Finniferd @finnie-the-man - Tumblr Blog

× show them all you're not the ordinary type ×

You'd gotten away with it. No one had any reason to suspect that all those deaths were related murders, or murders that could be traced back to you, for that matter.

But The Butcher had figured it out. [ronin beaufort x gn! reader.] (yandere if you squint.)

words: 7.2k cw: mild gore, descriptions of corpses, briefly referenced past child abuse, SA, and transphobia a/n: ronin brainworms won this round against indefinite hiatus

"You'll never get it out, you know."

The figure hunched over the lake jolts in shock, clearly startled by your sudden appearance.

They're even more a mess than you initially thought— long black hair tangled with the tips drenched in blood. Their expression is set in a blissful, almost euphoric expression, but their trembling frame, wide eyes, and ragged breathing betray them.

A knife rests on the ground, by their thigh— shining a pristine silver, cleansed of the blood staining the white blouse they've been frantically scrubbing in the lake water.

The first time's always the hardest.

"It's likely set into the fabric already," you elaborate. "White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway."

They continue staring at you, so you stare back at them. They can't be much younger than you, a couple years at most— maybe fourteen or fifteen. With the blouse off, you can make out heaps of KT tape peaking out from beneath their tank top, where the sleeve holes hang too low.

You've heard of this kid before, his existence spoken of by your parents alongside foul, derogatory comments that leave a sour taste on your tongue.

He's gone still. His fingers twitch and inch toward the knife.

"Save it for someone who's a threat to you," you say, and his hand freezes in place. You nod toward the soaked blouse being clenched in his other fist. "Go toss that downtown somewhere. Too much shit happens there. It'll never get back to you."

"Fingerprints?" He asks with a barely-there voice.

You snort. "No one's running prints on something found in a dumpster around there. Just wrap it up in a grocery bag or something so you can't immediately see the blood. It'll be fine."

His eyes narrow at you in distrust. Or suspicion. Probably both.

A smile plays at your lips. "You keep my secrets, I'll keep yours, alright?"

You don't get an answer— just more staring and icy silence.

You turn around, walking to your little garden a few feet away. You reach into your hoodie pockets, producing a pair of medical gloves and a ziploc bag. You slip the gloves on and kneel down, carefully observing the innocuous mushrooms at your feet before plucking them from the ground.

"A few words of advice," you call out as you look over your shoulder. The kid's moved closer to you, knife in hand, yet hesitating.

You hold the mushroom up, twirling it around in your fingers and flaunting it. "Use poison next time. Saves you the time and effort of a crime scene and a body to dispose of."

You stand up, depositing the mushrooms into the ziploc bag and sealing it shut. You ball it up in one of your hands as you shove them into your hoodie pockets, painting the perfect picture of nonchalance.

You give him a once-over. "Or just wear black next time if you like the mess." You shrug. "Can't help you with the bodies, though. They're usually not my problem."

His eyes widen slightly. You laugh.

You salute at him before turning your back on him once again, heading back toward the forest's paved trail. "Be smart. Don't get caught."

You don't think you get a response, but if you do, the gravel crunching beneath your feet drowns it out.

"Read it and weep."

You groan as your friend slaps down a red plus two, giggling at your misery.

"You suck ass, seriously," you mutter as you draw eight cards— whoever invented stacking is going on your hitlist. "After everything I've done for you."

"All is fair in love and Uno, my friend."

"Not your fucking friend right now." You slap down a red skip, ignoring your other friend's loud what did I do? that follows it.

"Oh, how awful," she mocks, "I'm going to be on bad terms with you right before you leave."

Something unpleasant twists in your gut at her words.

It's not her tone or even the statement itself that bothers you— no, you don't really have a problem with moving away. Sure, you tend to keep to yourself, but for whatever reason people see you as approachable, so it's pretty easy for you to make friends.

No, it's the place itself. Elysium is a fairly typical town; neither too small nor a sprawling city, not crime-ridden but having just enough suspicious characters to make visiting certain parts of it after sunset inadvisable.

It's also too close to home for comfort.

But Elysium's coroner's office is the only pathology residency offer you've got where you'll be doing what you want to be doing— examining bodies. So you're deciding to bite the bullet and move back to the midwest, in a state closer to the Bible Belt region you grew up in.

You force a laugh. "I'd be careful if I were you."

You hold up a plus four card, grinning.

"I know how to keep a grudge."

"So what's it looking like, Hensch?"

You and Dr. Hensch— a sweet, bespectacled man who likes to ramble about his newborn grandson in the break room— both give the sheriff an exasperated look.

"You need an expert to figure out that the cause of death is—" He cuts himself off, grimacing at the body. "—blunt force trauma?"

This is the third body of its kind that you've seen since starting at the office two weeks ago: skull caved in from taking a beating, various bruises and woundslittered across all parts of the body, face slashed to the point of disfigurement, and limbs snapped and twisted into odd angles.

It'd been jarring the first time, an impressive feat considering that there isn't much that can rattle you. Almost immediately, Dr. Hensch had sighed and solemnly said, "The Butcher."

It's quickly become apparent to you why Elysium's coroner's office would be willing to take on students needing to fulfill their pathology residency— The Butcher's work makes up a not-insignificant amount of the bodies that turn up, which means those qualified to examine bodies aren't exactly willing to work here long-term. While Hensch's office isn't in Uptown, it still sees its fair share of The Butcher's victims, as the serial killer seems to hop back and forth between districts, stringing his victims up for display wherever he pleases.

"I know that much," the cop mutters, "I meant to ask if you think this is his work."

Dr. Hensch looks even more vexxed. "I think we've both been around long enough to know the answer to that."

Without further discussion, the doctor pulls the cover back over the corpse— a pastor at a local church, one who your coworkers say had been caught cheating on his wife with a high schooler the previous week.

You don't feel sorry for the bastard.

Dr. Hensch clears his throat and makes his way out of the storage room, you and the sheriff trailing after him. "You have my official statement that the victim was killed by a blow to the head and it was the work of The Butcher. I'll perform a more thorough autopsy and have the front send you the records once I'm done."

"Sounds good, Hensch." The sheriff nods at both of you. "Appreciate you for always handling this."

As the sheriff disappears down the hall, Dr. Hensch sighs and mumbles, "What choice have we got?"

He then turns to you, and with what appears to be pity, says, "Unfortunately, you'll have to help me with his victims if you're going to be here the next few years. Do you feel up for it tonight?"

You'd be lying if you said that a morbid little part of you didn't light up at the idea of getting up close and personal with a notorious serial killer's work.

Faking a nervous smile, you say, "Well, what choice have I got?"

The crooning of some pop-punk singer abruptly cuts off as you kill the engine of your car and take a long swig of your coffee, relishing the warmth that coats your tongue.

Two cups in hand, you step out and shut the door with your foot, examining the shop before you. It seems a bit beat down, but in a way that adds charm rather than being a question of the quality of service.

Apparently, Dr. Hensch is having some car trouble this morning and had to have the vehicle towed to the mechanic. It's not that surprising to hear— the man drives a classic car, a bright blue '54 Chevy that he calls his "baby" and parks on the far end of the lot, away from the public's eyes and any other cars that could potentially do any damage to it. Deciding to do him a solid, you offered to stop by the shop and drive him to the office, which he happily took you up on.

You take a brief look around. There are four garages, but only one is open, and you can hear Dr. Hensch's hearty laughter— overlaying what you're pretty sure is death metal— pouring out of it.

The garage is interesting, to say the least. There are macabre posters hung up on the parts of the walls not holding tools, images that are disturbing to the point of being unsettling, but not quite visceral enough to upset customers and warrant a formal complaint to the shop manager. A further look around, coupled with the music blaring from a speaker tucked away into a corner, tells you more about the posters' presence: various animal and human skulls and fake, foam replicas of intestines and inner organs— the likes of which you would use for Halloween— are used as decor, livening the place up in a peculiar way. The yellow overhead lighting ties it all together, casting a dingy hue that leaves you feeling like you just stepped onto the set of a 90s slasher film.

Hensch's beloved Chevy sits in the center of it all, hood propped open as the mechanic tinkers with something inside. Immediately, your eyes are drawn to the blasphemic tattoo plastered onto his forearm, trying to make some sense of its meaning.

Hensch calls your name, snapping you out of your momentary distraction. "Ah, you made it!" He gets up from the metal chair placed beside where the mechanic's working and crosses over to the garage's entrance. He eagerly reaches for the cup you hold out to him, exclaiming, "And you brought coffee!"

You give him a smile that's getting less polite these days and more genuine. "Of course," you say, handing it off to him. "How's your, uh, baby?" You peer around him to look at the car again, trying to catch a glimpse of what's happening beneath the hood, and promptly freeze.

The mechanic is staring at you, rather intensely.

Before you can even really register it, his features have smoothed over, and whatever emotion was lurking in his eyes is guarded behind a smirk.

Hensch gestures to the car, beaming brightly as he does. He's far more energetic here than he is at the office, but you suppose that might have to do with the lack of corpses. "Just a little problem with the transmission, but she'll be as good as new tomorrow morning!"

"That's good," you say with a nod. "Will you need a ride tomorrow, too?"

"Oh— for the next few days, if it's not too much trouble for you! Wouldn't want to make Tilda call in late the whole week." Hensch turns to the mechanic, eager smile still fixed in place. "You said you'll have her fixed by Friday, right, Ronin?"

The mechanic— Ronin— grins lazily, spreading his arms wide across the hood.

"'Course I will," he says, answering Hensch but still eyeing you. "She's got some problems, but she'll be good by the weekend."

The doctor glances between you two, then lets out a little "ah!" before clearing his throat. "Where are my manners?" He gestures enthusiastically to the mechanic, saying, "This is Ronin, the best mechanic in town. Only person I trust my baby with."

He then turns back to Ronin, giving him a formal introduction to you. He ends it by placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, humorously saying, "This is my partner-in-crime for the next three years."

"Crime, huh?" He tilts his head slightly, drawing your gaze to the mess of dyed magenta hair framing his face. "You must be really into dead bodies like Doc, then."

You scrunch your nose— that's not quite how you'd put it, but to each their own. You look pointedly around the room before answering, "Based on your, uh, decor, I could say the same to you." Your face falls a little bit. "Very tame compared to the real thing, though."

There's something sharp in the smile he gives you. "Touché."

"Yes, well, I'm very grateful for that. I see enough viscera as it is," Hensch mutters. He then turns to Ronin, sheepish. "Not that I don't appreciate our chats."

Ronin shrugs it off. "Happy to help ya get things off your chest, Doc. Can't be good to keep all that to yourself."

You look to Hensch with a raised brow. "You don't seriously tell him—"

"Hey, hey, it's fine!" Hensch quickly defends himself. "Ronin's into all that slasher horror gore stuff and the like." He chuckles. "All you young people are these days!"

You frown. You're pretty sure that it's pretty illegal of him to be recounting the autopsies of The Butcher's victims to his favorite mechanic, but you suppose it's not a huge problem. The guy is probably just a forum freak who's a little too into true crime.

"If you say so." You glance back at Ronin, still feeling slightly unnerved by his gaze. "Nice meeting you."

"Pleasure's mine, darlin'." He smiles a bit wider, canines glinting in the lighting. "Don't be a stranger. Any friend of Doc's is a friend of mine."

You huff out a laugh. "I'm not hoping for any car trouble, but I'll keep that in mind."

As you and Hensch get situated in your car, the doctor grins at you, something a bit teasing evident in it. "You should stop by again," he says in an almost sing-song way, reminiscent of the way a school girl would talk to a close friend. "I think you two would get along just fine."

You hum noncommitally, flicking the radio back on. "I'll consider it."

It's far too early for this.

You yawn into the back of your hand as you throw your car in park and step out into the cool morning air. It's 4 in the morning, and the office had blown your phone up just about 40 minutes ago, stating that they need both you and Hensch to come in immediately.

Apparently, The Butcher had a mini-spree last night; three bodies were found in the local park at around 2:30 in the morning, and the cops want the autopsies and official reports as soon as possible. According to a leading detective, the cause of death might not be The Butcher's norm of blunt force trauma or assault by sharp object, but they need an expert opinion to confirm it.

Hensch sidles up beside you as you make your way toward the entrance. "Well, I wish I could tell you this doesn't happen often, but I'd be lying."

You pull the door open, holding it for him. "Early mornings, or The Butcher spicing up his MO?"

"Early mornings," Hensch says. Something passes over his face, and a bit despondent, he asks, "Am I a bad person for looking forward to examining these bodies?"

If the detective is right, it'll be the first time in a long while that The Butcher has decided to shake things up— you can't blame him for being excited over it, especially when he's been dissecting and analyzing the killer's work for years now.

"I wouldn't say so," you answer. "Enthusiasm means you'll do a better job. Consider it doing right by the victims' families."

Hensch gives a terse laugh, but doesn't agree with you or comment further.

You two are flanked by some senior cops the second you set foot in the office, three of them trailing you and Hensch as you make your way toward the morgue.

"Detective Juano says the usual beatings aren't severe enough to have actually killed the victims this time," one of them speaks hurriedly, catching Hensch up to speed. "She's pretty sure it's something else this time."

Hensch hands you a pair of gloves as you reach the morgue entrance, slipping on a pair of his own. "What else could it possibly be?"

The cop shrugs. "That's why we called you, Doc."

He huffs. "Well, yes, I suppose so."

The bodies are already laid out on three tables when you enter the morgue, covered by the same thin plastic white sheet you've gotten used to seeing over the past two months. Hensch approaches the one nearest to him and carefully pulls the cover back until the whole body is exposed.

Without further investigation, you're already raising an eyebrow.

The detective is right— the lacerations and bruises littering the body are far tamer than anything you've seen from The Butcher before, and many of them seem to have been done post-mortem.

But what catches your attention is the hue painting the victim's skin yellow— jaundice, a common symptom of liver failure.

Hensch uncovers the other two bodies, revealing them to be in the same condition.

"Curious," the doctor says, shaking his head as he peels back an eyelid, revealing shockingly yellow eyes. "We'll have to run toxicology. Are these victims significant in any way?"

"Not in the community, but maybe to The Butcher. Juano's looking into it."

"Of course," Hensch says distractedly, still examining the bodies. "She's always been on top of things."

You walk up to one of the bodies, observing the dark rings around the wrist and ankle area.

"Seems they were bound," you say to Hensch, then turn to the cops. "Have any other victims ever been held over a period of time?"

"Never," one of them answers. "That's what has us thinking it's personal."

You scrunch up your nose. Hensch had joked about hoping The Butcher was taking a vacation when no new corpses turned up over the weekend— turns out he was just toying with his victims this time around.

Hensch inspects the bodies, turning the limbs this way and that. "Injuries were likely acquired when they were initially kidnapped, to keep them restrained," he says to the room. "The lacerations, on the other hand, were carved post-humously."

"Standard," one of the cops mutter. "But why are they yellow?"

"Jaundice. Liver failure," you answer, poking at one of the bodies yourself. "We'll have to wait for the toxicology report to see exactly what it is, but—" Your words abruptly cut off as your hand brushes against the man's coat pocket, feeling something inside.

You look up at the cop to your left, slightly alarmed. "Something's in there."

With furrowed brows, the cop pulls on a glove and reaches into the pocket. Growing even more confused at whatever he feels inside, he pulls out his hand to reveal whatever is inside.

The hairs at the back of your neck stand on end as you stare at the item he twirls around in his hand.

Surveying the room, he asks, "A mushroom?"

"Amanita phalloides," you murmur, the name stirring the pit of your stomach. "Better known as the death cap, the deadliest mushroom in the world."

The cop pales and stares at his partner with wide eyes.

"I'll go get an evidence baggie from the car." She points at him. "Put that down and scrub your hands real good."

The male officer looks between you and Hensch, frightened.

"You should definitely wash your hands, but it's only deadly if ingested. You'll be okay," you reassure.

The officer nods and strips the gloves off his hands, rushing off to the sink in the corner of morgue.

Hensch peers down at the mushroom, now sitting by itself on a sterile tray. "Peculiar. He's never played around with poison."

Bile bubbles at the back of your throat. It's a coincidence, but one that grinds on your nerves nonetheless. "Guess there's a first time for everything."

The other officer returns, baggie in hand. "Did a quick Google search outside," she says as she hands the bag off to Hensch, who carefully tucks the mushroom inside. "This strain isn't native to this part of the U.S."

You hum and shake your head. "Would it be so surprising for a serial killer to be buying poisonous mushrooms off the dark web?"

She sighs. "No, I guess not." She nods at you Hensch. "I'm gonna run this back to Juano. This changes things, big time. We'll be back in a few."

"Toxicology will be back by then." Hensch waves them off. "See you soon."

As the door slips shut behind them, you ask, "What do you think, Doc?

He scans the bodies, eyes glimmering with concern and excitement. "I think it's indeed personal. If not the victims themselves, certainly the method."

A chill runs down your spine. You reach for a clipboard to get the report started, muttering under your breath, "Let's hope not."

"Fancy runnin' into you here."

You look up from your phone as someone slides into the empty stool beside you. Slipping off his hoodie and draping it across the back of his chair, Ronin greets you with a devilish grin.

"Hensch's favorite mechanic," you say, setting your phone done on the counter in front of you. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Insatiable hunger." He reaches for one of the menus stacked up on the racks. "Five-car collision on the freeway today and bossman gave 'em all to me. I'm fuckin' starving."

You whistle low. "Tough. How's Hensch's baby, by the way? What was wrong with her?"

"Fine now. Found an engine leak, but there was also a problem with the electrical. It's 6-volt so gettin' the parts was a real pain in the ass. I told him he should just switch over to an alternator already, but he—" Ronin pauses when he sees the stark blank look on your face. He leans forward teasingly and asks, "You gettin' all that, darlin'?"

You huff out a breath and turn away from him, trying to hide your flushed cheeks from his view. "I don't know why I asked," you say, reaching for your drink. "I don't know anything about cars."

He props his arm against the counter and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. His body is fully turned toward you, and having his undivided attention would probably be a little more flustering if you didn't find his gaze so unnerving— and familiar, in a way you can't quite place.

"Let's talk about somethin' you do know about, then. How's Doc doing?"

You laugh at that. "Fantastic. Having the time of his life."

"What's the occasion?"

You side-eye him. "I'm not big into the business of discussing the autopsies of murder victims with strangers."

"Who said we're strangers?" Humor glints in his eyes, but you don't know what's funny. "He already blabbed to me about The Butcher switchin' things up. That what you're talking about?"

You sigh. If he's gonna hear it from Hensch anyway, you suppose there's no harm in him hearing it from you.

"Yeah. Keeping his victims for a prolonged period of time and using poisonous mushrooms on them now." You swirl your straw around in your drink. "Cops think it's personal, but there's no link between the victims, so." You shrug, taking a sip.

"What do you think?"

"What do I think?"

"That's what I asked."

You blink at him. "I'm not into criminology or psychology or anything like that. I don't have anything to say about his MO or why he's switching it up."

Ronin clicks his tongue. "Surely the ones up close and personal with the bodies have somethin' to say. Doc always does."

"Hensch has been doing this a lot longer than me. I haven't been around long enough to really comment on the sudden interest in toxins."

"Bummer." Ronin nods at the waitress as she sets a cup of coffee down in fron of him, then focuses back on you. "Doc said you know a lot about the poisons being used."

"I did a report on poisonous fungi in my final year of undergrad," you lie with ease. "There were a lot of wild mushrooms where I grew up, so it's always been an interest of mine."

Something in his gaze shifts, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The unease from the garage has returned full force. "Yeah? What kind of poison is he using?"

You look up, pretending to think as an excuse to break eye contact. "Amanita phalloides, the death cap; conocybe rugosa, the fool's conecap; and amanita bisporigera, the destroying an—"

Your breath hitches. You hadn't given the mushrooms used too much thought, given that they were all commonly known poisonous mushrooms, but saying them together, in order, finally has the pieces snapping together in your head.

Ronin tilts his head. "Something wrong, darlin'?"

You shoot to your feet. "I, uh, I'm not feeling well." You shove your hand into your jacket pocket and toss some cash out on the table to cover your meal and the tip. "Sorry to cut things short. See you around."

You turn around abruptly— and crash into a waiter briskly walking toward a table across the room.

You gasp as a grape soda tips off the tray in his hands and spills all over your shirt and part of your jeans. The waiter scrambles to balance the tray before more glasses or plates can slip off of it.

You pick the plastic cup off the ground and put it back on the tray. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I—"

The waiter smiles, and you relax a bit. "It's fine don't worry about it." He gives you a once-over, and hisses through his teeth. "Sorry about your shirt."

As the waiter heads back to the kitchen to fetch another soda, you look down at your shirt and sigh. Unfortunately, you'd decided to wear white today.

"Damn it," you mutter. "This is one of my favorites, too."

Beside you, Ronin laughs. You're not sure if it's just because you're already on edge, but it sounds different from the other times you've heard it— a little more edge to it, maybe even a little manic.

"Yeah, that's gonna leave a pretty nasty stain. Might have to throw it out." His dark eyes gleam under the diner lights.

"White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway."

You feel like you're going to throw up.

The moment you'd been anticipating for days was finally upon you: The Butcher's next victim had just been transported to the morgue, and it was time to see what mushroom he'd selected this time.

What you'd realized is that, thus far, the mushrooms and the order in which he'd used them lined up with the ones you'd used for your own spree nearly a decade ago.

Amanita phalloides. Slipped into a salad and used to poison the person who'd relentlessly bullied and beat you since kindergarten.

Conocybe rugosa. Blended into your abusive father's morning veggie smoothies over the course of several weeks.

Amanita bisporigera. Shredded finely into stringy bits and slipped into the soup a teacher who'd gotten far too touchy with you had packed for lunch.

Galerina marginata. Ingested by a boy you'd liked in high school, one who you found out was just sleeping with you as a joke and saying horrible things about you to his friends. You two had been out on a "date" in the forest, and you'd started the game of daring each other to eat the random leaves, berries, and mushrooms around. He had no idea that you'd personally grown what you dared him to eat, and being the idiot that he was, he'd eaten three of them to "impress" you.

He died in the emergency room three days later.

He hadn't told his friends he'd be seeing you that day, so the police concluded that he was just a stupid teenager doing something ill-advised.

Angelwood's hospital and nearest medical examiner weren't the most competent, so the only other person who's declared cause of death was mushroom poisoning had been your father. But because he was an "organic" health nut who often drank unpasteurized milk, the doctors and police chalked it up to him not doing proper research on the newest addition to his diet.

You'd gotten away with it. No one had any reason to suspect that all those deaths were related murders, or murders that could be traced back to you, for that matter.

But The Butcher had figured it out. He hadn't started using poison in his murders until you showed up, and it was in the specific order you'd used them, too.

Lightheaded and nauseous, you watch as Hensch pinches the corners of the white blanket draped over the body and peels it back.

Your heart falls through the floor.

The man lying on the table is around your age, but bears a striking resemblance to the boy you'd kissed and killed in high school. His lifeless eyes are yellow and his wrists and feet appear to have been bound like the rest of the recent corpses. The lacerations and carved symbols typical of The Butcher litter the entire body.

What immediately has you, Hensch, and the cops in the room recoiling is the man's face. The skin of his face and part of his neck are a bluish-purple. His jaw has been snapped out of place and hangs low, stretched down to the middle of his neck. Various mushrooms have been shoved into the gaping hole that is his mouth, likely going all the way down his airway.

Hensch clears his throat and shakes his head. "Well, seems this one might be asphyxiation, but we'll still get a tox screening done." He turns to you. "Any idea what our fungus friends are this time?"

With a trembling voice, you answer, "Galerina marginata. The funeral bell."

One of the cops laughs humorlessly. "Fitting."

A hand comes down on your shoulder, startling you. Detective Juano offers you a kind smile as she pats your shoulder soothingly.

"Why don't you step out for this one?" She asks. "This can be a lot for anyone, and you're still just starting your residency."

"N-no, I—" You clamp your mouth shut when you voice breaks, and swallow thickly, trying to steady yourself. "It's fine. I've been okay the past three months, I'll be fine now."

"It can catch up to you." Juano sighs. "Look, there are times where even I have to hand this case off to someone else for a few weeks to save my own sanity. No one thinks any lesser of you for taking a breather."

"Please feel free to step out." You turn to Hensch, who is watching you with pitiful eyes that make your skin crawl. "This was a lot for me in the beginning, too."

You take in a shuddering breath and realize you're on the verge of hyperventilating. Stripping off your gloves and tossing them into a bin, you nod. "Yeah, sure. Alright. Thanks. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, dear." Hensch gives you a sad smile, then picks up a pair of scissors and starts hacking away at the corpse's shirt. He's dressed in all white, and the parts of his clothes which had stuck to his lacerations are stained pink and red.

White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway.

Ronin's words echo in your head as you step out of the room. Sure, you'd heard him say it just the other day, but had you heard them somewhere else before?

Your brows furrow as you drop into a seat in the break room and bury your face in your hands. Had you heard them before, or had you said them?

"Be smart. Don't get caught."

You slowly lift your face from your trembling hands as the memory of the lake, the rushing water, the body, and the boy come back to you from the depths of your mind.

"Who said we're strangers?"

You're fully hyperventilating now.

Keeping your steps as quiet and controlled as possible, you peer around the corner. The window slit on the door to the morgue shows that Hensch, Juano, and her team are all still preoccupied with the most recent victim.

You turn around and rush across the hallway toward Hensch's office. You know he has a drawer filled with business cards he's collected "just in case" he's in need of a specific service— you'd say there's pretty good odds that he has one for his favorite mechanic.

Stumbling into the room, you rush for the side of the desk with four drawers and reach for the smallest one sitting on the top. You pull it open and curse under your breath when you're met with a sea of cards, haphazardly tossed inside the drawer and unorganized.

Eyes rapidly looking between the drawer and the door, you begin rifling through it, pushing cards you've already glanced at to the side and flipping through the rest.

A black card with a skull on the front of it catches your attention. You pick it up and flip it over, reading the contact info on the back.

Ronin Beaufort, Mechanic

You drop the card back into the drawer and slam it shut.

Your father's voice carries across time, ringing through your head. "And stay away from that Beaufort kid. Don't need you getting any funny ideas about degeneracy."

"Oh my god," you wheeze out, pressing the palms of your hands against your eyes. "Fuck. Fuck."

Juano is down the hall. You can tell her the identity of the man she's been hunting down for years now. You can get him arrested, get him locked up before he can get to you—

But you don't have proof. You don't have proof unless you confess to your own crimes, and even then, it's all hearsay at this point.

You sob into your hand. Your heart is racing in your chest, and the noose around your neck is getting tighter and tighter by the second.

You need to leave Elysium. Tonight. You'll email Hensch, telling him it was all too much for you and you're probably gonna look for a coroner's office near a retirement home. You don't care if you have to repeat a year of schooling— you won't live long enough to get your degree and certification if you stay in this hellhole.

You step out into the hallway. There are still voices coming from the morgue, so you rush out the back entrance, sucking in a deep breath of the cool night air as you shove the door open.

In a haze, you rush into your car and turn it on. As you peel out of the parking lot, you spiral further. Is it even wise to go home? Who's to say he's not waiting for you there right now?

You grip the steering wheel tighter and abruptly switch lanes. New plan: you'll go to the bank, pull out some cash, and drive the whole night until you can find a place to crash. It doesn't matter what you have to replace, you're not going back to your apartment ever again.

The stoplights and headlights blur together as you drive to the bank. It's an odd hour in the early morning, but Elysium never really sleeps. There are a few cars that pass by here and there, but not enough to have you feel the safety of being in the public eye.

The sound of your car choking snaps you back to reality.

Your eyes go wide and you throw on your hazards as your car begins to jerk, sputtering to a stop. Heartrate picking up again, you look down at the dashboard.

Your check engine light is on.

"No." You turn off the car and turn it on again, punching the gas to no avail. You repeat this process, growing more hysterical as it continues to fail. "No, no, fuck, come on. Come on."

Slamming your hands on the steering wheel, you bite down hard on your lip to prevent yourself from openly sobbing. You bury your face into the wheel, taking deep breaths to steady yourself and figure out what to do next.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your heart freezes in your chest.

Tap. Tap.

Barely lifting your head from your hands, you peek at the rearview mirror.

Someone in a hockey mask is standing behind your car.

Tap.

Nearly ripping the thing off its hinges, you open the glove compartment and take out the pistol tucked away inside. You scream and fling yourself out the door as something slams into your back windshield and shatters it.

You take off running down the street, clicking off the safety as you go.

The footsteps behind you are heavy, but rapidly approaching. As you reach an alleyway, you turn down it then spin around to face the entrance, raising your gun.

The figure rounds the corner, and you fire.

Click. Click.

With trembling hands, you pull the trigger again.

Click.

It's jammed.

Your pursuer starts laughing, and it crescendoes until the manic sound echoes throughout the whole alley.

Ronin pushes his mask half to the side, slinging his crowbar across his shoulders as he starts approaching you at a leisurely pace. His visible eye catches the light, and the same euphoric expression from all those years ago is still present, only honed into something far more sinister a decade later.

"Car fact for ya, darlin'." He says, gaze lazily following you as you scramble away from him. "Putting diesel in your car can clog the injectors and make it stall once it runs out of gas."

"Get away from me," you utter in response, arm falling pathetically to your side.

He laughs again, a low chuckle this time. "Sorry, sorry. Was the last one a little too much for ya? I might have gotten carried away with the jaw, but the guy was just screamin' way too much and I had to shut him up."

"You—" You stumble over a pipe. "You're insane."

"Pot meet kettle." He moves to point the end of his crowbar in your direction, and your heart skips a beat as he starts to take bigger steps. "You're the one who told me to not wear white or get caught, babe. Or did you forget about little old me?"

You laugh, hysterical and frightened. "I am nothing like you. You're a goddamn serial killer."

"Pretty sure more than three constitutes a spree. Shall I welcome you to the club? Throw you a little party?"

"Oh, fuck off," you snap. "I didn't kill innocent people!"

"Is anyone truly so virtuous to be completely free of sin?" The crowbar is dragging against the ground now, and the set of shoulders screams danger. "Everyone's got something festering beneath the surface. You'd know."

You back up some more, and to your horror, your back meets a wall. Sucking in a sharp breath, you blink away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Want ya to humor me." He taps the ground a few times as he walks, then says, "You stopped."

"Stopped?"

"Poisoning people."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, 'cause I'm not a lunatic who gets off on killing people for no reason."

Ronin chuckles again. "I've got just as much a reason as you do." He's close now— too close. "Y'know, when you showed me your little garden that day, you looked so fuckin' giddy."

He stops right in front of you. He lifts the crowbar and presses it against your throat and leans in.

"I wonder," he murmurs into your ear, "if you had the same look on your face when my first gift to you turned up."

Gift. Your stomach drops.

"Doc said you were real excited," he continues, and you wish with everything in you that he wouldn't. "Maybe even more than him."

You'd been excited over the opportunity to flaunt your knowledge to the man overseeing your residency, to hopefully secure yourself a paid position after completing your schooling. You weren't excited to see another murderer putting the methods you'd once used into practice. The stomach flips and racing heart you experienced were nerves at how similar the killings had been to your own, not excitement at the sight of yellowing skin and memory of the bone-deep satisfaction you felt watching your father flatline or looking down at your fling's corpse at his public viewing. It was not a smaller, dimmer version of the euphoria you'd glimpsed on Ronin's face all those years ago.

"I wasn't, I just—" You clench your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms. "Hurting the people who hurt me is what made me happy. It's got nothing to do with just hurting people."

"But it fascinates you, doesn't it? The way it passes for a stomach bug, deceptively making someone feel like they're gettin' better while it destroys them from the inside." He giggles. "Others might not have noticed, but I did. You followed Adam around a lot the day before he died. You got off on it, didn't you? You reveled in knowing he was dying and had no idea."

You ignore the thrill that zips down your spine at the memory. It's just a shiver, because you're trapped in an alleyway with a serial killer— it's nothing else.

"It's just because he hurt me," you whisper weakly.

"Far less than the others," Ronin prods, "and long after them, too. Did you actually resent him that much, or were you just looking to scratch that itch one last time?"

"Shut up." You screw your eyes shut. "If you're gonna kill me, just fucking do it already."

"Kill you?" Ronin giggles again, finally taking a step back. "Nah. Us Angelwood kids gotta stick together, right?"

You narrow your eyes. "But I know your identity."

"If you were gonna snitch to Juano, you would've done it before you tried leaving." Ronin's smirk stretches into a wide, disquieting smile. "You take me down, you go with me. Ain't that romantic?"

You shove at him, but he doesn't budge. "Then what do you want?"

"I want ya to stick around." He moves the end of the crowbar to rest under your chin, and uses it to tilt your head up, your eyes meeting his directly. "I'll tell you what, darlin'." Something shines in his eyes with the madness. It's not bloodlust, malice, or anything of sort.

It might be something like hope, and somehow, that's even worse.

"You keep my secrets, I'll keep yours, alright?"

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Finniferd