The air pressed down on Lena like a weight.

Her notepad trembled in her grip as she stepped into the darkness. The only light came from a single, dying bulb overhead, its faint glow swinging back and forth as if nudged by invisible hands. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the basement walls, dancing and warping with the bulb’s sway. Then the smell hit her.

Blood.

It clung thick to the air, metallic and wet, sharp enough to sting the back of her throat. She pressed a hand over her mouth but it made no difference—the coppery tang was everywhere. Her eyes adjusted slowly. Ahead, a dark outline emerged. Bars. A cage?

“What…? Where am I?” Lena whispered, her voice tight with dread.

She forced herself forward, pen scratching across the notepad. Cage. Blood stains. Swinging bulb. Every detail counted. Her foot snagged on something hard—metal, maybe wood—and she stumbled, steadying herself before moving on. Faint moonlight spilled from a half window high on the basement wall, falling across a workbench shoved beneath it.

Her heart lurched. The wood was marred by stains, soaked so deeply that no amount of scrubbing could ever have removed them. Layers on layers. Lena swallowed hard and lifted her eyes to the corkboard above. Pinned Polaroids stared back.

Three women. Their faces bloodied. Rope burns carved deep into their wrists, ankles, and necks. Their eyes, lifeless and wide, stared through the photographs.

Lena’s hand flew to her mouth, bile burning her throat. “Carolyn Myers… Angela Ruiz… Theresa Walker…” she whispered, her voice breaking. She brushed trembling fingertips across the edges of the pictures, as if that tiny touch might grant the women peace. Before she could pull away, the room came alive.

The overhead lights sputtered—then flared bright, stabbing her eyes. She reeled, shielding her face with her arm. Footsteps. Heavy boots stomped against wooden stairs. Her blood ran cold.

‘The Butcher. He’s here.’

She snapped her notepad open, forcing her hand steady. The man who descended was not the monster she’d envisioned.

Barely taller than herself. 5’8, maybe. A soft belly strained against a white button-up shirt, tan slacks wrinkled at the knees. A patchy five o’clock shadow clung to his jaw, thick glasses slipping down his nose. His thinning black hair clung damply to his scalp.

‘Not what I expected,’ Lena thought, writing every detail. He muttered to himself as he crossed the room, words sharp and venomous.

“Stupid boss… stupid mom… stupid sister. B*tches, the lot of ‘em. Always yappin’ about what I do wrong. Never shut up.”

Lena’s stomach knotted. She didn’t need to hear more about his distaste for women. The photos spoke louder than any of his rants. Her gaze slid back to the cage—and she froze.

Diana.

She was huddled inside, nearly naked, stripped to her underwear. Her once-beautiful brown hair hung in tangled strands. Her skin was pale, her arms wrapped tightly around her frail body as though she could shield herself from the cold.

“Diana…” Lena whispered, crouching near the bars though she knew Diana couldn’t see nor hear her. ‘How long has she been here?’ Lena thought bitterly. A scrape tore her attention away.

The man had moved to a long table by the stairs. Beyond him, the wall gleamed with tools—saws, ropes, a bloodied baseball bat, even a sword, each one displayed like prized possessions. He emptied his pockets onto the table: used tissues, gum wrapper, lint. Trash.

Then something slid out from the pile. Lena’s eyes locked on it. A small, plastic rectangle. Her breath caught as she crept closer, snatching it up as he walked away. A photo ID. Microsoft logo. His face. His name.

“Richard Pruitt,” she whispered, the name nearly choking her as she scribbled it in heavy, bold strokes across her notepad. Her triumph was shattered by a scream.

Diana’s scream.

Richard had turned, rope in hand, and stalked toward the cage. Diana scrambled backward, pressing herself into the corner until her bones must have bruised against the bars.

“No! Please—don’t—”

Richard’s voice was flat, chilling. “Shut up.”

He unlocked the cage, seized her hair, and dragged her out as if she weighed nothing. Her legs kicked, her nails clawed at his hands, her screams tore through the basement walls—but he barely flinched.

“Are you done, you annoying b*tch? Come here.”

He hauled her to a wooden chair at the center of the room—one Lena hadn’t seen before. Rope wound quickly around Diana’s wrists and ankles until she sagged in defeat, her eyes lifeless as he turned back to his wall of tools.

Lena’s pulse thundered. She had what she came for—his name. But the case didn’t add up.

‘Diana wasn’t tortured. She was attacked outside the theater. None of the victims were bound or abducted like this. Not one of them.’

Her breath caught as realization gripped her.

‘Something changed. Someone changed it.’

One name clawed its way into her mind, chilling her spine.

Shroud.

To be continued…