TW: Gore/murder, face ripping

The butler moved with a terrifying elegance, the bells on his neck and shoes ringing softly as if mocking the carnage. His long braid trailed behind him, fluid and menacing, almost like a panther's tail swaying just before the pounce. His dark suit, impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb the dim light of the warehouse, making him appear almost spectral.

With an unnerving grace, he leapt toward the first man. His arms plunged into the attacker's chest with a sickening crunch, the sound of bones snapping and lungs collapsing echoing through the cavernous space. The man’s eyes widened in horror, mouth agape in a scream that never came. The butler twisted his arms, pulling them free with a sickening squelch, and the body crumpled lifelessly to the ground, a crimson stain blooming on the concrete floor, as the butler held pieces of flesh and ribs in his gloved hands.

Another attacker charged, panic evident in his every step, but in one fluid motion, the butler vaulted over the man, landing in front of him with the silent grace of a predator. His hands grabbed the attacker’s face with a brutal force, fingers digging into skin and bone, right through his face beside he eyes. With a sharp, decisive yank, the butler ripped the man’s face clean off, leaving behind a grotesque, faceless figure that staggered momentarily before falling in a heap. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, the faceless man twitching, still alive.

He moved from one victim to the next. With each jump, his form became a blur of dark fabric and jingling bells, plunging his arms through torsos, crushing ribs, and shredding vital organs without hesitation. The air was filled with the wet, sickening sounds of bodies being torn apart, the crunch of bone, the tearing of flesh, the gurgling of dying breaths.

Every kill was perfect and precise. No wasted movement. No hesitation. The only sound that could be considered calming in the violence was the soft, rhythmic jingle of the bells on his clothing.

You could only watch in stunned silence as the butler continued his onslaught, his braid flicking through the air like a whip, his lithe figure weaving through the bodies. The once-confident attackers were now nothing more than mangled bodies littering the floor, their lives snuffed out by the cold, ruthless efficiency of the man.

His shoes, clicked ominously against the cold warehouse floor as he sprinted towards his next target. Even as the gunfire rang out around him, he moved without fear, the man who fired the shot barely had time to register that he had hit his mark—the bullet embedding itself in the butler's arm—before the puppet was upon him.

Despite the wound, the butler didn't falter. The injury only seemed to fuel his relentless killing. He tore through the air, lunging at the shooter with chilling speed, and with a single, fluid motion, he plunged his hands into the man's face again. Skin and bone gave way under the puppet’s powerful grip as the man's face was peeled away, revealing nothing but blood and sinew. The man let out a strangled, gurgling scream before collapsing, lifeless, as his mutilated body hit the ground.

Another man attempted to flee, but the butler’s bells jingled ever closer. The man turned, frantic, and raised his gun, but it was too late. With a graceful leap, the butler landed atop him, his boot planted firmly on the man's head. There was a brief pause, the bells momentarily silent, before a sickening crack echoed through the room. The man’s skull shattered beneath the butler’s heel like a fragile egg, blood splattering in all directions as his body convulsed, eye and brain mixing as they leaned out off his eye and ears and then went limp.

The butler’s unblinking gaze of a mask shifted to the next target, a man too frozen in terror to move. He tried to scramble back, but the butler was already there. This time, he didn’t use his hands. He didn’t need to. His claws extended from his gloved fingers, gleaming under the dim lights of the warehouse

Without hesitation, the butler lashed out, his claws slicing cleanly across the man's throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, painting the floor in a violent arc. The man collapsed, clutching at his throat in a futile attempt to stem the torrent of blood, his eyes wide with disbelief as life drained from his body. The single black eye of the mask seemed to widen in mock surprise, as if enjoying the spectacle of the man's demise.

The butler's eyes remained cold, dispassionate, as he stepped over the body. He was more machine than man, a deadly puppet with one purpose: to kill. Even when another bullet struck him, this time in the leg, he didn't slow down. His movements were tireless, almost mechanical. He leapt into the air once again, bells jingling, shoes clicking, and claws flashing as he descended upon his next victim like a grim reaper.

Blood stained his sleek outfit, but it didn’t matter. The air thick with the stench of blood and fear. The gunfire, the sound of bones cracking, and the soft jingle of the butler's bells. You clutched the gun tighter, sweat beading on your forehead as the butler continued his onslaught, tearing through the men like they were nothing.

Suddenly, someone grabbed you from behind, pressing a gun to your temple. "Stop!" the man screamed, his voice shaking with desperation. "If you don’t back off, I'll blow their brains out!"

The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the gun pressed hard against your head. You could feel the cold metal against your skin, your pulse quickening as panic surged through you. But the butler didn’t stop. Instead, he turned his head slowly towards you and the man, his expression as blank and cold as ever. His bells jingled softly as he raised one hand, a glint of something sharp in his fingers.

The man behind you tensed, his grip tightening on the gun. “I swear, I’ll do it!” he shouted, his voice cracking.

Without a word, the butler flicked his wrist, and the object in his hand—a thin, gleaming tube—whistled through the air with deadly precision. Before the man could react, the tube lodged itself deep into his eye. A horrific scream tore through the warehouse as the man stumbled back, clutching at his face, the gun falling from his hands. Blood poured from the wound, his body convulsing as he collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

The butler approached him slowly, his bells ringing with every deliberate step. He crouched down beside the man, his head tilting slightly as he watched the man’s suffering with eerie indifference. The single black round eye on the mask seemed to focus intently on the man's pain, as if absorbing every detail of his agony. Then, with a methodical calmness, he began to twist the tube deeper into the man's skull, his bells jingling as the man’s screams grew more desperate.

It was a slow, torturous process. The man’s body jerked and flailed, blood gushing from the wound, but the butler’s grip never wavered. His cold eyes remained fixed on his victim, as though he were savoring the kill.

This was a massacre, and even without seeing his face, you knew he was enjoying it, prolonging pain. The action seemed to embody the very essence of that twisted pleasure.

Walden, blood dripping from his side, growled from across the room, clutching his wound. His eyes, however, still gleamed with amusement as he watched the scene unfold. But as the man’s screams started to fade, Walden winced, his injury beginning to take its toll.

Walden, clutching his side where blood oozed from his wound, growled through clenched teeth, “Enough, Ysio... I’m injured. Let’s go.”

Ysio paused mid-action, his hand still wrapped around the tube lodged in the man's eye, his bells jingling faintly in the deadly silence. For a moment, you weren't sure if he would stop. Then, with a deliberate calm, Ysio released the tube and stood, his expression unchanged. But before stepping away, he lifted his foot and stomped on the man's head, crushing it with a sickening crack, an eye popping out of its socket. Blood and bone splattered beneath his heel. The smile on the mask seemed to widen with a perverse delight as the man's skull shattered.

You stood there, frozen, watching the man’s body twitch one last time before going limp. The warehouse was eerily silent now, save for the occasional jingle from Ysio's movements. Walden grimaced, his face pale with pain as he leaned against a nearby crate for support.

Ysio turned and approached Walden, his movements smooth and unhurried, as though this massacre were nothing more than routine. Without a word, he reached out and helped Walden up, gripping his arm with surprising gentleness given the violence he had just unleashed.

The brutality, the sudden shift from calm to carnage—it left you stunned, not the bodies no, you were used to that. But as Walden winced and grunted, clearly struggling to stay upright, you snapped out of your trance.

Without thinking, you rushed to his other side. “I’ve got you,” you muttered, sliding your arm under his to help support him. Walden gave you a brief nod of appreciation, though his focus was clearly on staying conscious. Together, you and Ysio guided him toward the exit, leaving behind the bloody scene that had unfolded in the warehouse. Ysio seemed to watch you as you helped Walden, as if observing your actions with a detached curiosity.

Moving through to a parking lot with only three cars, you chose the most non conspicuous one. The three of you moved in silence, your and walden's breaths heavy as Ysio expertly hotwired a car without a word. You were tempted to call the police, but Walden quickly shut that idea down with a firm “No,” his voice a mix of pain and authority.

The ride back to the inn was tense, silent except for the low hum of the engine. Walden, still pale from blood loss, leaned back in the seat, grimacing every so often, while Ysio drove effortlessly, his eyes fixed on the road as though he'd memorized every turn and corner. You didn’t even question how he knew where to go—his presence felt too unnerving for that.

As the car pulled up to the inn, you noticed the flashing lights of police vehicles. Solaria was standing outside, arms crossed, talking to an officer. His eyes widened as soon as he spotted the car.

He talked to the cops more, it's took them exactly 15 minutes to leave as solaria pretended to get a call probably. After that, he stormed to the car anxiety ridden and shaking

"Where the hell have you all been?" Solaria demanded, rushing over as Ysio parked. His tone was exasperated, but there was an undercurrent of concern, especially when he saw the state Walden was in.

Ysio stepped out first, casually brushing off a piece of flesh that had clung to his sleeve, completely unfazed by the chaos left behind. He then glanced at Solaria with a detached indifference, acknowledging his presence before dismissing him as irrelevant. Solaria’s expression shifted to confusion as Ysio walked right past him.

“Who the hell is that?” Solaria asked, baffled.

Ysio ignored him entirely. You followed after, helping Walden out of the car as Solaria continued to gape.

“Who is that?” Solaria asked again, his confusion only deepening as he stared at Ysio’s retreating form. The butler didn’t even slow down, gliding up the steps of the inn as if nothing had happened.

Walden, still leaning on you for support, grunted and waved dismissively. “He’s... my butler,” he muttered between breaths. “Ignore him"

Solaria didn't buy it but dropped it "the cops-"

Walden grimaced as he leaned more against you. “Don’t bother,” he muttered under his breath, shooting a glance at the police officers. “I’ll handle them.”

True to his word, Walden would later bail out the situation, anonymously paying off the authorities to ensure their silence. No reports. No investigations. The crime would be wiped away from official memory, just another unfortunate event buried under the weight of wealth and influence.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The next day, you found yourself back at the warehouse. You weren’t sure why, maybe a morbid sense of closure or some lingering guilt, but something drew you there. Yellow police tape fluttered in the wind, sectioning off the scene as investigators picked through the remains of the fight.

A police officer stumbled out of the warehouse, his face pale and his hand trembling as he leaned against the wall to vomit. The brutality of what had happened here had clearly shaken even the seasoned officers. You didn’t blame him. The bloodied corpses, the broken bodies—they were enough to churn even your stomach, though you’d seen worse now.

Standing there, watching the chaos from a distance, you couldn't help but think of Ysio.

The bodies, mangled and broken, lay scattered across the floor. The air heavy with the stench of blood.

Standing there, watching it from a distance, you couldn't help but think of Walden. Why was he like this now?  Encouraging killing to his helper?  What of the men killed?  They were husbands, fathers, sons...  You stood in front of the police tape, your foot hitting something.

 A wallet. You picked it up, the leather was soft and worn. Inside, a family picture: a smiling man with a woman and two children the one whose head was crushed underneath that Butler's boot.  You walked away, the image seared into your mind.

You sat near a garden, the scent of roses and lavender  contrasting to the stench of blood that clung to you.  You stared into space, the world around you blurring into a hazy, indistinct landscape.

You didn't even cry

Even

When another part of you died.....

.....again...