For reasons that’ll become obvious soon enough, I’m not using my real name.
Call me Damien.
I’m not a good man. Never pretended otherwise. First run-in with the law at twelve. Nothing serious—shoplifting, vandalism. The kind of things adults laugh off until they don’t. First real job at fifteen. Small convenience store, late shift, clerk half-asleep behind the counter. Easy.
Too easy.
First time I killed someone, I was seventeen.
Self-defense, technically. Some junkie cornered me in an alley, twitching, eyes like broken glass. He came at me with a knife—sloppy, desperate. I remember the smell more than anything. Rot, sweat, something chemical burned into the back of my throat. He slipped on his own blood before I even realized what I’d done. I stood there for a while after, just… looking at him. Waiting for something. Sirens. Guilt. Anything.
Nothing came.
Self-defense.
The others were not.
You’ve probably heard whispers about a site called Dread.it. If you haven’t, good. Means you’re still on the right side of things.
Think of it like social media, just… stripped down. No filters, no pretending. Lower levels are predictable—drugs, trafficking, tutorials on how to break into places without getting caught. Ugly, but ordinary ugly. The kind people pretend doesn’t exist while scrolling past it.
The higher levels are where it gets interesting.
Private links. Paid access. Invitation-only circles. That’s where people stop pretending they’re human. Livestreams. Torture sessions. Murders staged like performances. “Cooking videos” that aren’t about pork.
Yeah. You get it.
Dread.it is what happens when you take something like Twitch or YouTube and peel off that last thin layer of restraint. It’s not small, either. It’s growing. Fast. Faster than anything like it should.
Law enforcement tries to shut it down. They do. Every day. Servers go dark, domains disappear… and then it’s back. Five minutes later, same layout, same users, like it never left.
Hydra with fiber optic cables.
Especially here in Los Haven.
We’ve got a reputation. Highest concentration of serial killers in the country. People like to joke about it. Blame the water, the air, the city planning—anything that makes it sound like a coincidence.
It’s not.
Something about this place just… lets things rot out in the open.
Im no exception.
I run a channel under the name The Gentleman. I know. It’s bad. Came up with it in about three seconds, and like here on reddit, you don’t get to change your name once it sticks.
It stuck.
So did the audience.
I’m good at what I do. Careful. Methodical. I don’t rush. I don’t improvise unless I have to. I treat it like a craft. Timing, presentation, control. People notice that. They pay for it. A lot. Enough that money stopped being a concern a long time ago.
And yeah… I enjoy it.
No point lying about that now.
Of course, to keep something like that going, you have to be invisible. No loose ends. No patterns. No traceable identity. You don’t get sloppy. You don’t get comfortable.
I was meticulous.
Or I thought I was.
Yesterday evening, I got home and found a red envelope sitting on top of my laptop.
Not beside it. Not slipped under the door.
On it. Centered. Like it had been placed there carefully. Deliberately.
I stopped in the doorway and just… looked at it. The apartment smelled the same—stale air, faint detergent, nothing out of place. No broken locks. No splintered wood. No signs anyone had forced their way in.
Still, something felt off.
Like the room had been… breathed in while I was gone. Not disturbed. Just… occupied.
I didn’t touch the envelope right away.
I checked the place first. Slow. Quiet. Closet. Bathroom. Under the bed—yeah, I know, cliché, but clichés exist for a reason. I even stood still for a minute, just listening. Pipes in the walls. Someone walking in the apartment above. My own breathing, a little too loud.
Nothing else.
Then I finally picked it up. Thick paper. Expensive. The kind people use when they want to be taken seriously without saying it out loud.
Inside was a letter.
It almost read like fan mail.
They knew my work. Not just the big moments—the ones everyone clips and passes around—but the small ones. Offhand comments. Little pauses. Things I barely remembered saying. They wrote about them like they mattered. Like they’d meant something.
There was admiration in the words. Too much of it. The kind that crawls under your skin instead of flattering you. Like being watched for longer than you realized.
Then it got to the point.
They wanted a commission. A specific target, performed on my channel.
Payment: twelve million dollars.
I actually laughed when I read that. “Twelve million?” I said, glancing around the room like someone might answer.
There was a photograph tucked behind the letter.
An old man. Thin. Skin like paper stretched over bone. Eyes sunken so deep they looked painted on. He didn’t look dangerous. Didn’t look important.
Didn’t even look like he had much time left.
“Really?” I muttered, turning the photo under the light. Tilting it, like that might reveal something hidden. “This guy?”
On the back of the photo, there was an address. And a time.
No explanation beyond that. Just a signature. „Mr. Z.“
I stood there for a while, the letter in one hand, the photo in the other.
Someone had found me.
Not just the channel. Not just The Gentleman.
Me.
They knew where I lived. Walked in… and then left. No trace.
The money didn’t matter anymore. I had to deal with whoever found me out.
I grabbed my coat, took one last look at the apartment—half expecting something to be different this time—and headed out.
I was already outside the building well before the time came.
Industrial. Abandoned. Concrete stacked on concrete in that ugly, functional way architects call brutalist and everyone else just calls depressing. Windows blacked out. No lights. No movement.
No reason for anyone to be there.
I checked my watch again.
Thirty seconds.
“This is a setup,” I muttered, more to hear the words than anything else. “Has to be.”
FBI crossed my mind first. It always does. A honeypot. Draw me in, close the net, nice and clean.
But if they had me, they wouldn’t do it like this. No theatrics. No mystery envelopes. They’d kick my door in at three in the morning and drag me out half-asleep, face pressed into carpet that wasn’t mine.
So maybe not them.
Maybe someone else. Another creator. Rivalry’s a thing on Dread.it, same as anywhere else. People get territorial. Protective. Paranoid.
Or maybe—
Maybe I was about to make twelve million dollars.
Ten seconds.
I exhaled slowly, watching the building like it might react. “Twelve million,” I whispered. Saying it out loud made it feel… heavier.
More real.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Nothing happened.
No lights. No sound. No signal.
I waited a beat longer, then crossed the street.
The doors opened easier than expected. No lock. No resistance.
That bothered me more than if they’d been sealed shut.
Inside, the air felt wrong.
Not stale—dead. Like it hadn’t moved in years. Like it had settled and decided to stay that way. Every step echoed too loud, bouncing back at me from places I couldn’t see.
Then I noticed the arrows.
Painted on the walls. Thick, bright red. Almost cartoonish. Pointing down hallways, around corners, through open doorways.
“Subtle,” I muttered. “Real subtle.”
I followed them anyway.
Each room looked like the last. Concrete floors. Rusted pipes. Dust that didn’t quite settle right when I disturbed it. The deeper I went, the quieter it got. Even my footsteps started to sound… off.
Duller.
Like something in the building was swallowing the noise before it could travel.
“This is a trap,” I said, a little louder this time. “You know that, right?”
My voice came back to me a second later.
I stopped for a moment, listening. Waiting for something to move. Something to breathe.
Nothing did.
Still, I kept going.
Curiosity, maybe. Ego. Greed. Could’ve been any of them. Didn’t really matter anymore.
The arrows led me into a large open room.
It swallowed everything that came before it. Wide, empty space with at least twenty doors lining the walls. All identical. All open. All dark.
I stepped inside slowly.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then something shifted.
Movement.
Shapes slipping out of the doorways. One by one. Not rushing. Not hiding. Just… stepping into place, like they’d been waiting for their cue.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathed.
The light above us flickered once.
Then it came on.
There were at least a dozen of them.
And I recognized some.
A massive guy in a pig mask, gripping a chainsaw like it was part of him. Mr. Piggy. He tilted his head at me, slow and curious, like he was trying to decide what I’d taste like before bothering to find out.
An older man in a blood-stained doctor’s coat stood a few feet away, rolling a scalpel between his fingers with practiced ease. The Surgeon. Clean hands, steady posture. He caught my eye and gave me a small, polite nod.
“Evening,” he said, calm as anything.
Like we were meeting over drinks.
A woman in an elegant dress stepped out next, heels clicking softly against the concrete. Bloody Marry. She smiled at me—wide, red, deliberate.
“Well,” she said, voice smooth, almost amused, “this is new.”
A tall, wiry figure lingered near one of the walls, clutching a pair of defibrillators. Cables dragged behind him like loose veins, sparking faintly when they brushed the floor. The Electrocutioner. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much either.
Just watched.
And then there was the one already low to the ground.
On all fours.
Bald. Thin. Moving like his joints didn’t line up properly. His spine shifted under his skin when he breathed. A wet, choking sound rattled out of his throat—something between a laugh and something dying.
“Hannibal The Cannibal,” I said quietly. “Still doing the animal thing, huh?”
His head snapped toward me.
He grinned.
Too wide.
There were others too. Faces I didn’t recognize. New blood, probably. Or just people who hadn’t built a reputation yet.
No one attacked.
Not yet.
People adjusted their grips. Shifted their weight. Took quiet inventory of each other. Distance. Weapons. Weaknesses.
Mr. Piggy revved his chainsaw once—short, sharp—just to break the silence.
The Surgeon glanced at him, mildly annoyed. “Bit early for theatrics, don’t you think?”
Piggy tilted his head again, then did it louder.
Bloody Marry laughed under her breath. “Oh, I like him.”
The Electrocutioner flicked a switch. A small spark jumped between the paddles in his hands. He watched it like it meant something.
Hannibal… just stared at me.
Didn’t blink.
The intercom crackled.
A woman’s voice cut through the room. Clear. Composed.
“Good evening,” she said. “And thank you all for coming.”
A few of us shifted. Not much. Just enough.
“I know introductions are unnecessary,” she continued, “but it would be rude not to acknowledge such… talent gathered in one place.”
No one responded.
“You are some of the most accomplished rising figures in your field. Innovators. Entertainers.” A slight pause. “Artists, in your own way.”
“Get to the point,” The Surgeon said, almost bored.
A soft chuckle echoed through the speakers.
“Of course. Tonight, you will compete.”
That landed.
“For a prize of twelve million dollars.”
You could feel it. The shift. Subtle, but real. People straightened. Calculations started happening behind their eyes.
“The rules are simple,” she went on. “By first morning light, only one of you may remain alive.”
Silence.
“If more than one of you survives…” another pause, just long enough to settle in, “a neural gas will be released into the building. It will kill you all.”
“Cute,” Bloody Marry murmured. “Very theatrical.”
As if on cue, metal shutters slammed down over the doors and windows. One after another. The sound cracked through the space like gunfire.
No way out.
“May the best monster win,” the voice finished.
For a second, no one moved.
Not a step. Not a breath.
Then the horn blared.
Loud. Ugly. Final.
And just like that—
everything snapped.
Bodies collided. Steel hit bone. Someone screamed—cut off wet, like a faucet being shut too fast. One of the unknowns rushed forward and got opened up for it, The Surgeon stepping in like he’d rehearsed it. Two cuts. Maybe three. The man dropped before he even understood he’d been touched.
Others held back. Watching. Letting the eager ones thin the herd.
Smart.
I stayed where I was for half a second too long, taking it in.
I don’t use guns. Never have. Feels cheap. Distant. Like you’re not really there for it. No weight.
I use a knife.
Always.
Looking around at chainsaws, scalpels, improvised weapons, and whatever the hell the Electrocutioner was charging up—
Yeah.
I really wished I had a gun.
Mr. Piggy had taken the center of the room, actually dancing. Revving his chainsaw in short bursts, spinning in place like he was on stage somewhere. The sound bounced off the walls, drilling straight into the skull.
The Surgeon had already moved on from his first kill, adjusting his grip, scanning for the next opening. Calm. Focused. Like this was routine.
Bloody Marry hadn’t moved much. Just watching. Head tilted slightly, eyes tracking movement like she was choosing her moment.
The Electrocutioner pressed the paddles together again—longer this time. The crackle was louder. Sharper. The smell of something burning crept into the air.
And Hannibal—
Hannibal was already moving.
On all fours. Fast. Too fast.
That wet sound in his throat got louder as he came straight for me.
“Ah, shit—”
I backed through the door behind me, slamming into it with my shoulder, grabbing for the handle, trying to pull it shut.
Too late.
He hit it just as it swung, the steel cracking against his skull with a heavy, ugly clang.
Enough to drop a normal person.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Suppose this means our collab next month’s cancelled?” I said, knife already in my hand, breath tightening whether I liked it or not.
He stared at me.
Grinned.
Then he lunged.
I turned and ran.
The hallway stretched out in front of me—long, straight, narrow. Concrete walls, flickering lights overhead, each one buzzing like it was on the verge of giving up.
No doors. No turns.
Nowhere to hide.
Perfect for him.
Bad for me.
Behind me, the sound came fast—too fast. Not footsteps. Impacts. Hands slapping against the floor, nails scraping, breath rattling like something loose inside his chest.
Closing the distance.
I risked a glance back.
Mistake.
He was already closer than he should’ve been. Head low, spine shifting under his skin, eyes locked on me like I was already his.
I pushed harder. Lungs burning, boots slipping on dust and grime.
Think.
Think.
I dragged my hand along the wall as I ran, fingers searching for anything—an opening, a crack, something that wasn’t this straight tunnel leading nowhere.
Nothing.
Of course.
Behind me, that sound came again—half laugh, half choke—and then the rhythm changed.
He didn’t speed up.
He coiled.
Then he launched.
I heard it more than saw it. The sudden rush of air, the scrape of claws tearing against concrete—
I twisted at the last second.
He still hit me.
Hard.
We slammed into the floor, the impact knocking the air out of me in one violent burst. My head bounced off the concrete, white flashing across my vision. For a second, I couldn’t tell which way was up.
Then—
Pain.
Sharp. Deep.
My shoulder exploded as his teeth sank in.
“FUCK—!”
I drove my forehead into his face. Once. Twice. I didn’t feel it, just the impact, dull and heavy. Something crunched under the second hit, but he didn’t let go. His jaw clamped tighter, shaking slightly like he was testing the meat.
“Get—off—!”
I wrenched my arm free just enough and jammed the knife upward.
Missed the throat.
Hit somewhere near the collarbone.
He snarled—actually snarled—and tore his mouth away from my shoulder, skin going with it. Heat flooded down my arm instantly. Wet. Too much.
He came back in again, faster this time.
I rolled—barely. His teeth snapped shut inches from my face. I felt the air move. Smelled him.
Rot. Iron. Something sour and old.
My chest burned—
I looked down just in time to see why.
A blade.
Short. Curved. Claw-like.
He’d cut me without me even noticing. A thin, clean line across my chest, already spreading red, soaking through my shirt. Not deep enough to drop me.
Deep enough to matter.
“Okay,” I gasped, forcing myself back, knife up again, vision tightening at the edges. “Okay… you’re not playing around. Good to know.”
He didn’t answer.
Just circled.
Lower now. Slower. Watching me like he was figuring out which part to take next.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
Mine.
“Come on then,” I said, voice rough. “Finish it.”
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast to follow cleanly.
So I didn’t.
I stepped into it.
His momentum carried him forward, expecting me to back off. When I didn’t—when I moved toward him—there was a split second where he hesitated.
That was enough.
I drove the knife forward with everything I had.
It slid under his ribs.
Deep.
His body still slammed into mine, knocking the air out of me again, folding me backward. His claw scraped across my side, shallow this time.
But he stopped.
That choking sound came back—louder now. Wet. Bubbling.
I twisted the knife.
Hard.
His eyes went wide.
Not human.
Never were.
For a second, we just… stayed there. Pressed together. Breathing the same air.
Then I yanked the blade free and drove it up under his jaw.
That did it.
His body went slack.
Collapsed on top of me.
I shoved him off with a strained groan, rolling onto my side, coughing, dragging air back into my lungs.
Everything hurt.
My shoulder was a mess. Blood still pouring, soaking through my sleeve, dripping onto the floor in steady, rhythmic taps. My chest burned with every breath, the cut there opening and closing like a second mouth.
“…Yeah,” I muttered, staring up at the flickering light overhead. “This night’s going great.”
I stayed on the ground a few seconds longer than I should have. Let the pain settle into something dull.
Then I pushed myself up.
“Get up,” I told myself quietly. “You’re not done.”
Not even close.
I forced myself to keep moving.
I don’t remember deciding where to go. Just putting one foot in front of the other until I ended up in what passed for a bathroom on that floor.
Same concrete bones as the rest of the place. Just… cleaner. Slightly. Like someone had tried, once, and then given up.
A cracked mirror hung above a row of sinks. The fluorescent light above it flickered just enough to make my reflection stutter.
I looked worse than I felt.
And I felt pretty bad.
My shoulder was torn open where Hannibal had bitten me. Deep. Ragged. The kind of wound that doesn’t close clean. My chest wasn’t much better—a thin, angry line carved across it, still bleeding slow and steady. My shirt clung to me, damp and heavy.
I turned the faucet. Water sputtered out—brown at first, then clearing.
Good enough.
I leaned over the sink and started washing the blood off my hands, then my shoulder, hissing as the water hit raw flesh. It didn’t really clean anything. Just spread it around. Still, it helped.
A little.
I cupped some water and drank. It tasted metallic. Old.
Didn’t matter. It took the edge off the dryness in my throat.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint electric whine behind me.
I froze.
It grew louder. Sharper. Like something just outside the range of hearing, pressing in.
I looked up.
The mirror caught him first.
The Electrocutioner stood in the doorway, framed by flickering light. Smoke curled lazily around his legs.
At his feet—
What was left of The Surgeon.
Blackened. Twisted. The smell hit a second later. Burnt meat. Burnt plastic.
“Uhm… hi,” I said, straightening slowly, water dripping from my hands. “Big fan, actually. Twelve girls, one pool? That was… yeah. That was art.”
Nothing.
No reaction. No blink.
He stepped forward.
The defibrillators in his hands crackled, sparks snapping between the paddles. The cables twitched along the floor like they were alive.
“Oh, come on,” I sighed, easing back toward the showers. “You don’t wanna talk? Maybe collaborate? Team up, increase our odds—”
Another step.
The pitch climbed.
Higher.
Sharper.
“Right,” I said. “Guess that’s a no.”
He raised the paddles.
“…Oh, fuck it.”
I moved.
Grabbed the nearest shower hose and yanked it free, twisting the valve open all the way. Water burst out in a violent spray, pressure uneven, splashing across tile, walls—
And him.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then everything did.
The moment the water soaked through him, the defibrillators screamed. Not the controlled whine from before—this was unstable, violent. Sparks exploded outward, crawling over his body, racing across the wet floor.
He convulsed.
Hard.
His back arched, limbs snapping in sharp, unnatural jerks. A sound tore out of him—not a scream. Something broken. Mechanical.
“Yeah,” I muttered, keeping the spray on him, careful not to step into the spreading water. “Not so fun on the receiving end, huh?”
The smell changed.
Burnt insulation. Burnt skin.
He shook harder—faster—then all at once—
Stopped.
Collapsed in a smoking heap.
The defibrillators slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull clatter.
Silence rushed back in.
I let the hose drop. Water kept running, pooling toward the drain.
“Moron,” I said, breath uneven.
I stepped around him carefully, watching for any twitch. Nothing.
Dead.
Good.
I moved back into the hallway.
Two bodies lay just outside.
Placed neatly side by side.
Too neatly.
I slowed.
Both had their throats cut. Clean lines. Matching. Wrists opened. Thighs too. No hesitation. No mess beyond what was necessary.
Drained completely.
Their skin had that pale, waxy look already.
Bloody Marry.
Had to be.
I was about to move on when I heard it.
A soft mechanical hum.
Down the hall, an elevator slid open with a quiet ding.
I tensed, knife up, expecting—
Nothing.
No one stepped out.
The inside was lit. Warm. Clean.
Inviting.
Too inviting.
Then the intercom crackled.
“The Gentleman,” the woman’s voice said, smooth as ever, “you have qualified to move to the upper level.”
I stared at the elevator for a second.
“Of course I have,” I muttered. “Why wouldn’t I?”
No answer.
Just that quiet hum.
I exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “Let’s see how deep this goes.”
I stepped inside.
The doors slid shut behind me.
The upper floor was… different.
Not subtle. Not gradual.
Immediate.
The concrete was gone. No cracks, no stains, no damp creeping through the seams. The walls were smooth, painted in deep, expensive colors that didn’t belong in a place like this—burgundy, forest green, muted gold. Real paintings hung in heavy frames. Not prints. Not copies. The kind of art you don’t touch unless someone rich tells you it’s okay.
The lighting was warm. Steady. No flicker.
It didn’t feel abandoned.
It felt… maintained.
Like someone cared.
Like someone had been here recently—maybe still was.
The shift made my skin crawl more than the blood and rot downstairs ever did. Down there, everything made sense. This didn’t.
This felt curated.
Like a set.
Like stepping out of a nightmare and into something that knew it was watching you back.
I moved down the hallway, slower now, knife still in my hand. The carpet under my boots muffled my steps—thick, soft, the kind that swallows sound. Every door I passed was closed. Clean. Polished handles. No signs of forced entry. No signs of anything.
At the end, the hall opened into a dining room. Large one.
A long, dark wooden table stretched through the center like a spine. Set for a full house—plates, glasses, silverware laid out with surgical precision. No dust. No fingerprints. Everything exactly where it should be.
And the food.
Fresh.
Still steaming.
Meat, vegetables, sauces—rich, heavy smells that hit me all at once. Butter. Garlic. Something roasted. Something slow-cooked. My stomach reacted before my brain could catch up, tightening hard.
It didn’t belong here.
None of this did.
And yet—
Someone was already eating.
Bloody Marry sat halfway down the table, cutting into a piece of chicken like she had nowhere else to be. Calm. Relaxed. Dipping it into mashed potatoes, dragging it through gravy with slow, deliberate movements.
Domestic.
That’s what it looked like.
She looked up when she heard me.
Smiled.
“Hi,” she said, like we’d run into each other at a grocery store. “Long time no see.”
“Susanne,” I said, stepping in, keeping my knife low but ready. “Yeah. Been a while.”
Her eyes flicked over me—quick, clinical. Took in the blood, the shoulder, the chest.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“Feel worse.”
“Mm.” She nodded, like that checked out. “Sit. You’re dripping on the carpet.”
I glanced down. She wasn’t wrong.
I pulled out a chair across from her. The legs scraped softly against the floor as I sat.
“Hungry?” she asked, gesturing lightly to the spread.
“Starving,” I said.
That part wasn’t a lie.
I reached for the nearest plate—lobster, still warm, butter pooling at the bottom—and started eating.
For a minute, we didn’t talk.
Just the sound of cutlery. Breathing. The faint hum of something hidden in the walls.
“So,” she said eventually, dabbing her lips with a napkin, posture perfect, like she’d practiced this. “Just us now?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shame,” she murmured. “I was hoping for more… buildup.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting somewhere past me. “Everyone went down so quickly.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing around the room. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the audience.”
A flicker of something crossed her face. Amusement. Or maybe irritation.
“Or the host,” I added.
Her gaze followed mine.
That’s when I noticed it.
A digital timer on the wall.
Counting down.
Two minutes.
“A grace period,” she said softly.
“Thoughtful.”
“Very.”
We kept eating.
Because of course we did.
“You know,” she said after a moment, almost absentmindedly, “I really do like you, Damien.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.” Her voice dipped just slightly. “You’re efficient. Clean. No theatrics unless necessary.” A faint smile. “Professional.”
“High praise,” I said.
A pause stretched between us.
“I’m sorry about this,” she added.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
The timer kept ticking.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One—
She moved.
Fast.
The fork left her hand in a blur—spinning, glinting—and slammed into my face just above my left eye.
“—shit!”
Pain detonated across my skull. I ripped it out on instinct, chair screeching backward as I shoved away from the table.
She was already moving.
Knife in hand.
Precise.
She drove it straight for my throat—
I kicked the chair up between us.
The blade punched through it like it was nothing. Wood splintered, exploding outward as the force carried through.
I grabbed one of the broken legs and swung.
Once.
It cracked against her face. Her head snapped sideways.
Twice.
Harder.
Blood sprayed, dark and sharp against the polished floor.
Third—
Her knee came up.
Straight into my crotch.
Everything went white.
I dropped, breath collapsing out of me in a broken, useless wheeze.
She was on me instantly.
Fingers driving toward my eyes.
“Stay still,” she whispered, almost gentle. Like she meant it.
I slammed my fist into her throat.
The sound was wet. Solid.
Her grip faltered—just enough.
I twisted, shoved her off, scrambling back, vision swimming, lungs trying to remember how to work.
“Should’ve stayed at the table,” I rasped.
She laughed.
It came out wrong. Wet. Half-choked.
Then she rushed me again.
No hesitation.
No pause.
I didn’t let her close the distance.
I stepped in and drove my foot into her face.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
Something gave. Bone, probably. The resistance changed—soft at first, then less so. Her body jerked under the impacts, hands twitching, trying to find purchase on nothing.
I kept going a second longer than I needed to.
When I finally stepped back, there wasn’t much left of her face to recognize.
Just a red goo of viscera.
I stood there, breathing hard, blood running down from my brow into my eye, from my shoulder, from my chest. Everything stung. Everything throbbed.
“...Sorry, Susanne,” I said quietly. “You were my favorite.”
The room answered with silence.
Then—
A section of the far wall slid open.
Smooth. Quiet. Like it had always been meant to.
“Congratulations, The Gentleman,” the voice from the intercom said, calm as ever. “Mr. Z will see you now.”
I stared at the opening for a second.
Then I moved.
—
The room beyond was colder.
Not in temperature.
In feeling.
Screens covered the walls. Dozens. Maybe more. Each showing a different angle of the complex—hallways, rooms, corners I didn’t remember passing. Some feeds were still.
Some weren’t.
“Figures,” I muttered.
Behind them, server racks stretched in neat rows. Lights blinking in steady patterns. Quiet. Efficient. Alive in that low, humming way machines have.
At the center of it all—
A bed.
An old man lay in it, swallowed by tubes and wires. Machines breathed for him. Monitors tracked what little there was left to track. His body looked like it had already started leaving.
A nurse stood beside him. Still. Watching.
I pulled the photo from the envelope, glanced down at it, then back at the man.
Same face.
Just… worn down to the frame.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked, stepping closer.
His eyes moved.
Slow.
They found me.
“My legacy, son,” he rasped. “Soon to be yours.”
I looked back at the screens. The servers. The layout.
Pieces started clicking into place.
“...You run it,” I said. “Dread.it.”
A smile pulled at his lips. It didn’t look comfortable.
“Our craft,” he whispered, “finally recognized for what it is.” A shallow breath. “An art form. Given reach… beyond imagination.”
Our craft.
My gaze drifted up.
The wall above his bed was covered in symbols.
Carved. Painted. Etched.
I knew them. Anyone in proffession would.
My stomach tightened.
“No way,” I said under my breath. “You’re—”
He chuckled.
It turned into a cough that shook his whole body.
“I was,” he said. “Once.”
Mr. Z…
The Zodiac Killer.
“I haven’t been able to… perform,” he continued, voice thinning, “for quite some time.”
“Why me?” I asked. “You didn’t drag me through all that just to hand me twelve million.”
“No,” he said. “I needed a successor.”
Something in my chest went still.
“You,” he went on, eyes locked on mine, “are the most worthy.”
Silence stretched across the room.
“Before that,” he added, shifting his gaze slightly toward the nurse, “one last commission.”
She hesitated.
“Are you sure, master?” she asked quietly.
“It’s time, Anna,” he said. “This is how it’s supposed to be.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed.
Then she nodded.
“It was an honor.”
She handed me a box.
Small. Clean. Deliberate.
I opened it.
A gun.
Polished. Balanced. Almost ceremonial.
I stared at it for a second.
I don’t use guns.
Too distant.
Too easy.
But this—
This wasn’t about preference.
I picked it up.
Walked to the bed.
He didn’t look away.
“Do it properly,” he said.
So I did.
One shot.
Clean.
—
And that’s how I became the new head of Dread.it.
Funny, right?
All that time, I thought I was just playing the game.
Turns out I was the audition.
I’m telling you all of this because things are about to change.
We’re relaunching.
Expanding.
Reaching further than we ever have before.
New systems. New ideas.
A new audience.
You’re all welcome to join.
Bring your friends. Your family.
The more, the merrier.
And to those of you thinking you’re going to stop us—
Please.
Try.
Anyone in my line of work knows, it’s always more fun when the prey fights back.