Chapter 15: The Astro Boy Butcher

The sun beat down on the college exterior, but the corridors within were drowning in shadow.

Katthi, a mountain of scarred flesh and stained fabric, moved with a terrifying, rhythmic gait. His massive hand was clamped around Malini’s tiny arm. He wasn't just walking; he was dragging her toward a fate she couldn't fathom.

"Let me go! Please!" Malini’s voice was a ragged sob. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

Katthi stopped. The light from a high window caught the deep pits and pimples on his face, turning him into something sub-human. He looked down at the trembling girl and let out a dry, raspy chuckle.

"To know who I am, you must first know who Priya is," Katthi said, his voice like grinding stones. "But the story doesn't start with her. It starts in a house in the woods, where God never looks."

The House in the Forest

Months before the college ran red, there was a house hidden deep in the wilderness. From the outside, it looked peaceful, almost inviting. Inside, it was a cathedral of gore.

The original Killer stood before a bathroom mirror, shirtless, his skin a canvas of dried blood. In the bathtub behind him, a girl—half-submerged in pink-tinged water—pleaded for her life.

"Please... I haven't seen my mother in so long," she wheezed. "I know I’m going to die. Just... just let me see her once more."

The Killer didn't speak. He reached for a heavy, blood-caked hammer resting on the sink. He turned, the tool raised high. The girl folded her hands in a final, desperate prayer.

Wank.

The sound of the hammer meeting bone was final. The bathtub cracked, releasing a tide of crimson across the floor. The Killer’s face remained a blank slate. He washed his face in the sink, revealing a chillingly handsome visage.

He walked into the living room, where the air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the rot of unwashed bodies. He sat in a plush chair and turned on the TV. The theme song for Astro Boy began to play. He hummed along, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

In the corners of the room, other girls—leashed with heavy metal collars and chains like dogs—shivered in the dark. They were his "collection." He didn't rape them; he broke them. He preferred the physical torture, the slow erosion of their souls.

One girl, her neck raw from the metal collar, tried to defy him. He didn't argue. He dragged her to the front door and slammed her head against the frame until the wood splintered. Then, he tossed her outside into the dirt, the chain reaching its limit with a sharp cling.

"You've lost your fear," he whispered, standing over her as she coughed up blood. "I’ll have to give you more."

He was a monster of habit and silence. But his reign was about to end because of a loose screw and a girl named Priya.