A heart began to race—sharp and sudden, like a drumbeat in a storm. Hairs stood on end, tiny soldiers rising in instinctive defiance. Breath quickened, shallow and tight, as if the lungs themselves were bracing for impact. Something primal stirred beneath the surface of skin and thought—an ancient warning system humming to life.

A sixth sense.

Not logic. Not reason. But something older. Deeper.

A voice from the marrow whispering: run.

Because something was wrong.

Something predatory.

It lingered just beyond sight—just past the corner of the eye, in the place where shadows pretended to sleep. And it was close now. Closer than it should be. Closer than anything had a right to be.

It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t need to.

The body knew before the mind could catch up.

Something evil was watching. Something patient. Something ready to unsheathe its claws and sink its teeth into an unprotected throat—not for hunger, but for art.

Sheila snapped her attention behind her, muscles coiled, nerves screaming. Instinct took the wheel—no thought, just movement—as she veered toward the nearest open alley, eyes wide, heart thundering.

If she saw something—anything—she didn’t want to, she was gone. No hesitation. No screaming for help that wouldn’t come. Just bolt. Run like hell and pray the thing behind her didn’t run faster.

Her hand was already on one heel, ready to wrench it off mid-stride. She’d sooner take her chances barefoot—glass, gravel, god knows what—than try to sprint like some horror movie idiot in stilettos. She’d seen that scene a thousand times. Cute girl. High heels. One stumble. Dead before the scream finished.

Not her.

Not tonight.

She crouched slightly, ready to kick off the shoes and move.

The alley ahead yawned open like a wound.

Yet there was only silence.

Only shadows and dim light pooling across the alley walls like watered-down ink. Garbage bins. Broken crates. The kind of urban clutter she’d seen a hundred times in daylight. Nothing new. Nothing different.

Nothing there that wasn’t there during the day.

That’s what her mother used to say, back when Sheila was little and afraid of the way her bedroom turned strange after sundown. The dresser that became a hunched figure. The coat rack that became a man with no face. “There’s nothing there that wasn’t there before,” her mother would whisper, tucking her in, brushing hair from her eyes.

Sheila used to believe her.

But tonight… tonight the darkness felt like it was lying.

She caught something out of the corner of her eye—and her heart nearly leapt into her throat.

Her body snapped into panic before her brain could catch up.

But then—she saw the blue.

The familiar cut of the uniform. The shape of the hat. A city cop on foot patrol, walking steady, hand near his belt, eyes sweeping the street like a man who’d seen too much and expected worse.

Normally, not a sight that thrilled her. Cops didn’t make Sheila feel safe. They made her feel watched. Judged. Sometimes worse.

But tonight?

Tonight, seeing someone with a badge—and more importantly, a gun—made her anxiety ease, just a little. Not because she trusted the man. But because the idea of anyone else out here with a weapon felt like something. A buffer. A warning sign that she wasn’t entirely alone in this stretch of shadow.

There was a certain security in knowing that if some knife-wielding freak did come crawling out of the dark, at least someone on her side had a trigger to pull.

Officer McDonald paused as he spotted movement down the alley—a lone figure, young woman, dressed to show skin in all the ways that usually weren’t about fashion.

Didn’t take long to figure it out.

She wasn’t out here by choice. Not really. Not with that look in her eye, not with the way she kept scanning the shadows like they might lunge at her. Probably one of the girls trying to scrape together enough cash to stay off the streets for another night. The shelters were full—always full—and too many people who didn’t want to be out here were anyway.

He figured she was looking for a John who could offer her more than a few bills. Maybe one with a car, a warm bed, something with walls and a locked door. Anything to keep the night off her back.

But all that, really, was beside the point.

It wasn’t safe out here.

Not for anyone. And especially not for someone walking alone with heels in one hand and fear written across her face.

McDonald adjusted his grip on the flashlight and started toward her, not aggressive, just steady—trying to look like a cop doing his job, not a man with questions. Maybe he could offer her a ride. A tip on a shelter that might have space. A voucher for a cheap motel if he could swing it.

Anything to keep her off the list of faces that ended up taped to a crime scene folder.

***

Someone lingered in the shadows, still and silent, more shadow than flesh.

A hand moved—slow, deliberate—slipping down to a pouch on their belt. The clasp gave way with a muted click, barely a whisper in the dark. Fingers found what they were looking for and curled around it, drawing the object into a ready palm without fanfare or flourish.

Their eyes were already locked on the target.

Every second stretched thin, tension winding tighter as the window to act narrowed—painfully, almost maddeningly slow.

But they didn’t move.

Not yet.

This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t fear.

It was patience.

Measured. Controlled.

Because when they struck, it wouldn’t be messy.

It would be precise.

***

Two.

So close.

So near each other.

It stirred something in the Bloodletter—ideas blooming in his mind like blood spreading across fabric.

Two birds, one blade.

First, the policeman. The gun was a threat, and threats had to be addressed. Predictable. Rigid. He would go down first. The girl would scream, of course—run. But she wouldn’t get far. A thrown hatchet, a well-placed knife—she wouldn’t need much more than that.

Still, the officer alone… oh, he was a prize.

A cop killer. That title carried weight. Gravitas. A badge soaked in red ink. So few artists had the vision, the sheer audacity, to wear that name. It elevated the work. Set it apart from the pedestrian slaughters of lesser creatures who only preyed on the soft and the weak.

But him?

No.

He created in defiance of order. Of power. Of consequence.

And tonight?

Tonight was a good night to hunt. A good night to create. To watch life spill out and soak into cold concrete like ink into paper.

His fingers tightened around the handle of the stiletto, its narrow blade whispering promise. Armor meant nothing to a weapon like this. That vest? It would part like wet parchment beneath the hungry kiss of his steel.

As if fate had placed the officer here—just for him.

A canvas delivered.

A name waiting to be etched in blood.

The Bloodletter moved like smoke—quiet, sure, and swift as water.

He slipped across the black gulf between the alley mouth and the dumpster he’d been hiding behind, steps soundless, blade ready. The stiletto pulsed in his grip, poised to plunge, to pierce, to end.

In his mind’s eye, he could already see beneath the surface—past the cloth, the skin, the shell. He had memorized the map of the human body like scripture. Every bone, every joint, every vital thing hidden beneath layers of fat and muscle.

He knew what to sever to make them drop. Knew what to slice to make them scream. Knew where the blood pooled deepest, where the trauma bloomed brightest.

It was just like when he was young, crouched beside his father in the old barn, forced to study the chickens, the pigs—later the sheep and cattle. Anatomy, yes. But more than that. Artistry.

A professional, his father had said, must know what they are working on— and he, an artist, must thus know his medium of choice, every flaw, every strength. Every tender weakness waiting to be exploited.

And the human body?

Oh, it was the most generous medium of all.

So many points of entry. So many paths to pain. So many exquisite ways to draw out that sweet red ichor—and extinguish the light behind their eyes forever.

Tonight, he would paint again.

Officer McDonald and Sheila realized it too late.

The shadow slipped in behind him—quiet as death, fast as thought.

Sheila opened her mouth to scream.

McDonald began to turn, hand moving—slow, so slow—toward the grip of his service revolver. Time stretched thin, suspended between heartbeats. The city around them held its breath. Stars froze. Sounds pulled long and brittle like a needle across vinyl.

Then—steel.

It slipped between plates of armor, the stiletto’s needlepoint kissing flesh in a sudden bloom of pain.

The Bloodletter’s eyes widened, not in shock—but in rapture. His heart pounded with electric joy, breath catching as the crescendo rose. This was the moment. The masterpiece. The red finale.

He was on the edge of catharsis.

Thunk!

Thunk!

Thunk!

Three sharp sounds.

Three flashes of pain.

Three throwing stars embedded in his knife arm—one in the meat of his palm, near the thumb, two more biting into his forearm. White-hot agony shot through his nerves, shattering the flow of his strike. His blade veered just a few inches—enough.

The perfect line was broken.

The officer didn’t fall silent. He pitched forward, gasping, clutching his side. Alive.

Not beautiful. Not still. Ruined.

The Bloodletter’s gaze lingered on the collapsing man for a moment—but only a moment. He didn’t flinch at the scream behind him. The woman’s panic was irrelevant. No… his eyes were already following the arc of the stars—the tiny, precise shuriken that had ruined his composition.

And there she was.

Perched like a silhouette cut from shadow and fire. The pointed ears of her helmet. The dim, dangerous glow of her lenses. That iconic mantle—black and orange, foxlike, fluttering in the wind like a war banner.

The Vulpes.

A pulse of emotion surged through him—sharp and disorienting.

Anger.

Not the cool, methodical disappointment he was used to when pieces failed to fall into place. Not the irritated clench of imperfection.

This was rage—raw and red.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not like this.

She was supposed to appear on his terms. Enter his gallery as a witness, not a saboteur. And certainly not to ruin his work. To mar his stroke. To deface his art.

But there she stood.

Smug. Composed. Drenched in color and confidence.

A walking insult.

To him.

To his method.

To the truth.

Just like the others. The ones who told him blood wasn’t beautiful. That slaughter wasn’t art. That death was ugly and final and never to be admired.

His mother.

His father.

The therapists.

The teachers.

All of them—

Small. Smug. Wrong.

But her?

She had defaced a masterpiece.

And that… that he could not forgive.