Damien Ward did not move recklessly.
Night_Owl's unsettling plight gnawed at his mind, but charging in without a plan was the fastest route to an early grave.
The first priority was to steady himself and work out a plan—one as airtight as possible.
Especially since the person he might be facing wasn't just another garden-variety serial killer, but potentially someone with… extraordinary abilities.
From the rumors and the condition of the victims' bodies, Buffalo Bill seemed to possess a grotesque blend of strength and technique. Every one of his "works" reeked of cruelty and madness.
And yet Damien didn't think his current idea was insane.
What he couldn't abide was ignorance—being blind and passive before someone like Buffalo Bill.
He needed information.
So, the moment he realized Night_Owl could be in danger, Damien began digging for every scrap of data on Buffalo Bill—public records, police case notes, whispered legends in the darker corners of the net, and the more disturbing sightings buried in private urban-legend chatrooms.
He didn't expect to form the full picture at once. But at least, he could start piecing together the fragments.
Rumors painted the killer as a man in his early thirties, lean but wiry with dangerous muscle. Some claimed he haunted the city's margins, drifting through illegal gambling dens and underground fight rings.
Others said he had once been a mild-mannered substitute teacher, fired after being implicated in a student's disappearance—then vanishing without a trace.
Which story was true was anyone's guess.
As for the name "Buffalo Bill," it came from his signature—skinning victims alive. Nine confirmed killings over the past three years had earned him that moniker, after a yellow-press tabloid dubbed him "Buffalo," and leaked scraps of old identity records hinted at the syllable "Bill." Over time, the nickname stuck—half police slang, half public folklore.
What united the accounts was a shared sense of blood-soaked spectacle. His methods weren't elaborate:
He struck at night, in alleys or abandoned buildings, stunning his prey before dragging them to a hidden slaughterhouse.
He rarely hunted in the same location more than twice. The moment the slightest trace of him surfaced, he slipped away to another forgotten corner of the city.
Police suspected he knew the terrain intimately, using old sewer lines, disused chemical plant tunnels, or abandoned factory corridors to evade pursuit.
Some witnesses claimed he could overpower multiple grown men alone—suggesting he carried illegal weapons. One unconfirmed report claimed he had an antique revolver.
And then there were the stranger whispers—stories of him leaping up to a second-story balcony in one bound.
If even half of those were true, Buffalo Bill might be something far more dangerous than an ordinary killer.
Could someone in this rational world really possess supernatural ability?
Damien took a sip of coffee, deep in thought.
What did he want from Night_Owl? If it was to silence a witness, how had he tracked him home? Did he have some kind of detection skill… or worse, a psychic ability?
No answers. Only fog.
Either way, Damien decided—he would go to District 22's abandoned chemical plant and investigate.
If possible, he would save Night_Owl.
And as for Buffalo Bill—Damien had a ritual that needed testing. And the killer would make the perfect offering.
Preparation came first.
Damien dug out an old camping pack, emptied it, and laid out the essentials: spare clothes, a mask, a folding knife, a pair of work gloves.
The gloves would protect against cuts and improve his grip on the knife.
Next came a Kevlar vest—black-market military surplus that would shield his chest and abdomen.
Over that, he shrugged on a worn coat to conceal the vest's bulk. On the vest's inner panel, he strapped the folding knife upside-down for a quick draw.
Considering the factory's likely stench—chemicals, rot—he fitted a gas mask over his face, the filter fresh from a recent replacement.
When he was done, the mirror reflected a figure in a long coat, eyes hidden behind the crimson lenses of the mask—a cold, faceless shape that could have stepped from a killer's police sketch.
Intimidating enough.
He stored his personal items in an unmarked canvas bag, locked away in the attic closet, then armed his failsafes:
On his phone, he queued a delayed-dial app—two quick presses of the power button would send a prewritten distress text with GPS coordinates straight to the police.
The same program ran on his laptop.
For good measure, he left a note on his desk for the café owner: if he didn't return within two days, call the cops.
All set.
12:12 a.m. Damien steadied his pulse and stepped into the night.
District 22.
The chemical plant loomed under the shroud of darkness. Security lights flickered weakly, casting the hulks of rusted machinery into a stuttering half-life.
Damien had planned to scout the layout first. But his phone buzzed, shattering the stillness.
A text.
Night_Owl:Help me… I just escaped from Buffalo Bill. Twisted my ankle—can't run. I'm in the underground garage, Section A, hiding behind an old cargo van. I think he's still nearby. My phone's about to die… please hurry.
Damien's brows drew tight.
So the forum contact was real. And if his message was true, Buffalo Bill had been here tonight.
No time to waste.
He pocketed the phone and slipped into the plant's lower levels.
The underground was worse—lightless, air heavy with damp. Damien's military flashlight cut through the dark in narrow sweeps. Water dripped from the ceiling, each plink echoing too loudly.
Past rusted railings and cluttered halls, he found the ramp down to the garage. The faded safety sign still read A Section.
It should have held dozens of cars. Now, only a few hulks slumped under layers of dust and cobwebs.
A dying fluorescent tube overhead buzzed weakly. Damien switched off his flashlight.
A faint rustle reached him from somewhere ahead. He crept toward it, unease coiling in his gut.
If the message was true, Night_Owl should be here.
The dim light outlined a shape on the floor. Damien narrowed his eyes until he was sure it moved.
"Anyone there?" he called softly.
Silence. Then, a weak, trembling woman's voice:"Over here… I'm here…"
He hurried over.
A young woman lay crumpled by a battered cargo van—wrinkled office clothes, one shoe kicked off, her ankle swollen and red.
Her face was pale, hair disheveled. When she saw him, relief flooded her eyes."Oh my god… you came. I thought I was going to die here."
Damien steadied her against the van."Don't worry. You're Night_Owl, right? How bad is the ankle—can you walk?"
"It's me," she panted, half-sobbing, pointing to her foot. "I thought I was dead for sure. That monster chased me everywhere. I fell… I can't move."
"Buffalo Bill? Is he still here?" Damien asked.
She shook her head. "I… I don't know. It's so dark. I just ran." She shivered, fingers twitching. "He had me locked up in… in one of the warehouses. If I hadn't escaped…"
Damien kept his voice calm. "Let's get you out of here. We can call the police once we're topside. Can you manage the pain?"
Her gaze flicked to her ankle. "I don't know… every step's agony. But I can't stay here. He's insane…"
She pushed herself upright, leaning into him. Damien supported her weight—
—and froze.
Some flicker in the back of his mind made him stop moving, eyes locked on hers.
"You're brave. Most people would have fallen apart by now."
She blinked, then smiled faintly."Thank you… you're a good man…"
Above them, the flickering light stuttered. The garage filled with the faint hum of electricity.
Damien's tone sharpened.
"You're not Night_Owl.You're Buffalo Bill."