The False Messiah

A small, quaint smile adorned the man's face, grotesque in its tranquility, as he stood over the homeless figure struggling beneath him. His grip was firm, unyielding, the coarse fabric of the man's tattered coat bunched within his pale, bony fingers. In his other hand, a brick—large, heavy, and deliberate—seemed to hang in suspension, as if weighing the air between mercy and annihilation.

The homeless man squirmed, his limbs flailing with a desperation that bordered on the animalistic. His cries, hoarse and fractured, broke through the suffocating silence of the alley but reached no ears. The city was deaf tonight. The towering figure before him crouched lower, his knees creaking against the slick, grimy pavement, until his void-like eyes aligned with his victim's. There was no flicker of humanity in that gaze, no hesitation—only the cold, detached calm of a man convinced of his own dominion.

The homeless man clawed at the ground, nails snapping as they scraped against the cold, unforgiving stone. "Let me go," he croaked, though his voice carried no strength, only the faint whimper of a soul grasping at the fringes of its own existence. He twisted and bucked, yet the hand on his clothing remained an anchor, holding him still as a spider holds its prey in the web.

Above him, the man grinned wider, his face splitting into a mask of malevolent joy. His teeth, jagged and uneven, glinted faintly in the dim light seeping through the cracks in the alley walls. And then, without warning, the brick descended.

The first blow was decisive, shattering the fragile order of flesh and bone. Blood splattered against the brick wall, painting a chaotic mural of suffering. The homeless man howled—a sound so guttural, so primal, it seemed to transcend language, a pure expression of agony. The sound reverberated through the narrow alley, a plea not for salvation but for the simple cessation of torment.

The man wielding the brick paused for a moment, his arm raised high, surveying the ruin he had begun to create. His breathing was shallow yet measured, his lips parted slightly as though tasting the air thickened by the scent of iron and decay. Then, with a sudden burst of vigor, the brick came down again. And again. And again.

Each strike reshaped the man's face, reducing its contours into a grotesque semblance of human form. Teeth scattered like seeds upon the ground, blood pooling into the cracks of the alley floor, seeping into its history of filth. And with every blow, the attacker seemed to grow more frenzied, more enraptured by the symphony of destruction he conducted. His own face twisted into an expression of ecstasy—a man drunk not on liquor but on the intoxicating power of control.

The homeless man no longer resisted. His limbs, once animated by frantic, desperate motion, now lay limp, splayed in unnatural angles. And yet, his tormentor continued, as if the cessation of life were not enough—no, the very essence of the man had to be obliterated, eradicated from existence itself. It was no longer a question of survival; it was a ritual, a sacrifice to whatever abyss the attacker served.

The echoes of violence subsided only when the brick wielder finally let the bloodied object slip from his grasp. It clattered onto the ground with a dull, sickening thud, a punctuation mark to his grim opus. He stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of a man not exhausted but fulfilled.

Above them, the city seemed indifferent. The streetlights flickered lazily, casting wavering shadows that danced upon the walls of the alley. Somewhere, a dog barked—sharp, erratic, and quickly silenced. The wind carried no judgment, only the faint stench of death mingling with the damp, urban air.

The attacker tilted his head, observing his handiwork as if considering whether it had achieved the perfection he sought. The body before him was unrecognizable, a ruin of blood and shattered bone. Yet, he felt no remorse—only a faint twinge of curiosity at his own capacity for destruction. What was this force within him that compelled such acts? Was he a servant of some higher evil, or was the evil his own, birthed from the abyss of his soul?

For a fleeting moment, he almost smiled again. But this smile was different—not quaint, not grotesque, but weary, almost melancholic. There was something in the stillness of the alley, in the lifelessness of the body at his feet, that whispered a truth he could not ignore. In his violence, he had sought dominion, but in doing so, had he not also lost a piece of himself? The void in his eyes deepened, and for a moment, it seemed as though it might consume him too.

He turned, his boots squelching against the blood-soaked ground, and walked away without a backward glance. The alley swallowed him whole, his figure fading into the shadows, leaving only silence and the grim testament of what had transpired.

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[ Ezekiel POV ]

As my boots squelched through the blood of what society would undoubtedly call unworthy trash, I poured a stream of water over my hands, the crimson streaks swirling into the gutter below. It was tap water—cheap, lukewarm, and purchased from a store just thirty feet from the alley. The incongruity of it all made me chuckle. Macbeth, in all his theatrics, wringing his hands and bemoaning his bloody deeds, had clearly never washed away murder with such ease. The crimson stains disappeared as effortlessly as they had arrived, as if the water bore no memory, no judgment.

The act itself had been nothing—a moment of impulse, or perhaps routine, though I wouldn't call it mundane. No, mundane implied boredom, and I wasn't bored. There was a certain thrill in it, a flicker of satisfaction in the finality of ending a life, in the godlike power of it all. But as I rinsed the last droplets of blood from my fingers, the thrill evaporated, leaving only a faint, hollow aftertaste. Was that all it was? Was that all it ever would be?

I glanced at my reflection in the window of a nearby shop. My face was pale, but composed, and my cap—an old, nondescript thing—shaded my features just enough to avoid the surveillance cameras that dotted the street like silent, all-seeing sentinels. I lowered my head, adjusted the brim of the cap, and stepped onto the bustling sidewalk.

The city was alive, indifferent as always. A symphony of voices, footsteps, and car engines played in the background, drowning out any trace of what had occurred in the alley. I moved among the crowd unnoticed, my crime buried beneath the weight of their collective apathy. These people—these men, women, children—they didn't care. Why should they? They didn't know, and even if they did, what difference would it make? Another dead beggar, another blot of red on the city's grimy canvas.

I found myself drawn to a small café at the corner of the street. Its yellow awning fluttered lazily in the wind, and the aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifted toward me, stirring a faint pang of hunger. It was strange, I thought, how the body continued its banal demands—food, drink, rest—even after such an act. No pause for reflection, no resistance. Just hunger.

I pushed open the door, the little bell above jingling cheerfully, as if to announce my arrival. The warmth inside was almost suffocating after the cool night air, but it was welcoming in its own way. A waitress—no, a hostess, judging by her smart black dress and the way she carried herself—approached me with a polite smile.

"Good evening," she said, her voice light and melodic. "Table for one?"

Her smile was pleasant, unassuming, and for a moment, I studied her. She was pretty—dark hair pulled neatly into a bun, a faint blush on her cheeks, her lips painted a soft pink. There was something about her—something fragile, something untouched by the filth of the world. I wondered how long that would last.

"Yes," I said, returning her smile with one of my own—a smile I knew was too charming, too disarming. I let my eyes linger on hers, just long enough to elicit a faint flush. She hesitated, then gestured toward a corner table by the window.

"This way, please."

I followed her, taking note of the sway in her step, the way her fingers brushed the edge of the menus she carried. She placed one on the table and glanced at me again, her blush deepening as I held her gaze.

"Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" she asked, her voice faltering slightly.

"Coffee," I said. "Black."

She nodded and hurried away, and I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. The café was quiet, the hum of conversation and clinking dishes providing a soothing backdrop. I leaned back in my chair, gazing out the window. The city stretched before me, its lights twinkling like distant stars. Somewhere out there, the body in the alley was growing cold. The thought didn't trouble me. It didn't trouble anyone.

When the hostess returned with my coffee, I caught her wrist lightly as she set the cup on the table. She froze, her eyes darting to mine, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face.

"Thank you," I said, my voice low and warm. "What's your name?"

"Anna," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Anna," I repeated, savoring the sound. "A lovely name for a lovely woman."

Her blush returned, more vivid this time, and she quickly withdrew her hand, murmuring something about letting her know if I needed anything else. As she walked away, I watched her, my mind wandering. Was it her innocence that intrigued me? Her beauty? Or was it simply the thrill of control, of knowing that even here, even now, I could exert my will and bend the world to my desires?

I sipped my coffee, its bitterness grounding me, anchoring me in the present. The café buzzed around me, oblivious to the man in their midst, the man who had so recently held another's life in his hands and crushed it without a second thought. Here, I was just another customer, just another face in the crowd. And that, I thought, was the true genius of it all.

I leaned back, letting the warmth of the café envelop me, and allowed myself to relax.

The world moved on, as it always did, and so did I. The coffee had been an interlude, a brief reprieve from the rhythm of my life. I left a hundred-dollar bill on the table, a gesture more out of habit than extravagance. Credit cards, with their paper trails and inquisitive eyes, were an indulgence I could not afford. Cash was silent, obedient, and untraceable—qualities I valued above all else.

As I stepped into the street, the chill of the night air greeted me, brisk but refreshing after the café's stifling warmth. It was quiet now, the hour growing late, and the crowd had thinned to a scattering of solitary figures and distant silhouettes. My boots tapped rhythmically against the pavement, a sound so ordinary it could lull the mind into forgetting itself.

Then came the footsteps—rapid, light, and purposeful—closing the distance behind me. I slowed, tilting my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the source. It was Anna.

She approached with the timidity of someone stepping into unknown territory, her hands clasped in front of her and her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. I allowed a calm, measured smile to settle on my face, the kind of smile that spoke of reassurance without effort. It was a smile I had practiced before mirrors and strangers alike until it had become second nature—innocuous, inviting, flawless.

When she reached me, her voice was soft, almost tremulous. "Please… before you go, could I have your number?"

The question lingered in the air between us, fragile and uncertain. Was it her shyness that made her hesitate, or did she doubt her worth, placing me—of all people—beyond her grasp? I wanted to believe it was the latter. It pleased me to imagine myself as a figure who elicited such reactions, even from those I deemed inconsequential.

"Of course," I said, my tone polite, unhurried. I reached into the inner pocket of my blazer and retrieved a pen, its silver clip gleaming faintly under the streetlight. Producing a folded scrap of paper, I wrote down the number, my movements deliberate, each stroke of the pen executed with precision.

The number I gave her was not my own, of course. It belonged to one of the many phones I had acquired over the years—devices carelessly discarded by their owners, as if begging to be taken. To me, they were tools, as disposable as the lives they had once served.

I handed the slip of paper to Anna, meeting her gaze as I did. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, flickered between the note and my face. She was blushing still, the color deepening as her fingers brushed mine for the briefest moment.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I inclined my head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than gratitude, and watched as she tucked the paper into her coat pocket. For a fleeting moment, I considered her—this girl with her nervous energy and faintly hopeful smile. What did she see in me? A mystery, perhaps. Or a promise of something she could not yet name.

As she turned and began to walk away, I resumed my own path, my mind drifting once more into its private recesses.

What an odd thing it was, I mused, this ritual of human connection. Anna's request, her blush, her shy demeanor—it was all so transparent, so achingly predictable. And yet, beneath the simplicity of her actions, I sensed the currents of something deeper, something unspoken. A need, perhaps, or a longing for significance. People were like that, weren't they? Forever seeking meaning in places where there was none.

I thought of the alley again, of the man whose blood still lingered faintly on the soles of my boots. His life, his struggles, his cries for help—they had meant nothing. Not to me, and certainly not to the world that had already forgotten him. And yet, as I walked through the city, I found myself haunted not by guilt but by curiosity. What was it that made one life valuable and another expendable? Was it power? Beauty? Or was it simply the stories we told ourselves to justify the things we did?

The thought clung to me like a shadow as I rounded the corner and disappeared into the anonymity of the night.

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[ Detective Michael POV ]

The city seemed to pulsate with its own bleak rhythm as I sprinted toward the flashing red and blue lights. The darkness clung to the alleys like a malevolent force, the air heavy with the damp stench of decay and despair. As I approached the barricade, I fished my badge from my coat pocket, holding it aloft for the officer to see.

"Detective Michael Malzoni," I said, my voice clipped but steady. "I'm the lead on the Homeless Smasher case."

The officer, a young man with a face still unmarked by years of wear and cynicism, nodded and lifted the tape for me to pass. I ducked beneath it and strode toward the gathering of detectives, the sound of my boots echoing off the narrow brick walls. The alley was bathed in the harsh glare of portable floodlights, the scene laid bare in their unforgiving glow.

The other detectives were clustered near the victim, their faces grim and tired. Detective Barnes, a wiry man with a perpetual scowl, glanced up as I approached. His cigarette glowed faintly in the dim light, the smoke curling around his head like a restless specter.

"About time you showed up, Malzoni," Barnes muttered, his voice thick with irritation. "Another one. Same damn pattern. Same damn lack of leads."

I ignored his tone and moved closer to the body, my gaze sweeping over the grisly scene. The victim—another homeless man—lay crumpled on the ground, his face unrecognizable, obliterated by repeated blows. Blood pooled around him, dark and viscous, seeping into the cracks of the pavement like a wound in the city's flesh.

"Anything new?" I asked, crouching beside the forensic team. My voice was calm, though inside, I felt the familiar knot of frustration tightening.

Barnes let out a bitter laugh, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. "What do you think? The bastard's like a ghost. No witnesses, no usable prints, nothing but this goddamn carnage."

Detective Ramirez, a younger officer with an earnest demeanor that hadn't yet been worn away by the job, stepped forward, holding a tablet. "We found faint shoe prints near the body—size eleven, same as the others—but they're partial. No tread pattern we can trace. And the cameras in the area…" He hesitated, his expression darkening. "They were all conveniently out of order. Just like last time."

"Conveniently," Barnes repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "As if this lunatic has the whole city's infrastructure working in his favor. I'm telling you, Malzoni, this isn't just some random psycho. This guy knows what he's doing. He's careful. Calculated."

I straightened, my gaze lingering on the mangled corpse. Barnes was right, of course. This wasn't the work of a mindless killer. There was a method to this madness, a cold, deliberate precision that made my skin crawl. But what gnawed at me more was the utter lack of connection—no motive, no pattern beyond the victims' shared vulnerability. It was as if the killer were preying on the city's forgotten simply because he could, because he knew no one would care enough to stop him.

"Careful or not," I said quietly, "he's leaving a trail. Everyone does, no matter how clever they think they are. He wants us to think he's untouchable, but he's not."

Barnes snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Tell that to the ten victims we've got so far. Face it, Malzoni. We're chasing a damn ghost."

I turned to him sharply, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "A ghost doesn't leave bloodstains and shattered skulls behind, Barnes. He's human, and humans make mistakes. It's only a matter of time."

"Time," Barnes muttered, shaking his head. "How much more time are we supposed to waste? Every second we're out here chasing our tails, he's out there, lining up his next victim."

"Enough!" I snapped, the force of my voice silencing the murmurs of the other detectives. I took a step closer to Barnes, lowering my voice but not the intensity. "I get it. We're all frustrated. But losing our heads isn't going to solve this case. We focus. We dig deeper. If he's as careful as you say, then he's also arrogant. He thinks he's smarter than us. That's his weakness, and that's how we'll catch him."

Barnes said nothing, his jaw tightening as he looked away. Ramirez shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between us. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the case pressing down on all of us.

I turned back to the body, my mind racing. The scene was the same as always, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something here, something we were missing. The killer's brutality was almost theatrical, as if he wanted to send a message—but what was it? And to whom?

As the forensics team continued their work, I felt a cold resolve settle over me. This wasn't just about solving a case. This was a battle, a contest of wills between the killer and me. He thought he could outsmart us, outmaneuver us. But I would prove him wrong. I had to.

The city moved on, indifferent to the horrors it harbored, but I could not. The faces of the victims—beaten, broken, forgotten—burned in my mind, a constant reminder of the stakes. Somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows and despair, the Homeless Smasher was watching, waiting, planning his next move.

And I would be ready.

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[A/N] This chapter is just a preview, to be honest, there won't be updates to it until I can do a full proper plan and have time to write it instead of focusing on my other work.