Chapter 29: The Breaking Point
Victor Zsasz hadn't slept in three days.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces. All different, yet somehow the same. The same concerned expression. The same warning delivered in that identical manner. The same impossible knowledge of his most private habits.
He paced his apartment like a caged animal, his scarred hands running compulsively through his greasy hair.
The walls were covered with newspaper clippings, photographs, and red string connecting various points—a madman's attempt to map a conspiracy that felt too vast and too precise to be coincidence.
The psychological torture had escalated beyond the simple repetition of warnings.
Yesterday, he'd gone to three different stores across the city. At each one, a different cashier had commented on his "usual" purchases—energy drinks, protein bars, disposable phones. Items he'd never bought before at any of those locations but was his actual purchase list elsewhere. Yet they all insisted he was a regular customer, even producing "loyalty cards" with his name on them that he'd never seen before.
The gas station attendant had asked about his "collection."
The pharmacy clerk had inquired about his "art project."
The grocery store manager had wished him luck with his "psychological research."
Every interaction felt like a needle under his skin—sharp, precise, and somehow wrong, as if each one was slowly destroying his sense of reality.
Someone was orchestrating this. Someone was inside his head, predicting his movements, manipulating his environment without his knowledge.
But who? And how were they staying ahead of him?
Zsasz grabbed his laptop and pulled up the video of Alex Thorne's television appearance for the hundredth time. That smug face filled the screen, lips moving with arrogance as he dismissed serial killers as "broken minds seeking attention."
"Pathetic," Alex had said with that clinical smile. "These individuals convince themselves they're artists, philosophers, agents of some greater purpose. In reality, they're just damaged children throwing elaborate tantrums because mommy and daddy didn't love them enough."
The words hit like physical blows every time Zsasz heard them. This academic pretender, this soft-handed theorist who'd never taken a life, dared to mock the purity of his work? Dared to reduce his artistic vision to mere psychology textbook analysis?
Zsasz's hands began to shake—not with fear, but with rage so pure it felt like molten metal in his veins. How dare this pretender say he is an amateur?
He was Victor Zsasz. He was death incarnate. He was the artist who turned screaming flesh into beautiful silence.
No more wait. No more research. Zsasz snapped.
Zsasz swept the conspiracy materials off his table and spread out a new map—the Gotham University campus. Time for planning was over. Time for games was finished. Tomorrow, he would take Alex Thorne and give me a hands on lesson in reality.
The psychology consultant wanted to study criminal minds? Perfect. He could examine Zsasz's methods from the inside out, one cut at a time, until he understood the true meaning of suffering.
Zsasz pulled out his collection of blades, each one honed to utmost sharpness. He ran his finger along the edge of his favorite knife—a thin, flexible fillet blade perfect for precise work. A drop of blood beaded on his fingertip, and he smiled for the first time in days.
"Let's see how smart you are when you're tied to my table, Dr. Thorne," he whispered to the photograph on his laptop screen. "Let's see how much psychology helps you when I start removing pieces."
He began to pack his tools with ritualistic care.
Only a fresh kill will extinguish his urge and paranoia.
Outside his apartment window, perched impossibly on a fire escape five stories up, Alex Thorne watched through the grimy glass. His enhanced hearing had caught every muttered word, every scrape of metal against metal as Zsasz prepared his instruments.
The serial killer's psychological breakdown was proceeding exactly as planned. The paranoia, the rage, the desperate need to reclaim control—all of it was pushing Zsasz toward the precise moment Alex wanted him to strike.
Tomorrow, Alex would allow himself to be "kidnapped." His Plan is become Zsasz singular obsession has worked and the finale is set. And then, when the killer was at his most confident, most vulnerable, most convinced of his superiority...
Tomorrow, the Architect would teach Victor Zsasz the difference between an artist and a god.
Alex smiled in the darkness and began to plan his own performance. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.
Notes :
1) It's a relatively short chapter compared to the others. Sorry about that, but I hope you still enjoy it!
2)This behaviour of Zsasz is called 'Displacement' in psychiatry. Its a sort of defence mechanism in which you redirect feelings like anger from a threatening target to someone weaker/inferior than you.
2) The coming chapters will be dope. You can guess the punishment for Zsasz below, I wont spoil it. But I promise its going to be satisfying as fck. XD
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10 Advanced chapters & substories available on patre*n
DC : Architect of Vengeance
patre0n*c*m/Lord_Meph1sto