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Part Two

Despite the newly gained freedoms afforded to the population, the streets are oddly quiet. Perhaps trepidation is still lurking in everyone’s mind. I cruise my usual pathways around the city, seeking out someone worth my time, and come up short. It’s oddly frustrating to find there are fewer people to hunt now that the curfew has lifted, but not in the least surprising. People break rules. And that’s OK because that’s why I’m here. To break them.

Everyone rejoiced when they found the killer, including me. They rejoiced because they finally felt safe. I rejoiced because the city now thought it was safe. Don’t feel too bad for him. He is a murderer, too. He just isn’t THE murderer. But there must only be one so depraved. Disturbed. Evil. More than one would be too much for the delicate disposition of the populus. I’m sorry to tell you there is more than one. There’s more than two. Look around a crowded room. At least one of them is thinking about the things you only see in your worst nightmares. The nature of humanity. Dark at its core.

With a furious sigh, I give up my beat and head towards the nearest sound of heavy bass. Like I said, at least one person there will deserve to see my teeth.

To my delight, I am not wrong. The party had descended into chaos long before I joined it. The room reeks of the sweat of hundreds of bodies crammed into a flat made for two. My giant feet struggle to push forward as they stick to the cheap lino glazed with beer. I sniff the stale air, my keen sense of smell digging beyond the sweat, the alcohol, the lust. Down, down, down until I reach that primal scent. One woman has an overpowering, sickly sweet smell. I avoid her. Not that she wouldn’t be tempting. There is a hint of a sour apple underlayer, which would be enough on a slow day. Another person has the top note of an overwatered cactus. No undertones, though. They are what they are, and they aren’t enough tonight either. I need more. Deeper. Darker. Delicious.

There, that’s it—the smell of rotting fruit. Death-soaked sourness poorly veiled with over-priced, trendy aftershave. I follow the scent around the room, drinking it in as it gets stronger. I pull my nostrils until I am giddy with their scent. Finally, I stop toe-to-toe with the source—a tree trunk of a man with biceps the size of my head. I have to crane my neck up to look at his face - stern, cold eyes but an alluring smile. He’s perfect. Big. Strong. Bit of charm. I do like a challenge.

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