The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the faint hum of a basement light bulb struggling against the shadows. Lena crouched near a stack of old paint cans, her breathing shallow as she stared at the man pacing only a few feet away. Richard Pruitt—the Butcher of Asheville. The monster from the case files she had been reading not twenty minutes ago.

But something was off. This wasn’t the man she’d studied in those yellowed reports and crime scene photos. He was twitchy, frantic, more like a dog waiting for its master than a predator hunting prey. There was only one person who could twist someone like this so completely.

Shroud.

The thought made her stomach churn.

Richard stomped toward a table lined with an array of tools. Lena’s eyes flicked over the serrated blades, the pliers stained with something dark, the nails strewn about like candy. She swallowed hard, her heart clenching as her gaze shifted to the woman tied to a rickety wooden chair in the center of the basement.

Diana.

Her head lolled weakly to one side, eyes glassy and wide with terror. Her lips moved, silently forming broken pleas Lena couldn’t quite catch. But two words stood out clearly.

Help me.

Lena’s chest tightened. She curled her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms as she whispered under her breath, so softly no one could hear, “I wish I could help you, Diana. I really do.”

Richard returned with a nail gun, his grin wide, unhinged. “I’ve been waiting all day to do this,” he muttered to himself, his fingers twitching around the trigger. He placed the barrel against Diana’s trembling hand, laughing as her whimpers grew louder, her strength nearly gone from whatever horrors he’d already inflicted on her.

“Hold still,” he sang. His finger tightened on the trigger, slow and deliberate, like a cat playing with its food.

But before the shot could fire, the room shifted. The lights flickered as a swirling vortex of blood-red energy ripped open in the air. Lena’s heart slammed against her ribs.

‘No. No no no.’

The air thickened, heavy with a sense of dread. She scrambled backward, slipping beneath the workbench where a pile of Polaroids—grisly trophies—spilled across the top of it. Lena held her breath as the figure stepped through the vortex.

Shroud.

Even from a distance, Lena could feel his presence like icy fingers trailing along her spine. His masked face turned slowly, surveying the room.

Richard froze, the nail gun slipping from his hand. His entire demeanor changed in an instant—gone was the mania, replaced by reverence. Dropping to his knees, Richard crawled forward, kissing the back of Shroud’s gloved hand like a zealot meeting his god.

“Ah! I’m so glad you’ve come!” Richard’s voice trembled with excitement. “I was just about to teach this b*tch her proper place!”

Lena bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. ‘What the hell is this? He’s terrified of him… and worshipping him all at once. What’s their relationship?!’

Shroud chuckled. The sound was distorted through his voice modulator, melodic and artificial, like a song played on a broken record.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, leaning lazily against a pillar, arms folded.

Richard scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and feverish. “Y-Yes, sir!” He snatched the nail gun and pressed it against Diana’s right hand once more.

“No,” she whimpered, voice ragged, head shaking rapidly.

“Can you just—” Richard snarled, swinging the gun away and slapping her hard across the face with his free hand. “STOP squirming for ONE second?!”

She fell silent instantly, tears streaking her bloodied cheeks.

Lena’s body tensed as she tried not to make a sound. Her every instinct screamed at her to jump in, to stop this, but one wrong move would expose her to Shroud. She couldn't let him know she was there, not if she wanted to learn more about him in secret.

Richard looked at Shroud for approval, but the masked man tilted his head, sighing long and slow, the robotic distortion making it sound like a machine exhaling.

“I—I’m sorry,” Richard stammered, sweat dripping from his brow. “This must be boring, right? I’ll—I’ll finish her off and find another quickly!”

Diana’s bloodshot eyes widened. She knew exactly what that meant.

With a desperate cry, she threw her weight left and right, rocking the old chair with every ounce of strength she had left. The wood groaned, splintered, then finally crashed to the floor with a deafening crack. One arm of the chair snapped, freeing her left hand.

“What?! No, you—”

Shroud raised one gloved hand, silencing Richard without a word. The masked killer’s finger rested against the mouth of his mask in a gesture that made Lena’s blood run cold.

“Just watch,” Shroud said softly.

Richard stepped back, though his curiosity was palpable. Diana clawed at her restraints, breaking free. She stumbled forward, nearly falling as she scrambled toward the stairs. Hope shone in her eyes for a fleeting second. However, this hope wasn't meant to last.

A low chuckle reverberated through the room as Shroud produced a sleek, compact firearm. It wasn’t the revolver Lena had seen him use before. This was something older, smaller—a submachine gun.

The burst of gunfire was deafening in the basement’s confines. Diana’s body jerked violently as bullets tore through her, her blood splattering across the concrete floor. She collapsed in a heap, choking, gurgling on her own blood until her body went still. Lena pressed her hands over her mouth, biting down on her tongue to keep from screaming. Rage bubbled in her chest, hot and suffocating.

‘Monster. You absolute MONSTER!’

Shroud clicked his tongue, the sound sharp through his modulator. “Much too quick for my taste,” he muttered, though his disappointment felt… off. As if he wasn’t just upset about Diana. As if he knew.

He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And then he started walking towards her hiding spot, each step measured, like he was savoring the fear radiating off her. Lena’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might explode.

Shroud crouched in front of her, his mask reflecting the dim light. “Sitting here, doing nothing again?” His voice was soft, almost teasing. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t enjoy watching them go limp?”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t answer. He brought the gun to his face, sniffing at the barrel through the narrow mouth slit of his mask, inhaling deeply like it was the sweetest perfume. The sound sent shivers crawling down Lena’s spine.

“Anyway,” he said at last, his voice dipping low, intimate, like a lover whispering secrets. “Good to see you again… Detective.”

Lena’s blood ran cold. He knew. And as far as she knew, maybe he always did.

To be continued…