Officer McDonald adjusted the strap of his radio as he walked his evening patrol. He wasn’t thrilled to be out here—not with the sun sinking low and the shadows on Bloor Street stretching longer with every passing minute. The city police and RCMP were spread thin, and someone had to keep a presence in the area where the Bloodletter had carved his mark. Lucky him.

It wasn’t that he was scared, exactly. He had his sidearm, his baton, a taser, body armor, and the kind of training most civilians didn’t get. That should’ve been enough. But rumors had a way of crawling under your skin—especially the ones about the killer being a metahuman.

That was a whole different ballgame.

Sure, he’d been through basic metahuman combat scenarios. Sure, he’d passed the S.C.U-certified engagement module with decent scores. But that didn't mean he was ready for some freak who could shrug off bullets or fling knives with his mind. If the Bloodletter was a powered Special, well... that was above his pay grade. Way above.

So far, though, there hadn’t been any solid evidence pointing that way. The victims had all been cut—knives, cleavers, something with an edge. No energy blasts, no warped concrete from super strength, no scorch marks or residual psychic echo. Just blades and blood. It was the only comfort Ottawa and the Special Containment division could offer when they declined to send in powered response units.

Still, that was cold comfort when you were the one walking the beat in a city with a killer like this on the loose.

Because what if they were wrong?

What if this was some kind of mutant vampire, or a failed super soldier experiment from the Cold War that had clawed its way out of a lab and into the streets?

He tightened his grip on his flashlight and scanned the alley ahead.

The streets were quiet now, eerily so. The media coverage had made sure of that—most people with any sense were locked in their homes or had fled the area entirely. But not everyone had the luxury of staying inside. Not everyone had good sense. Some people had nowhere else to go.

That was why he was out here.

For them.

Even if every instinct in his body told him this wasn’t going to be a normal night.

The city was never safe. Not strictly speaking.

Toronto, like any major city, had its share of monsters—gangs that ran guns and drugs, crime families laundering money through nightclubs and real estate, even the occasional costumed psycho with enough tech or power to turn Yonge Street into a war zone.

But serial killers?

They still hit differently.

No matter how many horrors the world had adapted to—metahumans, masked vigilantes, literal supervillains—there was something about a killer with a knife and a pattern that set people off. Got under their skin.

And the media didn’t help. Hell, the media made it worse.

Officer McDonald adjusted his patrol vest and took a long breath, eyes scanning the length of the alley ahead. The sun had gone down half an hour ago, and the shadows stretched deeper now—darker, heavier, full of corners you couldn't quite see into.

The tabloids were eating this Bloodletter thing up like it was a Netflix special waiting to happen. “Toronto’s Jack the Ripper,” they called him. “The Surgeon of Bloor.” Wild theories spun out by hacks who hadn’t set foot near a real crime scene in their lives. Cannibal. Vampire. Rogue Special.

McDonald didn’t buy most of it, but the fear was real.

You could feel it in the air.

Fewer people out. More locked doors. More looks over shoulders and quickened steps once the streetlights came on.

Serial killers did that. They turned cities into ghost towns and made people afraid of walking alone—not because of some flashy explosion or power-hungry villain, but because of something smaller. Closer. Quieter.

Something human.

And that, McDonald thought grimly, was what made them so damn dangerous.

And him?

He wasn’t some hotshot RCMP detective. Wasn’t wearing a cape or swinging from rooftops. He didn’t have access to psych profiles or cutting-edge forensic tech or backup with fancy titles. He was city police—just a guy in a uniform doing his job.

Because someone had to.

Because even if the system was flawed and the badge didn’t carry the weight it once did, it still meant something to him. Meant order. Meant trying. Meant standing between the good people—what few were left—and the worst this city had to offer.

He wasn’t in it for glory.

He needed the paycheck, sure—who didn’t? Rent was high, groceries weren’t cheap, and no one got into law enforcement expecting to retire on a yacht. But that wasn’t why he was here, not really. He walked the beat because he still believed in the idea of service. In keeping the peace, even when the world was spinning off its damn axis.

But walking this beat tonight, in this part of town, with a killer still out there?

It was the first time in a long time he felt like maybe that line between doing your job and getting yourself killed was thinner than people realized.

And he was starting to wonder which side of that line he’d end up on.

Officer McDonald paused mid-step, his hand drifting instinctively to the butt of his service weapon as something moved just at the edge of his vision. A flicker. A shape. A shadow slipping along the far side of the alley—too quick to make out, too quiet to be sure.

He stood frozen for a beat, breath caught in his chest as he scanned the darkness.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No rustling fabric. No sound at all beyond the distant hum of a streetcar a few blocks over and the faint buzz of a flickering neon sign.

He shook his head, forcing out a slow breath through his nose.

Get a grip.

It had to be his mind playing tricks on him—his nerves knitting ghosts out of darkness and adrenaline. He’d read the reports, seen the crime scene photos, overheard the whispers in the bullpen. It all added up to paranoia if you weren’t careful. And tonight? Tonight, paranoia came cheap.

He tried to reason his way back into calm. Statistically, it was unlikely he'd be the one to stumble into the Bloodletter. Odds were, the killer was miles from here. Probably already holed up in some basement, scrubbing blood from steel and gloating over headlines. This was just another patrol. Just another long, tense shift in a city too big for its own good.

But the logic didn’t help as much as it should have.

His heart was still beating a little too fast, and his skin felt just a touch too tight. He reached up and adjusted the strap of his vest again, more for something to do than out of necessity.

He had a fiancée waiting for him at home. Taylor. Sweet, practical, sharp-witted Taylor who always knew when to switch from teasing to serious, who’d kissed his knuckles when he came home scraped and bruised from that arrest last fall and told him—quiet but firm—that he needed to come back in one piece. Always.

He had friends, too. Weekend barbecues. Ball games. Nights at the pub where the beer was cold and the conversation was warm and easy. A world that made sense, full of people who didn’t know what it felt like to walk alleys like this one with a killer that could be lurking nearby.

McDonald wanted to go back to that world.

He wanted tomorrow to be a normal morning, with coffee and a half-soggy breakfast sandwich and Taylor still half-asleep in his hoodie, grumbling about his alarm clock. He wanted this to be just another night on the job.

But as he stood there staring into the alley’s shadows, hand still near his holster, he wasn’t sure if that world was waiting for him.

Not anymore.

***

Sheila Miller didn’t want to be out here tonight. Not with the air thick like damp wool and the city whispering stories about blood-drinking monsters with knives for hands. She didn’t want to be walking alleys slick with rain and forgotten things, and didn't want to be eyeing shadowed corners like they might blink back at her.

But wanting and getting were different things. Always had been.

She didn’t have a place to go—not really. The shelter was full, again. And even if it weren’t, she couldn’t show up empty-handed. Her pimp, Travis, didn’t exactly care for excuses. If she didn’t bring in cash, he’d make her regret ever drawing breath, let alone wasting his time.

So here she was, coat pulled tight, purse clutched close, walking the edge of downtown where the lights didn’t quite reach. The click of her heels was a hollow, lonely sound on the concrete—meant to attract attention, but all it did was echo back like a countdown.

She reached into her purse and brushed fingers against her switchblade. A small comfort. Not much, but something. Steel was better than nothing when the streets were turning into ghost stories.

They called him the Bloor Street Bloodletter.

The tabloids said he drained his victims dry. Said he kept trophies—organs, skin, even hearts. One wild-eyed kid near the shelter claimed the Bloodletter had knives for fingers. Another swore he could melt into shadows, disappear like smoke when the cops got close.

And Sheila wasn’t even on Bloor proper tonight. She was east of the core, technically speaking. But close enough.

Too close.

She kept walking, telling herself this part of the city had seen worse. Telling herself the stories were exaggerated. Telling herself that men like Travis were still more dangerous than any monster in the dark.

But when she passed an alley mouth and felt the chill roll down her spine, when she thought she saw something shift just out of sight—some ripple in the night that didn’t belong—those old lies felt paper-thin.

Her heartbeat quickened—faster than it should’ve been for someone just walking the block. Instincts honed by a life that had never offered her comfort kicked into high gear. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a quiet alarm system firing on all cylinders. Every nerve felt stretched tight, every shadow too thick, every whisper of sound too loud.

She was hyper-vigilant, scanning without turning her head, her mind cataloging the symphony of urban background noise like a predator checking for threats. The distant hiss of tires on wet asphalt. The hollow yowl of a feral cat echoing off alley walls. The rhythmic slap of a loose tarp or flag caught on something metal and unforgiving.

It all came in at once.

And it all told her the same thing.

She wasn’t alone out here.

Not really.

A part of her—buried deep but still there—was wishing, not for the first time, that she'd never run away from home. That she'd never said the things she couldn't take back. That she had stayed in school, stayed in her small town, stayed in a life that at least had walls and warmth and a front door with a lock.

But tonight… tonight that ache hit sharper than usual. It settled deep in her chest, a cold weight pressing against her ribs like grief that hadn’t yet found a name.

Because tonight, more than ever, she could feel the truth: her life wasn’t her own. It belonged to a man who waited comfortably behind closed doors, warm and well-fed, while she walked the streets in cheap heels and a too-thin jacket. Her worth measured in what she could bring him. Her safety an afterthought.

And now she was in a back alley just off Bloor, where shadows gathered thick and stories whispered of a monster. A killer who hunted in silence and left nothing but empty shells in his wake.

She clutched her switchblade a little tighter.

Just in case.

Yeah, a switchblade. She looked down at the little thing in her hand again—cheap steel, spring-loaded, barely legal. It had felt like a comfort once. Now it just felt small. Laughably small.

How was this going to help her if the Bloodletter came down that alley with a machete? Or a hatchet. Or something worse. Her brain kept flipping through images she wished it wouldn’t—gory scenes from old horror movies she’d watched back in high school. She and her friends would pile onto a couch, popcorn everywhere, screaming and laughing at the dumb girl who tripped in heels and got gutted six seconds later.

Now she was the dumb girl in heels.

Short skirt, nice legs, too much skin, bleach-blonde hair teased into a playful mess. Every box checked. She practically screamed slasher movie fodder.

And that thought—it spiraled. Fast.

The longer she walked, the louder her thoughts got. Was she being followed? Was that a shadow moving behind the dumpster, or just a trick of the light? Was that breath she heard, or her own blood thundering in her ears?

Her grip on the switchblade tightened until her knuckles went white.

She shouldn’t be out here. God, she shouldn’t be out here.

But she didn’t have a choice. She never had a choice.

Travis made sure of that. He was probably watching from a car right now, waiting to see if she was earning. He’d be pissed if she came back empty. He’d say the killer was an excuse, not a reason. That fear didn’t feed you. Fear didn’t pay for the motel room.

She glanced over her shoulder again.

Nothing.

Just shadows.

But her gut said differently.

Something was out there.

And it was watching.

Sheila glanced at every shadow, unease crawling higher with every step. Her nerves were shot, and her mind wouldn’t stop reminding her of the obvious — she was exactly the kind of girl who went down in a slasher flick, just there to show off the killer’s gore-splattered handiwork. Not final girl material. More like the scream queen who got five minutes of screen time and a handful of lines before the machete or chainsaw came down.

A soft sound — maybe above her — made her heart spike. She snapped her gaze upward, fingers already pulling the switchblade from her purse. The blade clicked out with practiced ease. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Muscles tight.

Nothing.

Just shadows and brick and empty night.

Get a hold of yourself, Sheila, she told herself, like a mantra, forcing her hand to sheath the blade. It’s just some alley cat out looking to get laid.

But even as she tried to shake it off, her ears kept straining, tuned to every scrape, creak, and distant echo. A trash can lid clattered two streets over, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her shoes scuffed against wet pavement, and she winced at how loud the sound seemed in the hollow dark between the buildings.

The city felt different tonight — too quiet in all the wrong places, like something was holding its breath. Like the usual chaos had retreated, cleared the stage for something worse to make an entrance.

Sheila pulled her coat tighter around herself. The night had teeth now, and it wasn’t just the evening chill biting at her.

She passed under a flickering streetlight, and for a split second her shadow stretched the wrong way — just a trick of the bulbs, maybe, but it made her pick up the pace. Fast walk. Almost a jog. She wasn’t about to run. Running? No that made you prey. Running meant you already knew something was behind you.

And she didn’t want to know that. Not yet.

She cut through the alley behind the old laundromat, a shortcut she’d used a hundred times before. Except this time, her footsteps sounded like they didn’t belong to her. Echoes bounced weird off the bricks, like someone else was just a half-second behind, mimicking her pace a little too closely. She stopped. So did they.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was watching.

Sheila drew the blade again, slower this time. Not just instinct — now it felt necessary. Her breath came faster than she wanted, and her eyes scanned the dark corners ahead, behind, above.

She didn’t want to say it out loud, but part of her knew: she wasn’t alone out here. 

She wanted to tell herself it was all in her head — that she was just making monsters out of shadows and alley cats on the prowl. That the growing tremble in her hands was nothing more than an overreaction, stoked by trashy tabloids and a childhood diet of horror movies she used to watch for fun.

They didn’t seem so fun now.

Not when she felt like she was trapped in one. Not when every turn down a darkened street, every unexplained noise behind her, felt like it was building toward a third-act kill scene with her name on it.

She kept walking, faster now, her boots splashing through half-frozen puddles, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Her ears buzzed with adrenaline and the rising certainty that something was out there — not imagined, not exaggerated, but real.

***

He watched.

A lone figure moved through the fractured gloom, slipping between the last gasps of twilight and the harsh flicker of artificial light. This wasn’t quite his usual canvas—Bloor Street’s familiar corridors of rot and rhythm—but he was never truly tethered. No, true artists evolved, extended their reach, took their work on tour.

His hand drifted down to the sheath at his hip, fingertips grazing the leather with reverence. The stiletto dagger rested like a relic awaiting ceremony—long, narrow, elegant. Archaic in design, but surgical in its precision. It called to him tonight, its voice soft and irresistible. This was the instrument that spoke to his sensibilities. This was the brush for tonight’s canvas.

Not crude, not brutal.

Refined.

A blade like a whisper. Meant to slide effortlessly between the ribs, to pierce the heart or the lungs with a kind of grace few understood. Yes, that was the language he would speak this evening. Poetry written in blood.

His cold eyes remained fixed on the figure moving near a rusted dumpster. They paused briefly—just a shape, just a silhouette—and he imagined the choreography in his mind. One strike to the lung, and they’d crumple silently, choking on red. A slow fade, a gurgling breath, the collapse of sound into stillness.

Or perhaps—just perhaps—the heart. A single deep plunge, elegant and clean. Watch the light go out of their eyes in real time. Watch their soul blink out like a candle. The stillness afterward. The art of cessation.

Yes.

He almost sighed.

So many choices.

And such a perfect tool for the occasion.

He adjusted the straps of his mask, fingers moving with the same practiced precision he used to sharpen his blades. A quick check of the seals—tight, flush, no gaps. He didn’t breathe on his canvases, not more than necessary. The mask kept things sterile. Anonymous. Pure.

Next came the belt—his toolkit, his ritual regalia.

The stiletto rested in its sheath like a sleeping serpent, poised for precision. He touched it gently, then moved on. Several more knives nestled into custom slots, each one chosen for a specific kind of cut, a particular kind of scream. A hatchet rested on the far side, weighted perfectly for bone.

And the revolver.

He frowned as his fingers brushed the cold grip. A tool of necessity, not artistry. There was no elegance in gunpowder and noise, no soul in a bullet. It was a last resort, nothing more—a crude fallback in a world that sometimes forced beauty to retreat in favor of survival. He hated it, but he wasn’t foolish. Art required time, and time could be stolen by those who refused to see the vision.

The rest of his gear was equally meticulous. Heavy gloves, thick-soled boots, every tread filed smooth and untraceable. Industrial bleach—one jug hidden in the trunk of a rust-stained sedan, another in a modified spray bottle on his belt. Not for the kill. Not for the art.

For after.

For when the canvas had gone still and the cleanup had to begin.

He didn't kill to be caught. He killed to be remembered.

An artist doesn’t earn legend by showing his face in the crowd. Legends are born of mystery, whispered truths, unanswered questions. He would not be caught by the mundane, the unremarkable. No. When the curtain fell, it would be worthy hands that pulled it down.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the curtain would rise again.

And the act would begin.

But that time hadn’t come. Not quite yet.

He watched.

And he listened.

The figure moved farther into shadow, drawn unknowingly toward the darker veins of the city—alleys that twisted like arteries, pulsing with the slow life of refuse, rot, and forgotten souls. These were his places. Places where light was scarce, where the stage could be set without interruption. Where the stroke of his blade could land exactly as intended.

His breath slowed. His heartbeat became a metronome.

He listened to the rhythm of the city with practiced intensity. Every footfall of the target, every rustle of a distant rat nosing through a garbage bin, every echo caught in the hollow throats of alleyways. Sound was a note in the symphony. He needed to hear it all.

Then came the scent.

He inhaled, slowly. Deeply.

There it was—sour-sweet notes of decay, the chemical tang of urban life, a thread of cheap perfume or cologne lingering on the breeze. Trash, oil, sweat, all so very human and none of it pleasant. But to him, it was texture. Tone. An invisible brushstroke across the canvas of the city.

Every sense was engaged. Every variable accounted for.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Because art—true art—demanded more than impulse. It demanded patience. Precision. He had let potential victims walk before. Many. They never knew. Never saw the eyes watching from the shadows. Never heard the breath held just behind them.

Because even one note out of key—a misstep, a poorly timed siren, a gust of wind too strong—could ruin the composition.

And he would not sully his masterpiece for anything less than perfection.

Not tonight. Not ever.

He began to move.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Each footfall was placed with surgical care, the soft shift of his weight making no more sound than the whisper of a breeze. His body flowed from shadow to shadow like ink spilling through cracks in parchment—quiet, precise, patient.

Between him and the target stretched a scattered collection of alley debris: broken crates, rusted dumpsters, puddles black with city runoff. To most, it would look like clutter. To him, it was a chessboard. Every piece was a calculated advantage. Every shadow a pocket of sanctuary where he could vanish, reposition, observe.

He moved like a predator—but not one trained by military or paramilitary hands. No, there was no formal instruction here. No government program. No black ops ghosting tactics.

This was instinct.

Refined through repetition. Perfected by necessity.

Years of practice, of trial and error in darker corners of the world—testing what creaked, what echoed, what gave him away and what let him pass unseen. A self-taught master of movement. The kind of silent killer born not from a curriculum, but from obsession and evolution.

Every step was part of the ritual.

Every breath was carefully controlled.

Every nerve tuned to the hunt.

Soon. So very soon.

The space was closing now. The distance was slowly shrinking.

And when the moment was right—when the stage was set and the final cue delivered—he would step from the wings and let the blade sing.