
Something else.
Something darker.
His friend leaned back, watching him closely. "And you think you're going to find them?"
Damian looked up.
Straight at him.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just that one word.
And somehow, it felt real.
The conversation didn't end properly.
It just… stopped.
Like no one knew what to say after that.
Damian stood up slowly, pushing his chair back.
"I'm going."
"Where?" someone asked.
He paused for a second.
Then spoke without turning back.
"To find what you all are ignoring."
And then he walked away.
In that dark alley, slightly taking the advantage of the bridge. He have time to start this journey, he can still enjoy until he gets the final responsibility. He have solved cases not many but enough for him to think about this murders... "Those are fools, I can't let poor people die"
He can't...but what will happen when his own excitement is turned out be his exploitation...