Gala Marian and Wayne Jackson sat in the dimly lit law enforcement office, a cramped yet cluttered space filled with the steady hum of technology and the murmurs of a city that seemed oblivious to the gravity of the moment. The glow of multiple monitors cast dancing, flickering shadows on their faces, as if each screen carried a secret meant only for them. The air itself felt heavy—a tangible, almost suffocating presence of tension and unspoken anxiety that pressed down on every surface and every breath they took.

  Outside, the sprawling urban landscape carried on with its relentless rhythm, the distant traffic mingling with the soft patter of rain against the windows. The city’s pulse was steady, indifferent to the storm of thoughts and emotions swirling inside that tiny office. Every beep from a computer, every crackle of the police radio, and even the far-off wail of sirens played a haunting melody that underscored the gravity of their task.

  Before them, images cycled ceaselessly across the screens—each one a frozen moment of terror captured in crime scene photos, grainy surveillance footage that whispered of hidden crimes, and forensic reports that were as intricate as they were damning. Every piece of evidence was a thread in a tapestry of methodical brutality, a chilling portrait of a predator who acted with an unnerving sense of purpose rather than chaotic impulse. That predator was William Jones, the notorious Head Hunter. His name alone was a curse on the lips of criminals and law enforcement alike—a reminder of the darkness that lurked in the corners of society. The law was unequivocal in its condemnation: William was a killer, an executioner who operated entirely outside the rigid boundaries of justice. Yet, as they delved deeper into his meticulously compiled dossier, a murmur of doubt began to emerge. The narrative unfolding on their screens was far more complex than the simple categorization of a monster.

  Gala leaned forward, her posture tense with focus. Her fingers danced deftly over the keyboard as she pulled up yet another report, one that added another layer to the ever-growing puzzle. “He’s not just killing at random,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the connections hidden within the data. “Every single one of his targets... they’re connected. It’s deliberate. It’s as if he’s orchestrating his actions like moves on a chessboard.”

  Wayne exhaled sharply, the sound of his breath mingling with the low hum of the equipment. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a gesture betraying the intensity of his contemplation. “We knew he was methodical,” he replied, his tone a mixture of awe and concern, “but this—this is something else entirely. It’s like he’s playing chess, moving his pieces in a sequence we haven’t been able to decipher yet.”

  Gala’s gaze shifted to one of the monitors, where a name was highlighted among a sea of data. “Take Hawke, for instance,” she said, her voice laced with frustration and incredulity. “How many times have we tried to take him down? How many times has he walked free, despite all the evidence piled against him? And now—now William seems to be mopping up the very messes we couldn’t handle.”

  Wayne’s brow furrowed in a mix of skepticism and dawning realization. “Are you really suggesting that William is out there cleaning up the chaos we left behind? That he’s stepping into roles we never even dared to consider?”

  Gala paused, the weight of her words sinking in as she chose each carefully. “I’m not just saying he’s a killer,” she began slowly, “I’m saying he’s a force of reckoning—a vigilante who’s taken it upon himself to enforce his own brand of justice. You know as well as I do that the system we serve isn’t perfect. It’s riddled with loopholes, with technicalities that allow criminals like Hawke to slip away while the victims are left crying for justice.”

  The room fell silent for a moment, save for the persistent hum of machines and the quiet, almost imperceptible thump of their hearts. Wayne’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the truth in her words, each one striking a chord in the depths of his own disillusionment. They had both spent endless nights watching the system falter, witnessing men like Hawke manipulate legal gray areas and walk free despite the gruesome evidence that stacked up like a tombstone for the innocent. The rules they were sworn to uphold often felt more like chains than guidelines, binding them to a code that seemed to favor the perpetrators rather than the victims.

  Then, as if on cue, another image flickered onto the screen—a faded photograph of William from years ago. The picture captured a time before he had become a ghost in the underworld, before the crusade against society had hardened him into the infamous figure he was now. His face in that image bore the marks of a man who once harbored hope—a spark of something noble buried beneath the hardened exterior and the ice-cold gaze. It was a glimpse of the man he might have been had the system not failed him, had society not pushed him to the brink.

  Gala’s voice softened, a rare vulnerability seeping through. “We can’t just watch him spiral deeper into darkness,” she said, almost pleadingly. “We have to reach him, find a way to remind him of who he was, before it’s too late.”

  Wayne scoffed, though not without a trace of resignation in his tone. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?” he retorted, the incredulity evident in his voice. “Do we just walk up to him and ask, 'Hey, William, maybe take a break from the executions?' It’s not that simple.”

  She met his gaze, unwavering and determined. “No, it’s not that simple at all,” she conceded. “But if we don’t try, if we let another victim slip away, then we’re no better than the very criminals we’re trying to catch. We have to show him there’s another way—a path that doesn’t lead to more bloodshed.”

  Wayne’s hand ran down his face, a gesture betraying the fatigue and internal conflict that had been building up for years. “And if he refuses to listen?” he asked quietly, the question hanging heavily in the air.

  “Then we do what we must,” Gala replied, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We stop him, even if it means bringing him down. But I refuse to believe he’s completely lost to the darkness. Not yet.”

  A long, heavy silence stretched between them, filled with the ghostly echoes of past failures and the tentative hope of redemption. The monitors continued their relentless cycle, a barrage of grim evidence that now painted a portrait of a man teetering on the edge of salvation and damnation. Every image was a reminder of the thin line they walked between justice and vengeance.

  Gala stood abruptly, her resolve crystallizing in the dim light. She grabbed her jacket as if it were a suit of armor for the impending battle. “I’m going to find him,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

  Wayne’s eyes widened with a mix of alarm and admiration. “Are you insane?” he snapped, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation. “We need a plan, a calculated approach. We can’t just charge into the unknown blindly!”

  She met his gaze squarely, unyielding in her determination. “I’m not waiting for another life to be lost,” she said firmly. “Every moment we hesitate, more darkness takes root. We need to act now—before there’s nothing left of him to save.”

  With a resigned sigh, Wayne clenched his jaw and slowly nodded. “Fine,” he agreed, his voice low and steady. “But we do this together. And we do it smart—every step of the way.”

  As they stepped out of the office and into the night, the weight of their decision mingled with the cool, damp air. The city, still blissfully unaware, provided a stark contrast to the turbulent storm of thoughts that churned within them. They were no longer merely hunting a criminal. They had embarked on a perilous journey to rescue a soul teetering on the edge of self-destruction—a soul that might yet be redeemed or lost forever.

  In that silent, heavy moment, the unspoken truth became undeniable: whatever path lay ahead, with all its risks and uncertainties, there was no turning back. The night swallowed them whole as they disappeared into the maze of city streets, each step echoing the resolve that had driven them to this point—a resolve to fight for a chance at redemption, even if it meant battling the very darkness that threatened to consume them all.

  William Jones moved through the city like a ghost, his presence barely more than a shadow cast against the neon-lit skyline. The rain had picked up, weaving silver threads through the black tapestry of the night, masking his movements as he maneuvered through the backstreets. The world, in its relentless indifference, did not stop for men like him. It had chewed him up and spat him out long ago, leaving only the remnants of what had once been William Jones—before he became the Head Hunter.

  Now, he was something else. Something worse. Something necessary.

  In the hollowed-out remnants of an abandoned office building, William stood over a makeshift workstation. Maps, dossiers, crime scene reports—he had built his own archive of justice, a mirror image of the files law enforcement kept on him. His fingers traced the worn edges of a photograph, his eyes scanning the face of his next target: Elijah Hawke.

  Hawke was filth. A trafficker, a murderer, a parasite that had clung to the city's underbelly for far too long. The courts had failed to contain him. The police had tried and failed. And so, as always, it had fallen to William.

  Justice was a fragile thing, easily bent and twisted by those in power. But he had long abandoned any illusions that the system could be fixed. The only justice that mattered was the kind delivered at the end of a blade.

  He reached for his knife, running his thumb along the edge in quiet contemplation. Was this justice, or was it just revenge? The thought lingered in his mind, unwanted and unwelcome. He had killed so many, all of them deserving, but somewhere along the way, the certainty had begun to crack. Was he still William Jones, or had he become the very kind of monster he once sought to destroy?

  He inhaled deeply, shaking the thought away. It didn’t matter. Hesitation led to failure. And failure meant more innocent lives lost.

  But then—

  Gala and Wayne.

  His gaze flickered toward a police report on his desk, a newly acquired piece of information. He had intercepted chatter on their investigation, knew they were closing in, picking up on the patterns that no one else had seen. They were getting too close.

  A part of him had expected this. He wasn’t invincible, despite what the criminals whispered about him in hushed tones. He had always known the hunt would turn inward eventually. That one day, someone would step onto his trail and refuse to let go.

  Gala Marian and Wayne Jackson.

  They weren’t like the others.

  Most of law enforcement pursued him with the kind of predictable, blind rage reserved for criminals. They saw only the blood, the executions, the bodies he left behind. But Gala and Wayne? They were different. They questioned. They understood something the others didn’t.

  And that made them dangerous.

  A flicker of memory surfaced—years ago, before he had become the man he was now. Gala had been there. A younger William had crossed paths with her once, when he still had hope, when he still believed in the system. She had been sharp, determined, unwilling to let corruption win. He had admired that about her.

  That admiration hadn’t faded.

  He turned to the window, staring out at the distant glow of the city skyline. He should disappear. Go underground. Change his patterns. Yet, for the first time in years, he hesitated.

  Because a small, treacherous part of him wanted them to find him.

  Maybe Gala was right to hunt him. Maybe Wayne’s skepticism was justified. Maybe—just maybe—there was still something inside him worth saving.

  Or maybe it was too late.

  His grip on the knife tightened as he forced himself back into the moment. Hawke first. Then, and only then, would he decide if he was willing to let himself be caught.

  With a final glance at the scattered documents, William Jones stepped back into the darkness. The hunt was far from over—but for the first time, the predator wasn’t sure if he was still the one in control.

  Blood on the Asphalt

  The alley stank of rot, rust, and desperation. Rain hammered down in sheets, washing over the cracked, uneven pavement like the aftermath of some forgotten war. There was a metallic taste in the air, mingling with the sickly scent of wet concrete and blood—the blood of those who had come before.

  William Jones stood at the mouth of the alley, a silent silhouette against the dim glow of the streetlights. His breath was steady, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, but his eyes were cold—calculating, waiting.

  The Black Hounds had made their territory here, carving their names into the city’s soul with the cold edge of violence. They had left a woman to die on these very streets, laughing as her blood bled into the rain. Laughing like it was a fucking joke.

  Now, William would show them what real fear looked like.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Twelve of them. A dozen rabid dogs armed with knives, bats, and handguns stuffed into sagging jeans. Pathetic amateurs. Every movement, every stance—he could see it. The hesitation in their eyes. The trembling hands of those who knew they were about to meet a reckoning.

  One of the scum—a wiry bastard with a jagged scar cutting across his chin like a permanent sneer—stepped forward, flicking open a rusted switchblade. “You lost, old man?” His voice was a rasp, but the arrogance was there. “This ain't your neighborhood.”

  William’s boots clicked softly against the wet concrete as he stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the group. The creak of leather against his skin was the only sound that broke the tension. “It is tonight.”

  They laughed.

  The last fucking mistake they’d ever make.

  The first thug rushed him, bolstered by the numbers, thinking he had the upper hand. A wild swing with the bat, a sloppy arc aimed to break bones. William didn’t flinch—he stepped in, using the man’s momentum against him. He caught the thug’s wrist, twisted, and heard the bone crack like a twig snapping underfoot. The scream came, high-pitched, ragged, but it was swallowed by the sound of that bone shattering. The thug’s eyes went wide as he dropped to his knees, unable to comprehend the pain. Before he could even try to react, William’s elbow smashed into the bridge of his nose, caving it in with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, splattering the wall behind him like a crude work of art. The thug collapsed, his body twitching in a mess of contorted limbs.

  The second one hesitated for just a second. Just a moment. And that was all William needed. His boot slammed into the man’s knee, the sound of cartilage and bone giving way with a brutal crack that echoed through the alley. The thug howled, a strangled, pitiful sound, but it was drowned out by the hiss of William’s blade. His knife flashed, a streak of cold steel that cut through the air and sliced open the thug’s arm. The man’s scream didn’t last—William drove the blade into his throat, silencing him instantly.

  The third and fourth rushed him together, thinking numbers would save them. William didn’t even flinch as they came. Dropping low to the ground, he swept one off his feet, sending him tumbling into the puddles with a sickening thud. He grabbed the other by the collar and slammed his skull into the asphalt with all the force he could muster. Teeth scattered across the ground, embedding themselves into the wet pavement, along with a splatter of blood that painted the alley like a grisly work of art.

  Then came the gunfire.

  William twisted, using the limp, lifeless body of one of the fallen thugs as a shield. The bullet ripped through flesh with a wet, muffled slap, inches from his side. It was sloppy, too fast. The shooter was shaking. Good. They were all scared now.

  William surged forward, the adrenaline hitting his bloodstream like a drug. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the gunman’s wrist, twisted it with inhuman precision, and yanked the weapon free. With a single hammer blow, he struck the man in the throat, crushing the windpipe like it was paper. The thug gasped, his hands clutching at his neck, but William didn’t let him go. He jammed the gun back into the man’s mouth, pulled the trigger once, twice.

  The sound of gunfire was almost comforting in the silence that followed.

  The alley fell still. It was the kind of stillness that pressed against your chest, the kind that made you think you’d stopped breathing. The stench of blood and rain, the sounds of bodies hitting the ground—everything was quiet now.

  The remaining gang members—six of them, staring in shock at the mangled remains of their comrades, their eyes wide with fear—stood frozen.

  The arrogance had drained out of them.

  Fear had replaced it.

  William stepped forward slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the final strike. His voice was low, steady—like he had all the time in the world. “You had a choice. You could’ve walked away from this life. Could’ve left it all behind. But you didn’t.”

  He spread his arms, a gesture to the dead, to the shattered bodies that lay at his feet. The silence stretched out, broken only by the steady drip of blood falling into the puddles below. “Now, you’ll join them.”

  Three of them broke first.

  The cowards turned and fled, stumbling over their fallen comrades, desperate to escape the wrath they had unleashed. William watched them run, his gaze unblinking. He didn’t follow them.

  They wouldn’t escape. They’d tell the story. The underworld would hear it—The Head Hunter was still out there, still making sure that justice would be served in blood.

  As the rain washed over him, the blood on his hands slowly began to slip away, but it didn’t cleanse him. It never would. The woman they had killed wouldn’t come back. No amount of bloodshed could bring her back.

  But tonight, justice had been served.

  And William would keep serving it. No matter the cost. No matter how much of himself it took.

  As Gala and Wayne rounded the corner, they were met with an eerie silence that felt almost unnatural. The sounds of the city had faded, replaced by the rhythmic patter of rain against the cold pavement. The glow of the streetlights barely penetrated the darkness, casting long shadows down the alley. And then—there it was.

  The alley was a massacre.

  Blood was pooled everywhere, staining the cracked asphalt a deep crimson. The bodies of The Black Hounds littered the ground, their twisted limbs sprawled in unnatural positions. The air was thick with the coppery scent of death. Teeth, broken and shattered, lay scattered like discarded toys. One of the men’s skulls had caved in so violently it seemed impossible—half of his face was completely missing, a jagged, ruined mess. Blood ran freely from open throats, pooling around their bodies, a sickening testament to the brutality that had just unfolded.

  Gala’s hand instinctively went to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her eyes flickered over the carnage, her stomach churning at the sight. She had seen violence before, but this—it was something else. It was like a storm had ravaged these men, leaving nothing behind but the wreckage.

  Wayne’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the scene, taking in the gory details with a kind of cold detachment. He had seen worse, but this? This was pure, unfiltered savagery. Whoever had done this didn’t just kill. They had enjoyed it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gala muttered, her voice trembling. “Who the hell did this?”

  Wayne didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer, crouching next to one of the bodies. His fingers brushed the blood-soaked pavement, studying the pattern, the trajectory of the wounds. “Whoever did this,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, “they’re good. Too good.”

  He stood up, his boots squelching in the blood as he turned to look at her. “This wasn’t a fight. This was a slaughter. A calculated, brutal... execution.”

  Gala shuddered, swallowing hard. She could feel the weight of the scene pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. “You don’t think it’s... him, do you?”

  Wayne’s gaze turned cold, a hard edge to his words. “Could be.”

  They both knew who he was talking about. The legend that had haunted the underworld, a ghost whispered about in dark corners and dirty bars.

  William Jones, the Head Hunter.

  A figure that haunted the nightmares of the city's worst. A man who showed no mercy, who didn’t just kill—he tore through his enemies with a precision and brutality that bordered on the inhuman. The thought sent a chill crawling down Gala’s spine.

  “God,” Gala whispered, looking at the bodies again. “What did these assholes do to deserve this?”

  Wayne stood still, a grim look crossing his face as he glanced over the bodies. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice taking on an edge of dark understanding. “They weren’t the ones in control here. Whoever did this? They chose who lived and who died.”

  Gala didn’t need to ask him to elaborate. She could see it. The patterns of death. The bodies that had been left in a twisted display, not random, not just for show. These were carefully orchestrated kills, designed to send a message.

  A cold, brutal message.

  She felt it in her gut—the message was clear. There was no turning back. No going back to the way things were.

  Suddenly, they both froze. The faintest noise—a soft shuffle of movement—came from the far end of the alley. Gala’s eyes darted toward it, heart pounding.

  “Someone’s still here,” she whispered urgently.

  Wayne’s gaze flicked to the source of the noise, his hand moving instinctively to the weapon at his side. “Stay close. And keep your head down.”

  They advanced cautiously, their footsteps silent against the rain-soaked concrete. The alley seemed to stretch on forever, the shadows creeping along the walls like something alive. And then, there in the darkness, they saw him.

  Standing amidst the carnage, bathed in the flickering glow of the streetlights, was William Jones.

  His figure was like a ghost, silent and imposing. Blood was still dripping from his hands, his face expressionless. He stood alone, a dark figure amidst the chaos he had wrought, his eyes locked on the two of them as if he had been expecting them.

  Gala’s breath hitched. The air between them felt thick, heavy with unspoken understanding.

  Wayne didn’t flinch. His eyes remained locked on William, watching him, reading him. He knew the stories. Everyone did. But seeing the man himself—the Head Hunter—was something else entirely.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. The rain continued to fall, drenching the world in cold, bitter water.

  Finally, William spoke, his voice a quiet rasp, like the whisper of a dying wind. “You know who I am,” he said, his gaze flicking from Wayne to Gala. “And I know who you are. What’s left to say?”

  Gala’s pulse raced. She didn’t know if she should run, or if she should speak.

  She didn’t get a chance to decide. William stepped forward, his voice still low but carrying the weight of a man who had seen it all, who had dealt out death so many times that it no longer fazed him.

  “You should turn back,” he said, almost casually. “You’re not ready for this.”

  The words hung in the air like a challenge, a warning. Gala’s heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the weight of her own uncertainty. But one thing was clear: they had stumbled into something far darker than they had anticipated.

  And if they weren’t careful, they’d be the next bodies sprawled out on this rain-soaked alley.

  William Jones stood silently among the carnage, his dark eyes scanning the bodies, letting the silence of the alley wrap around him like a cold shroud. The blood was still fresh, the scent of death sharp in the air, and yet, he felt... something. Something that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Satisfaction.

  It was a strange thing to admit, even to himself, but there was no denying it. The Black Hounds, those pathetic, broken men who had spent their lives feeding on fear and pain, had deserved every bit of what they had received tonight. They had tortured that woman, left her to die like an animal, her screams swallowed by the city's indifference. The thought of her suffering—her broken, desperate gasps for air as they laughed—made his blood simmer.

  And now they were all dead. Every last one of them.

  Not because they were a threat to him. Not because they stood in his way.

  No.

  They were dead because they had hurt someone who couldn’t fight back. And William? He had been watching. Waiting.

  They thought they could hide in their filth, in the shadows of the alley, thinking they had dominion over the weak. But they had forgotten something—forgotten that there were predators who didn’t just take lives for money, or power, or fame. Some predators took lives simply because they enjoyed it.

  William Jones was one of those predators. And tonight? He had enjoyed it.

  A low laugh rumbled from deep in his chest. He had done what he did for free. There was no reward, no bounty. Just the satisfaction of righting the scales, of giving a woman justice when the system had failed her.

  There was a part of him that thrived in this darkness, the part that felt the weight of the city’s rot and decided to do something about it, without hesitation. The part that was so far removed from humanity’s empathy that killing, torturing, destroying had become almost like a drug. It was the only thing that made him feel alive, the only thing that gave him clarity in this brutal world.

  He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the shattered bones beneath him. His gloves were still slick with blood. He could feel the heat of the recent violence radiating from the corpses, feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He didn’t even need to wipe the blood off his hands. There was no guilt. No remorse.

  He didn’t feel like a monster. He didn’t even feel human.

  He felt good.

  Good for putting them down like the animals they were. Good for being the reckoning that came for those who thought they could rule with violence. Good for showing them that cruelty always finds its way back to its source.

  "That’s what they get," he muttered to himself, his voice low and gravelly, as though savoring the words. He crouched next to the body of the scarred man—the one who had led the charge against him, the one with the switchblade. William examined the knife, still clutched in the thug’s bloody fingers, its edge gleaming in the faint streetlight. He let out another soft chuckle. "You all thought you were something... a pack of wolves, huh? Just a bunch of wild dogs begging for a master."

  He stood again, looking over the alley. The rain continued to fall in cold sheets, washing the blood into the gutter, but William could still taste the violence in the air. He didn’t need to be reminded. He knew who he was.

  The others—Gala and Wayne, whoever they were—might look at him and see a monster. But that was only because they were too naive to understand what he was doing. Too blind to see the real sickness in the city.

  William didn’t care about saving people. He wasn’t a hero. Hell, he wasn’t even a vigilante. He was the Head Hunter. And he hunted the predators that preyed on the helpless, no matter the cost to his own soul.

  He wiped the knife clean, tossing it aside with an eerie nonchalance. The job was done. The message sent.

  With a deep breath, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows, knowing the world would never fully understand what he had done tonight.

  But that was fine.

  He wasn’t in it for their understanding.

  He was in it for the kill. And tonight, that felt damn good.

  William Jones stood at the edge of the rooftop, his silhouette outlined against the dismal backdrop of the city’s towering skyscrapers. The rain fell in heavy sheets, a relentless downpour that seemed to match the cold fury in his chest. He looked out over the sprawling metropolis, its streets swallowed by the darkness, its lights flickering like distant stars.

  The city was his now.

  He laughed, a low, mocking sound that echoed across the empty space around him. It wasn’t a laugh of joy—it was a laugh of pure disdain, a cruel cackle that reverberated off the glass and steel around him. There was no joy in it, no sense of victory. It was the kind of laugh reserved for the broken, for those who had seen too much and learned the bitter truth about the world.

  “You think this city is something special?” William scoffed, his voice carried away by the wind. “Look at it. All those nice little skyscrapers. Those clean streets. People walking around, thinking they’re safe. But they’re all fucking fools.”

  He shook his head, the mocking smile on his face stretching wider as he stepped forward. The rain soaked him through, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t the cold that bothered him—it was the emptiness of it all.

  This city had raised him, made him what he was. And it was a city built on lies, on the backs of the weak and the broken. He had always known that. But now, now he had gone further than they could ever imagine.

  5000 kills.

  Half the criminals in the city were gone, erased like a mistake in the margins of history. He had carved a path through their ranks like a storm, a relentless force of nature that couldn’t be stopped. The bloodshed had been staggering, and with each kill, each life snuffed out, William felt the weight of it all settle deeper into his bones.

  But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

  He had eradicated entire gangs, uprooted syndicates, torn down the pillars of corruption that had held this city together. He had become the thing they feared, the thing that haunted their nightmares—the Headhunter, the predator who hunted down the predators.

  And yet, as he stood there, drenched and staring down at the city, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all... futile. The city had become quieter, sure. Cleaner, even. But it was still the same rotting carcass beneath the surface. More would rise to take the place of those he had killed. More would feed on the weakness of the city, looking for power in its crumbling streets.

  William took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the cold night air. His laugh died down, replaced by a grim smile.

  "It’ll never stop," he muttered to himself. "They’ll keep coming. Like cockroaches, scurrying in the dark. There’s always more. There’s always a new game, a new pack, a new monster to hunt."

  And in that twisted realization, he found something close to satisfaction. The hunt would never end. And neither would he.

  He had made a name for himself. He had made a legacy. And as long as the city stood, he would continue to wipe away its filth, one body at a time.

  William’s laugh returned, colder, darker this time. "You’re all just waiting for the next one. The next killer. The next monster. But guess what? I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot."

  As the rain pummeled him relentlessly, the city lay sprawled beneath his feet—his city, his kingdom of ash and blood. And William Jones, the Headhunter, knew that no matter how much blood he spilled, the city would never be satisfied.

  But that was fine. Neither was he.