Prologue
Couple found dead in apartment.
Chicago Police state that the murder scene is indicative of the murderer people call “The Phantom Butcher”. The couple has yet to be identified, but sources say that the apartment belonged to a young woman named Bithiah Barker. Genetic tests should come back within the next week, but state officials have warned the area to stay calm and keep transportation to a minimum as local police continue to track down the killer. Just another day in downtown Chicago...
The blade slides out with ease, blood dripping from its glistening end as the body drops lifelessly to the floor. The butcher knows that they’ve only got a few minutes to finish things up. Someone would have heard the body’s impact with the floor.
The body lies there, the blood pooling around him almost cascading onto the assassin’s shoes. This earns a disdainful scoff from the looming character as they take a few steps back, starting to sheath the blade, hiding it in a backpack a few feet away.
“I wonder if you ever saw this coming,” the butcher mumbles quietly, making quick work of grabbing the large carton of acid from their backpack. “It would make sense that you didn’t. We probably wouldn’t be in this situation, otherwise.” A trickle of blood starts to drip from the victim’s mouth, sliding down his neck. The butcher sighs. “The more you bleed, the more work I have to do, so—”
The butcher tips the carton of acid forward and starts pouring all over the body. This is always the best part. The acid brings forth a reaction if the person is still alive, which is always fun to watch. There’s a slight twitch or two, then nothing; just the sound of flesh melting off.
“You’re better off dead, anyway,” the butcher mutters after the disappointment of not getting a show.
The butcher has always wondered what people really think about the acid. It’s the staple that The Phantom Butcher leaves behind. At this point, it should be expected. Leaving people practically unrecognizable after their death is like the icing on a metaphorical piece of cake. It sends a message, gets rid of fingerprints and satisfies the boss.
The killer finally stops pouring the liquid and screws the cap back on. “I’d say it’s not personal but...it is.” They spin on their heel and walk back over to their backpack, leaving the body disfigured on the floor, bones starting to poke through the liquidized, bloody flesh. “Good fucking riddance.”
“I see you’re having fun.”
Of course, the butcher heard the door open. It’s become a regular occurrence nowadays.
With a roll of the eyes, the butcher turns around to look at the person, unamused. “I’m almost done here.”
The slightly taller figure nods, walking up to them slowly. “You’re becoming predictable.”
“I’m not the one calling the shots,” the butcher responds simply, slinging the backpack over their shoulders and starting to walk to the door.
The person follows behind. It’s always been like this. Whether they’re a creepy stalker or an entranced believer, they always follow—every time without fail.
“Go home, J,” the butcher finally says.
“I’ll walk home with you.”
“No,” the butcher quickly says. “I need to finish up a few things. Go home and get some rest.”
The bitcher can practically hear the way their shoulders droop in disappointment. Rolling their eyes, the butcher spins back around to look at the stalker behind them. “Tomorrow is a new day. Trust me.”
The stalker’s eyes dim with confusion, but only for a moment before the butcher can see the shimmer of hope spark deep within them. Without wasting any more time, the stalker turns and walks away, not saying another word.
“Who’s the one becoming predictable here?” The butcher mumbles before continuing their walk back home, remaining silent the whole way.
