It was exactly 3:00 AM.

The street was deserted, quiet, and wrapped in a blanket of darkness. Not even a dog barked in the distance. The silence was heavy — like the city itself was holding its breath.

A man walked slowly along the road, dragging a sharp axe against the asphalt. The metal screeched, echoing through the stillness. His face was hidden under the shadow of a hoodie, but his eyes—his eyes burned with rage.

There was no hesitation in his steps. No fear. Only hate.

Suddenly, without warning, he broke into a run.

Ahead of him, another man was running too—his breathing ragged, footsteps uneven. He looked terrified. In the darkness, he couldn’t see clearly. His foot hit a stone, and he stumbled, crashing to the ground with a painful grunt.

He tried to get up, but it was too late.

The man with the axe reached him, stood over him, panting, his chest rising and falling fast. His voice was hoarse and heavy as he said:

"Get ready to go to hell."

The man on the ground looked up with fear in his eyes. His lips trembled as he begged, "Please… please, don’t kill me… I didn’t do anything… I have a family…"

But the killer didn’t blink.

With one swift motion, he raised the axe—and brought it down.

Blood exploded from the man’s neck like water bursting from a broken pipe, warm and thick. It sprayed across the killer’s hands, his hoodie, the cold ground beneath them.

He didn’t flinch.

For a moment, he stood there, staring at the body. Then, slowly, he looked at the blood on his hands. A smile crept onto his lips. He wiped his face with his bloodied fingers, almost proudly—like it was some sort of achievement.

His eyes, which were wild with anger moments ago, now sparkled with calm satisfaction.

Who was he? Where did he come from?

No one knew.

But after this night, things would never be the same.

The killer bent down and searched the dead man’s pockets. He pulled out a phone, ignoring the blood now soaking through his sleeves. Without cleaning the screen, without hiding his fingerprints, he dialed a number.

The police.

He waited for a few rings, then spoke clearly:

"I killed someone. Come and pick up the body. Near [XXX location]."

He hung up before they could ask anything more.

Blood dripped from his hands as he tucked the phone back into the pocket of the corpse. His clothes were soaked. His shoes left red footprints as he walked away.

The place was completely deserted. No one around. No witnesses.

Either this was a well-planned murder, or a perfect coincidence.

And then—he vanished into the night.

---

At the police station

A junior officer, wearing a loosely buttoned uniform, was asleep on a wooden bench, his head resting against the wall. The room was dim, a single fan creaking above.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of the telephone cut through the silence.

The officer jolted awake, frowning. "Can’t even sleep in peace…" he muttered irritably, rubbing his eyes.

He dragged himself to the phone and picked it up with a sigh. "Yes, what now?" he snapped, still half-asleep. To him, sleep was more important than any midnight complaint from the public.

The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm.

“I killed someone. Come and pick up the body. Near [XXX location].”

The officer blinked. "What… what did you say?"

But the line was already dead.

For a moment, he stood frozen. He’d never heard anything like this before. A killer calling the police himself? Giving the location? This wasn’t just strange — it was unnerving.

Something about the voice... the silence...

He picked up his radio.

“Sir… we just got a murder confession. And he wants us to find the body.”