The next day, Daemon utilized one of the cars owned by the Silver Inn to return to the cartel hideout. Despite being in a different vehicle from the previous night and lacking tinted windows, he was allowed entry without issue.
Inside the corridors there were several cartel members stopped him to inquire about the events of last night, like the whereabouts of the others members, and especially Jason. However, Daemon ignored their questions and proceeded towards the commander's room.
Upon entering the commander's room, Daemon looked around he room like he was looking for something or for someone specific. "Where is he?" he muttered to himself, referring to the Whisper. "He said he would meet me here," he added aloud.
"He better not have lied to me... I'll wait," Daemon declared firmly.
As he waited in the commander's room, Daemon decided to meditate. It was something he hadn't attempted since his rebirth, and now he felt the need to regain control over his emotions and possibly gain insight into what he had missed during his recent journeys.
Seated cross-legged in the dimly lit room, Daemon felt the cool air contrast with the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, his hands rested lightly on his knees, palms upturned in a gesture of openness, yet his fingers started to tremble ever so slightly.
His scar on his chest served as a memento of his past life, a constant reminder of his mortality, and it throbbed with a dull ache. Each pulse seemed to echo the emotional pain he carried. With each breath, Daemon attempted to calm down the storm raging inside him, seeking peace in the silence of his meditation.
But memories flooded his mind, unwanted and vivid. They crashed like relentless waves against a rocky shore. Slowly he closed his eyes, then he tried to block out the haunting images that threatened to overwhelm him.
Why did fate lead me here? Was it mere chance, or is there a higher design at play?
With each deep breath, Daemon sank deeper into the recesses of his mind, where memories unfolded with vivid clarity. He found himself back at the age of twenty-two, strapped to a cold metal chair, frozen in terror as he witnessed his mother, Emily Voss, being assaulted by a group of hooded figures. Emily was a nurse known for her kind and gentle soul, was now the target of cruel and evil intent, inflicted by these anonymous assailants whose faces were remained hidden.
Daemon's heart raced as he relived the scene, the feeling of helplessness overwhelming him once again, he desperately wanted to intervene, to shield his mother from harm, but he was immobilized by physical restraints and the crippling fear that gripped him as he was weak he was beaten everyday to halfway dead, so he could do nothing but watch in pain as his mother endured the brutal assault. Her cries for help echoed in his ears haunting him incessantly.
Day after day, the torment continued. Emily a woman who had never harmed anyone but tried to do good, was subjected to relentless beatings and assaults by the assailants who surrounded so looked rich and poor men both young and old. Daemon struggled to comprehend why this was happening. He had always been a quiet, unassuming individual, keeping to himself and causing no trouble. What could he have possibly done to provoke such cruelty towards his beloved mother?
So Why?, Why?
...
Back in the present moment, Daemon's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white as his heart pounded loudly in his chest, resonating like if it was audible to the outside world. Tears welled up in his eyes, it was a rare display of vulnerability for someone who usually kept his emotions tightly controlled. The pain of loss and the weight of guilt for not being able to save his mother weighed heavily on him.
"Emily" His mother name whispered like a prayer on his lips, a beacon of light in the darkness of his memories. He recalled her smile, the warmth of her embrace, shattered by the cruelty of fate.
Looking down at his hand, Daemon momentarily saw it transform into a skeletal form, but when he blinked, the illusion vanished, leaving behind only his clenched fist.
Amidst the darkness of his thoughts, a flicker of determination ignited. He had come a long way since the day his mother was brutally taken from him. Over few days, he had sharpened his skills, amassed power and influence, and control alliances that would serve his quest for revenge but he realized he was still to far.
"Anything... I will do anything to hasten my revenge," Daemon declared aloud.
With a deep breath, he gradually regained control over his emotions, his tremors subsided, and the sweat on his brow began to dry. Opening his eyes their steely resolve reflected the inner strength that had guided him through his fight.
His chest scar of his past would forever be etched into his soul, reminders of the pain and loss he had endured. As he rose from his meditation, Daemon accepted that these memories would continue to haunt him, but they would not define him.
Weakened by the emotional turmoil, Daemon made his way to the bathroom, he took a shower, letting the warm water soothe his tense muscles, and brushed his teeth. Afterwards feeling refreshed and composed, he returned to the commander room.
When he arrived back, he saw Jason sitting on a chair just at the sight of him suddenly filled him with an uncontrollable rage, he marched over and grabbed Jason by the collar, lifting him into the air.
"Where did you go?" Daemon demanded, his voice deep with anger.
Jason was shocked into silence, he realized the gravity of the situation and knows he needs to provide a compelling reason to appease Daemon's anger and avoid physical harm as he saw Daemon raised his fist threateningly. "I needed to confirm my suspicion," he blurted out quickly,
"Suspicion? What suspicion? That's no excuse for leaving me!" Daemon shouted.
Jason swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Daemon's anger bearing down on him like a suffocating shroud. "About... about the skinned vampire," he finally blurted out.
"Explain," Daemon demanded.
"Well, there's this serial killer called The Butcher," Jason began.
...
While Jason struggled with the sight of the cartel member's gouged-out eyes, he knew leaving him was inevitable, the man's warning about a tougher life ahead and the imminent arrival of ER Police compelled Jason to reluctantly depart.
He instructed his men to secure the vehicles and returned alone to the hideout. From there he made his way back into the city to a shop named Buch's Butcher Shop.
Arriving late at night, the shop appeared deserted with its lights off. Jason cautiously approached, quietly picking the lock on the front door and then another leading to the kitchen. Beyond that, a ladder descended into darkness where he heard muffled screams.
Descending into a dimly lit room, Jason saw a man wearing a bloodied rubber apron. The sight turned his stomach as he noticed multiple skinned human figures hanging by hooks, the Butcher, a man Jason had heard about only in whispered rumors and chilling tales, was every bit as terrifying as described.
What drives a man to such depths of depravity? Is it madness, or something darker?
The Butcher's presence seemed to fill every corner with an oppressive aura of violence. His eyes, gleaming with a mix of madness and satisfaction, scanned over the rows of skinned victims hanging from hooks.
'The Butcher is a sadistic and power-hungry killer who rose to infamy through his brutal and unforgiving methods. Born into a crime-ridden neighborhood, Armand quickly learned that strength and fear were the keys to survival. He began his criminal career as a low-level enforcer for a local gang but quickly ascended the ranks due to his ruthless efficiency and lack of moral restraint.' Jason though
As he scanned the room, the grotesque scene included skinned vampires, which puzzled Jason. 'Why skin vampires? Aren't you afraid?' he wondered silently.
Suddenly, the eyes of one of the hanging vampires snapped towards him, followed by muffled sounds that alerted the other victims.
Every fiber of his being urged him to flee. 'I have to leave quietly,' Jason panicked, trying not to draw attention.
The constant muffled noises irritated the Butcher, who responded with a roar, slamming his knife down and severing the legs of a nearby victim. Their screams pierced the air, yet the Butcher paid them no heed, scanning the room as the skinned figures fell silent in fear.
Carefully, silently, Jason edged backward, his heart pounding in his ears. The Butcher's attention was fixated on his grisly work, the sound of his victims' agonized cries echoing through the room. Sweat trickled down Jason's brow as he navigated the maze of hanging bodies, still being careful not to make a sound.
Just as Jason reached the ladder leading back to the shop above, a floorboard creaked beneath his foot. His heart sank as the noise reverberated through the room, cutting through the stifling silence like a knife. He froze, his breath was caught in his throat, he started praying that the Butcher hadn't heard.
For a tense moment, the room fell eerily silent. The Butcher paused in his gruesome task, his head tilting slightly as if listening for any intruders. Jason held his breath, his entire body tensed with fear and anticipation.
Then, with a sudden roar of fury, the Butcher turned on his heel, his knife flashing in the dim light. His eyes, burning with rage, scanned the room, searching for the source of the noise. Jason's heart raced faster as the Butcher's gaze swept perilously close to where he stood hidden in the shadows.
In a desperate bid to remain unseen, Jason held perfectly still, willing himself to blend into the darkness. The Butcher's intense scrutiny passed over him, and with a guttural growl, he returned to his victims.
Jason shoulder relaxed but he knew he couldn't linger, so he climbed the ladder with cautious haste, his movements quick and silent not to make noise, finally emerging back into the shop above, he carefully locked the doors behind him, ensuring no evidence of his intrusion remained.
Outside, the night air felt suffocating, heavy with the weight of what he had witnessed. Jason's mind raced as he hurried away from the butcher shop.
...
"The Butcher is a solitary killer. He had no reason to attack vampires unless he's getting too bold," Jason stated firmly his voice carried the weight of his concern.
Daemon absorbed Jason's words, his mind started racing with the implications. 'The Butcher... he doesn't sound like an artist. He must have had enough practice to execute his work so precisely,' Daemon thought to himself. "Are there any other serial killers operating in the city?" he asked.
"Yeah, just a few. Besides the Butcher, there's another one who works alone they call him the Silence," Jason replied as he started adjusting his shirt nervously.
As Daemon contemplated Jason information, when a sudden voice interrupted his thoughts. "What's going on here?" came the sharp inquiry, causing both Jason and Daemon to turn abruptly to face the unexpected intruder.