The Past – The Birth of a Killer
The house was quiet—too quiet. Not the kind of peaceful quiet that soothed the mind, but the kind that filled every shadow with anticipation. A silence that knew what was coming.
The boy sat at the kitchen table, staring at the flickering bulb above him. The dim, yellow light cast uneasy shapes against the cracked walls, making the kitchen feel smaller than it was. The air smelled of burnt food, sweat, and something he had come to associate with home—whiskey.
The front door creaked open.
A shuffle of boots against the floor. The sound of keys clattering onto the counter. The heavy, unsteady breathing of a man who had spent the last several hours drowning himself in alcohol.
The boy didn't turn to look. He knew the routine. First, the silence. Then, the anger. Then, the pain.
He gripped the edge of the table, his nails pressing into the wood.
A chair scraped back. A body slumped into it.
"Where the hell have you been?" the boy asked, his voice even, calm.
The man snorted. "None of your damn business."
A slow exhale. The boy nodded. Calm. Patient. Predictable.
The man grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table, uncapped it, and took a long, deep swig. His eyes were barely open, but the rage was still there. It always was.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?" the man slurred. "Sitting there like a damn idiot? You think you're better than me?"
The boy didn't respond. He just watched. Waited.
His father's hands were shaking. Not from fear—he was too drunk to be afraid. No, it was the poison. Just enough to weaken him. Just enough to make the next part easy.
"You little…" The man tried to stand but stumbled, gripping the table. "What the hell…?"
A knife flashed in the dim light.
The boy moved quickly—faster than he thought he could. The blade sliced across the man's throat in a single, clean motion. No hesitation.
The man gasped. His hand flew to his throat, eyes wide with shock. He tried to speak, but the words drowned in the blood pooling in his mouth.
The boy watched, fascinated. He had always wondered what this moment would feel like.
It was better than he imagined.
His father fell to his knees, gurgling, struggling, fighting. Even now, with life slipping from his body, he refused to go quietly.
The boy tilted his head. That wouldn't do.
He stepped forward and drove the knife into the man's chest—deep, precise, straight through the heart.
The struggle stopped.
The body slumped forward. The house fell into perfect silence.
The boy exhaled slowly. He wiped the blade against his shirt and stepped over the body.
His hands weren't shaking. His heart wasn't racing.
He had never felt more at peace.
The Present – A New Beginning
Detective Damien Hale stood over the body, coffee in one hand, gloved fingers in the other, analyzing the scene. The victim lay in the alleyway, throat slit cleanly, the blood pooled in a near-perfect half-circle beneath him.
Precise. Controlled.
Damien took a slow sip of coffee, his expression unreadable.
Jonas let out a breath beside him. "This one's different."
Damien glanced at him. "How so?"
Jonas ran a hand through his short hair. "The placement. The way the blood spread. It's like… the killer wanted us to see something."
Damien studied the wound, the way the body had been positioned. Jonas wasn't wrong. This wasn't a random attack. It was deliberate. A lesson.
He shifted his gaze slightly to the side, where his son, Cole, stood a few feet away, watching from behind the police tape. Their eyes met.
Damien raised his coffee slightly, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. Cole barely reacted. Just turned and walked away.
Damien's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
One new message.
"It's done."
A slow smile curled at the edge of his lips.
Jonas shook his head. "Damn psychopath. I hate these types."
Damien hummed in agreement and took another sip of coffee. If only he knew.
The Past – The Second Lesson
The boy sat on the rooftop, looking down at the city below. His father's body was gone now—cleaned up, disposed of, erased.
No one had asked any questions. No one had come looking. It was as if he had never existed at all.
The boy liked that.
He had spent so many years being afraid. Now, the fear was gone.
And in its place? Something new. Something powerful.
The first lesson had been simple—silence.
The second lesson? Control.
He had already chosen his next target. A man who lived two blocks down, one who never locked his doors, who always fell asleep with the TV on. Predictable. Easy.
The boy smiled.
This time, he wouldn't use a knife. He wanted to experiment. See what worked best.
The first kill had been necessary. This one?
This one was for fun.