I want to become a killer

After watching countless videos on serial killers, I became obsessed. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside me, one that could never be turned off. The notebook I'd bought was filling up rapidly. I meticulously documented every detail I could find: their methods, their mistakes, their psychological profiles. I analyzed their patterns, learning from both their successes and failures.

But this wasn't enough. The videos only scratched the surface. I needed more. I wanted to understand what made them tick, what drove them to do the things they did. Was it trauma? Was it a need for control? Or was it something deeper, something primal?

One night, while deep in my research, I came across a particular video that chilled me to the core. It was about a killer named "The Silent Butcher," a man who had evaded capture for nearly a decade. He was methodical, precise, and terrifyingly calm. His victims were chosen carefully, each one representing a step in what he called his "personal evolution." He believed that each life he took brought him closer to transcendence.

I couldn't help but be fascinated. There was something poetic about his approach, something that resonated with me. I didn't want to just kill for the sake of killing. I wanted to make it mean something. I wanted to evolve, just like he did.

The idea simmered in my mind for days. I barely slept, my thoughts consumed by this newfound purpose. My mother noticed the change.

"You've been quiet lately," she said one morning over breakfast. "Is everything okay?"

I forced a smile. "Just studying. You know how it is."

She nodded, satisfied with my answer. I could see the concern in her eyes, but she didn't press further. She never did. She trusted me, and that trust was my greatest asset.

That night, I decided it was time to take the next step. The forest had served me well when I was younger, but it was too familiar now. I needed a new place, somewhere no one would suspect. After hours of walking through the outskirts of town, I found it: an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. The windows were shattered, and the air smelled of rust and decay. It was perfect.

I spent the next few weeks preparing the space. I brought in tools, plastic sheets, ropes—everything I thought I might need. It was exhilarating, like building a sanctuary for my darkest desires.

One evening, I stood in the middle of the warehouse, breathing in the stale air. This was my domain now. My temple. And soon, it would be christened.

But I needed a victim. Not just anyone. Someone special. Someone who would mark the beginning of this new chapter in my life.

As I walked home that night, I passed by the local park. A man was sitting alone on a bench, his head down, lost in thought. He looked vulnerable. Weak. Perfect.

I paused for a moment, watching him from the shadows. My heart raced, my hands trembled with anticipation. This was it. My first real hunt.

I smiled to myself as I walked away, already planning how I would approach him tomorrow. The thrill of the hunt had begun.