New York City. Late night. Cold, cruel, and quiet—until it wasn't.
A time when fear had a name—No-Face.That's what the city called him. Not the media. Not the cops. The people.Because no one had ever truly seen him. Every witness ended up dead or mad. A serial killer who moved like a ghost, struck like a scalpel, and vanished without a trace.The American Jack the Ripper? Please. No-Face was worse.
And then, he appeared.
A man, drenched in blood, stumbling through the fluorescent buzz of Times Square. He looked like a nightmare crawling into reality. His mouth moved nonstop, muttering, whispering, reciting something over and over like a cursed mantra.
A woman bumped into him, startled. "Sir… do you need help?"
He didn't answer. Just kept murmuring.But when she looked down at his hand, her scream shattered the air.
Because he was holding a severed human head, gripped by the hair like a trophy.
"I killed them all… I killed them all…"Again and again. Unblinking. Unhinged.
Panic detonated across the square. Screams. Phones. Gasps. The crowd surged away like a wave pulling back before a storm.
A nearby officer sprinted toward the scene.He froze in place when he saw the head. Saw the blood. Saw the look in the man's eyes.
In seconds, the man was arrested, slammed to the ground, and cuffed. He didn't resist. He didn't flinch. Just kept muttering.
Back at the precinct.
The air inside the interrogation room was thick—tense enough to choke on.The man sat alone, twitching, his fingers trembling as he tore off his fingernails, one by one, digging into his palms like he was trying to scrape away a memory.
Outside the glass, two officers watched in stunned silence.
"That poor woman," one said."Yeah… but the guy whose head he took? Jesus."The first officer squinted at the man. "Look at him. You'd expect a psycho to look proud, but he's…""…He's not calm. He's terrified."
Inside, the bloodied man kept muttering, twitching, and sweating bullets.
Then the door opened.
An older man, in his sixties, stepped in—stoic, stone-faced, with a voice like gravel. He sat across from him.
The young man didn't lift his head.
"What's your name, son?" the old man asked, gently.
A pause.
"...Damien. Damien Cross."
A beat. Then the old man leaned forward.
"Do you know why I made you kill that man?"
Damien's breath caught. That voice… wasn't the same.
His head snapped up.
The old man was gone.
In his place sat a man of Damien's age, with a smile that didn't belong on any living being. It stretched too far. Eyes empty. Face wrong. Like something wearing human skin.
Damien's ears started ringing. His vision twisted.His hearing faded like static, replaced by the screeching wail of an alarm clock growing louder.
He stared. The more he looked, the less real the room felt.
Until suddenly—
GASP.
Damien jolted awake.His heart was pounding. His bedsheets were soaked in sweat.It was just a dream.
Or... no.It wasn't.
It was a memory. A flashback.A scar in his mind that still burned.
TO BE CONTINUED…