New York City, June 19, 2003
Between midnight and hell, the city breathed in static and fog—restless, trembling with darkness and whispered despair. The stars had vanished behind a polluted sky. Beneath it, the streets teemed with filth, forgotten souls, and unspoken secrets. Sickly neon lights flickered above slick alleyways, damp with old blood and fresh sin.
New York no longer pretended to be clean. Justice—once worn by blue uniforms and courtrooms—had been sold off, shattered, discarded. But beneath that wreckage, a disturbance began to stir—not from light, law, or mercy. No badge, no name, no morality. It crept from the shadows—an abomination of blood, betrayal, and unanswered prayers.
A ghost shaped like a man. Ancient. Vengeful. Not seeking redemption—only judgment.
Tonight, unlike countless other nights swallowed by the city's apathy, belonged to the shadow that struck back. This is no tale of heroism, but the prologue to retribution.
In a dark alley, tension hung thick. A man in an expensive suit dragged a little girl, her screams piercing the silence—desperate, powerless. No one came to help, as usual.
But tonight was different. The air tensed, as if holding its breath. From above, heavy footsteps broke the stillness.
Under the streetlight, the man froze. His grip tightened, instincts screaming danger.
Then—from the rooftop—something fell. Not a leap, but a drop like death itself. The figure landed with a dull thud, its shadow stretching long and grim. The form was vague, barely human. A silhouette that carried dread… as if chaos itself had arrived.
He wore a light gray tactical suit threaded with black. A long tattered cloak billowed behind him, with flickers of orange visible—like a predator born from nightmare. Twin sickles curved from his belt, and his utility belt was lined with grotesque tools: glass capsules filled with thick orange fluid.
His mask was featureless—no mouth, no nose—only two demonic orange lenses split by a scar that never healed. He said nothing, yet his presence screamed judgment.
The man laughed nervously, throwing a knife toward the shadowed figure. It sliced through the air, but it never reached its target.
Angelo (gritting his teeth, voice shaky): "What the hell…? Who are you? Some kind of vigilante freak?"
HeartEater didn't flinch. His stillness was absolute, the silence between them deafening, as if the very air held its breath.
HeartEater (his voice a cold whisper): "Clowns wear smiles. I wear silence."
The man's hand shook, the blade suspended in midair as if it were caught in time itself. The shadow didn't move. It just stood there—waiting.
Angelo (his voice rising in panic, backing away): "You better back off. I've got friends, real ones. You touch me, you're a dead man."
HeartEater's head tilted slightly. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his cold, lifeless gaze as he took a slow step forward, each movement deliberate, as if time itself had already judged the man.
HeartEater (his voice dead calm): "You already died. The day you sold her."
Angelo froze. His breath caught in his throat, confusion clouding his eyes as he tried to process the words.
Angelo (stammering, desperate): "What—what are you talking about?! I didn't do anything!"
HeartEater didn't move. His silence was more terrifying than any threat. The shadow he cast swallowed the alley in dread.
HeartEater (voice flat, deliberate): "You bought her like a toy. Paid in cash. Then spilled blood to hide it."
Angelo's face contorted, fear breaking through his bravado. His voice cracked.
Angelo (desperate): "Listen—I didn't know! I swear, I didn't know how young she was!"
HeartEater stepped closer, slow and unstoppable. Each step felt like a tolling bell.
HeartEater (quietly, but sharp as a blade): "Ignorance isn't innocence. It's camouflage."
Angelo backed into the alley wall, breath heaving.
Angelo: "Please… I've got a family. Kids. You kill me, you're no different than me—you're just another monster!"
HeartEater tilted his head ever so slightly, the orange glow of his lenses narrowing like a beast honing in on wounded prey.
He inhaled, slow and deliberate—like something ancient tasting the air.
Then he spoke, voice low, rough with contempt:
HeartEater: "You reek of lies… like rot beneath perfume."
(beat)
HeartEater (colder): "And the difference between us? I don't beg. I end."
Panic flared in Angelo's eyes. He fumbled inside his coat with his remaining hand and pulled out a folding blade—small, but sharp. The metal caught the faint streetlight as he held it up with trembling fingers.
Angelo (screaming): "Screw you! I'll gut you, freak!"
HeartEater (calm): "Try."
Angelo lunged.
In a flash, the air split with a hiss of steel. HeartEater's sickle arced once—clean, precise. There was a wet crack as the blade sliced through tendon and bone.
The knife clattered to the ground along with Angelo's severed hand, twitching beside it like a discarded glove.
Angelo: "AAARGH!! MY HAND! YOU PSYCHO!!"
He collapsed to his knees, shrieking in agony, cradling the stump as blood poured freely, steaming in the cold air. The alley smelled of iron, fear, and something darker—inevitable judgment.
HeartEater stepped closer, grabbed him by the hair, and forced Angelo's face up to the dim light. His own face remained hidden behind that blank, soulless mask—orange eyes burning.
HeartEater (quiet, final): "You're not screaming because you're innocent… You're screaming because—for the first time—you're not in control."
Angelo: "P-please... I'm sorry! I made a mistake!"
HeartEater (leans in, voice colder than steel): "You didn't make a mistake. You made a choice."
With one swift motion, HeartEater raised his sickle and severed Angelo's head from his body. The sound of it hitting the ground echoed through the alley. Blood sprayed into the air, dark and thick, before it rained down onto the dirty concrete.
The girl, frozen with fear, had been watching from behind a dumpster, her small body trembling as she quietly whispered to herself. She saw HeartEater, the demon from the shadows, turn to face her.
Little Girl (trembling): "A-are you… are you gonna kill me too?"
HeartEater turned slowly, his presence like the chill of death itself. His mask was still featureless, a cold, unblinking gaze. He didn't speak immediately, but when he did, his voice was distant, almost lifeless.
HeartEater (turns slowly, voice distant): "No. You're not the one who stopped screaming."
The girl, too frightened to speak more, choked out a single word, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Girl: "Th-thank you..."
HeartEater's cold gaze stayed on her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured toward the darkness of the alley, his voice a quiet command.
HeartEater (pauses, then gestures to the dark): "Run. Before the next one comes."
The girl, with one last look at the carnage, turned and fled down the alley. HeartEater didn't chase her. Instead, he knelt beside Angelo's lifeless body, slowly drawing his sickle from the belt again.
He stabbed the blade deep into Angelo's chest, his sickle cutting through flesh, muscle, and bone with precision. He reached into the cavity and pulled out the warm, still-beating heart.
With a terrible hunger, HeartEater removed his mask. Long gray hair fell around a ruined, horrifying face—skin stretched and torn across bone, skeletal grin with jagged teeth. His eyes glinted with a madness that had no end.
Driven by endless hunger, he bit into the heart, tearing into it with savage hunger. Blood poured from the still-warm organ, but it would never be enough to satisfy the beast.
One bite. Another. A third.
And finally, the last, devouring the final piece of the heart.
Satisfied? No. Hunger was never truly sated.
The night was still long, and more hearts would cry out.
As he replaced his mask with a hiss, the world dimmed again, swallowed by shadow. The orange lenses clicked shut with finality, hiding the horror behind a cold surface.
This was only the beginning.
His first night.
His first victim.
There would be more. Every night, he would return—tireless, merciless, hunting the rotten, the wicked—those who hide behind lies.
No soul is safe.
Not if their heart has rotted.
He will find them.
He is already watching.
This is only the beginning of the story.