The elevator climbed in silence.
Its soft mechanical hum echoed in the steel chamber, accompanied only by the faint dripping of blood from HeartEater's cloak. The stains had dried black, but the stench of rot clung to him like a shadow.
Ding.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
Penthouse level.
Green Wolf Tower's highest floor loomed before him—opulent, sterile, and quiet.
HeartEater stepped out.
His boots sank slightly into imported carpet, the color of bone. Chandeliers sparkled above like frozen stars. Each breath he drew was filtered, recycled. Too clean. Too artificial.
A palace built to protect rot.
"Welcome to the wolf's den," he muttered behind his gray mask.
Then came movement.
Security men—four of them—emerged from false walls, behind sculptures, from blind corners. Trained. Alert. Rifles raised.
"TARGET SIGHTED!" one shouted. "OPEN FIRE!"
Gunfire erupted like a thunderstorm. Bullets tore into marble and glass. Sparks flashed. Alarms flickered red.
HeartEater moved like a reaper loosed from the veil.
He dove left—one sickle out, slicing a knee in passing. The man screamed as the bone snapped like brittle wood.
The second turned his rifle—too slow.
HeartEater spun low, came up with a rising slash—his sickle tore through face and skull. The mercenary dropped mid-scream, red mist blooming behind him.
"FUCK, HE'S INHUMAN!" someone shouted.
A third tried to run. HeartEater leapt—two boots slammed into the man's spine. He hit the ground and never got up.
The last soldier froze, shaking.
HeartEater approached slowly, like the tide approaching a dying fire.
"Please," the man whimpered. "I—I don't wanna die—"
"You're late for mercy, " HeartEater said, cold as winter. "You stood beside him anyway."
He slashed once. The man collapsed in a red spray, eyes wide and glassy.
Silence returned.
Only the low hum of climate control remained.
HeartEater stood alone in the bloodstained hallway, sickles dripping, cloak fluttering gently as if stirred by unseen winds.
Ahead—two tall ebony doors waited at the end of the corridor.
He walked.
Each step rang with finality.
No more guards. No more illusions.
Only the devil himself behind those doors.
He kicked them open.
A burst of polished air struck him—cold, stale, perfumed with fake lavender.
The penthouse office was massive, floor-to-ceiling windows encasing the skyline. A desk of black marble rested at the center, flanked by sculptures and rare artwork.
And at that desk sat Victor Serrano.
Alone.
He didn't turn.
He swirled a drink in one hand, watching the lights of New York flicker beneath him.
"I always imagined this moment would feel different," Victor said, voice calm. "Darker. More... biblical."
HeartEater said nothing.
"I suppose you want to say something poetic," Victor added, sipping. "Something theatrical before you slit my throat."
The gray mask tilted.
"You don't get poetry," HeartEater said.
Victor finally turned his chair.
And smiled.
"Well, there it is. The infamous ghost. The butcher. I'd offer you a drink, but I assume you're not into whiskey."
"I'm here for your heart."
"Ah." Victor chuckled. "Straight to the point. No last words. That's disappointing."
HeartEater stepped forward, slow and controlled.
Victor raised a hand lazily.
"Hold on. Humor me. I know I can't talk you out of this, but... let's have a little conversation, shall we? You and me. Devil to devil."
"You're not the devil," HeartEater growled. "You're a parasite."
Victor stood slowly, walking to the window. "Maybe. But parasites survive, don't they? Long after the heroes are dead and buried."
"You killed innocent."
"They were tools," Victor said flatly. "Like bullets. Like pawns. I built something real while your kind threw punches in alleys."
"Don't justify murder with industry."
Victor turned, eyes hard. "Why not? You do."
HeartEater stopped.
"I kill monsters," he said.
Victor stepped closer, voice rising with venom. "Bullshit. You kill because you like it. Because when you sink your blades into someone, you forget what it feels like to be a corpse. You're addicted."
A long silence passed between them.
HeartEater's fingers tightened on his sickles.
"You're half-right," he said. "But I remember every face."
Victor grinned. "Still pretending you're better than me."
"You made innocent people scream before they died."
"I made an empire."
"You made war on the helpless."
Victor's smile finally faded. "Then kill me. Do it. Let's see if that emptiness inside you feels full for once."
HeartEater took one step forward.
Victor's hand twitched beneath the desk.
A gunshot cracked through the silence.
HeartEater had barely stepped into the penthouse when the bullet struck.
His head snapped violently to the side as the round tore through his temple, spraying blood across the marble floor in a fine crimson arc.
He staggered, boots grinding against the stone.
Beside him stood the shooter—an enforcer in tactical black, face masked, pistol still raised from the point-blank shot. His hand trembled.
Across the room, Victor Serrano rose from his chair, stunned. "...No way."
HeartEater didn't fall.
The hole in his skull hissed as bone cracked back into place. Flesh wriggled and stretched. Skin sealed itself over the wound like it had never existed.
He rose to his full height, the blank, pale mask slowly turning toward the man who shot him.
"You should've aimed lower," he said coldly.
The enforcer froze—then took a step back.
Too late.
With a single, fluid motion, HeartEater unsheathed one of his curved sickles and hurled it. The blade spun through the air with a whisper.
It buried itself in the side of the enforcer's skull with a sickening crack.
He dropped without a sound.
Victor backed away slowly.
"Freak," he whispered. "You're not human."
HeartEater began walking toward him.
Victor dove behind the desk, yanking up a pump-action shotgun.
He fired.
BOOM!
The blast slammed HeartEater into the doorframe. Wood cracked.
Another shot.
HeartEater rolled. The slug grazed his shoulder, splintering bone.
Victor roared as he fired again. "You think you're justice? You're a fuckin' disease!"
HeartEater rose slowly from the smoke. The wound was already closing.
Victor's face twisted in disbelief.
HeartEater rushed forward, ducked, and slammed the desk into Victor's gut. The shotgun flew across the room.
Victor pulled a knife, slashing wildly.
HeartEater caught his wrist, twisted. The blade clattered.
He struck—once to the face, again to the ribs. Bone cracked.
Victor spat blood and swung with his fist. HeartEater didn't dodge.
He took the punch—and headbutted Victor hard enough to break his nose.
Victor collapsed to his knees, coughing.
HeartEater stepped behind him, hooking a sickle under his jaw.
"You tortured innocence," he said quietly. "This is mercy."
Victor gasped, struggling.
"You'll never stop the machine," he choked. "You'll die alone in the dark. Just like—"
Slash.
A scream.
Blood burst like a fountain as HeartEater's blades tore through Victor's back. The windows exploded as Victor crashed through them.
They fell together.
Dozens of floors.
Victor screamed. HeartEater said nothing.
He drove the blades in mid-air, carving deep—shoulder to spine. One arm locked Victor's chest, the other raised the second sickle.
Shrrrk.
The heart came out, wet and glistening.
Victor Serrano's body hit the street seconds later—smashed, unrecognizable.
But HeartEater never touched the ground.
He swung on a cable, landing on the rooftop of the adjacent building. Kneeling.
The heart pulsed weakly in his hand.
He pulled off the mask.
Bit in.
The city watched, unaware.
Above them all, the butcher knelt, feeding on evil—and growing colder.