(Warning : 18+ Elements Ahead!)
Chapter 93 : The Hunger
**Gotham City Police Department**
Tommy sat in the child-friendly interview room, his feet swinging just above the floor. His mother Millie sat beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder protectively while the other twisted a tissue into shreds.
A detective sat across from them with her notepad open.
"Tommy," She asked gently, "can you tell me again what happened after you and Daddy left the toy store?"
Tommy's eyes were red from crying, but he'd calmed down enough to talk. He nodded, sniffling.
"Daddy got mad 'cause I was being bad. I wanted the robot toy and he said no and I yelled and... and he yelled back real loud."
Millie squeezed his shoulder. "It's okay, baby. Just tell her what happened next."
"We walked for a while," Tommy continued, his voice small. "Then Mommy came."
The detective glanced at Millie, who shook her head firmly.
"I was at work all evening," Millie said. "I never left the office. My supervisor can confirm it. I have badge logs—"
"I understand, Mrs. Michael," she said. "Tommy, you saw Mommy on the street?"
"Uh-huh. She said she got off work early and wanted to surprise us. She said her boss let her borrow a car and it was parked in the alley." Tommy's brow furrowed, looking slightly confused. "She looked just like Mommy. She sounded like Mommy."
Millie's hand went to her mouth, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
"What happened in the alley, Tommy?" the detective asked.
"Mommy said to sit on the bench while her and Daddy talked. So I did. I sat there and waited."
His voice cracked.
"They were talking but I couldn't hear what they said. Then Mommy turned around and said Daddy & Mommy had to go do something real quick and asked me to wait."
"How long did you wait?"
Tommy shrugged. "I don't know. A long time? Then a police man found us and asked why I was there and he said it wasn't safe and he'd take me home."
Millie then spoke up. "The officer, he called me. He said Tommy was found alone in a courtyard off Haverford Street, confused and asking for his father. When I got there and Tommy told me Michael had gone with me..."
She shook her head.
"I knew something was terribly wrong. I was never there because I never left work."
"We have your badge logs and your supervisor's statement," the detective confirmed. "You were at Gotham General's administrative offices. Security footage confirms it."
"Then who did Tommy see?" Millie's voice rose with hysteria creeping in. "Who took my husband?"
The detective's phone buzzed before she could answer. She glanced at the screen, then stood abruptly. "Excuse me one moment."
She stepped out of the interview room and answered the call.
"Detective, I am calling from the Third Precinct. We got a report from a homeless man about thirty minutes ago—found a body in an abandoned warehouse off Haverford, about four blocks from where the kid was found. White male, mid-thirties, matches the description of your missing person, Michael."
"Status?"
"Dead. Looks like he's been there maybe an hour, hour and a half tops....You need to see this scene. It's... it's not normal. Medical examiner's already on site. The body—something's wrong with it."
"I'm on my way." The detective ended the call and stood there for a moment, gathering herself. Through the interview room's window, she could see Millie holding Tommy, both of them waiting for news that Michael would be found safe.
She'd have to tell them soon. But first, she needed to see the scene.
---
**Five Hours Earlier - Abandoned Warehouse **
Michael woke to darkness and the smell of garbage. His head pounded, his throat ached, and for several confused seconds, he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there.
Then the memories crashed back: the alley, his wife, arms around his throat, choking, darkness—
He tried to move and couldn't. His wrists were bound behind him to what felt like a chair. His ankles were tied to the chair legs. A gag had been stuffed in his mouth.
Panic surged through him. He thrashed against the bindings, but they held firm.
"You're awake. Good."
Michael's head snapped up. In the darkness ahead, candles began to flicker to life one by one. There were dozens of them, arranged in a circle around where Michael was bound.
And in the candlelight, Michael saw his wife.
Millie stood about ten feet away, watching him with an expression of concern.
"Michael," she said softly. "Are you okay? You passed out."
Relief flooded through him despite the restraints. Millie was here. Millie would help. This was some kind of mistake, some terrible—
It was then her face began to change.
It was horrible, like watching a mask melt. Millie's features rippled and shifted. Her nose elongated slightly. Her cheeks hollowed. Her eyes changed from warm brown to cold gray. Her hair darkened and thinned.
Within seconds, Millie was gone.
In her place stood a gaunt bald man with pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones. His gray eyes gleamed in the candlelight. He wore simple dark clothes, and in his right hand, he held a knife.
Michael screamed against the gag, thrashing violently against his bonds. But the sound was useless in this empty warehouse.
"There it is," he whispered. "That first breath of fear. I can smell it from here."
He took a step closer, the knife hanging loosely at his side.
"What do I want from you, Michael?" Cornelius asked softly.
"Why? Why you? Why this?" He gestured at the candles, the restraints, the theatrical staging of it all. "These are good questions."
He circled slowly around Michael's chair, staying just out of reach.
"There are many things I might want from you, sir. Many, many things."
"For instance—your ear!" He pointed the knife at Michael's left ear. "Yes! I might want to slice it off, Michael. Cut it free from your skull, smother it with mayonnaise, and serve it to you on toast! On TOAST, Michael! Can you imagine? Your own ear on toast?"
Michael's breathing came in rapid gasps through his nose, his chest heaving and sweat pouring down his face.
"Or!" Cornelius spun around, his gray eyes wide.
"Maybe it's your nose I want! That fine blob of facial flesh sitting there on your face like a little mountain of cartilage and skin! Yes, your nose! I could take that instead!"
He moved closer, close enough that Michael could see the candlelight reflecting in those empty gray eyes.
"But no," Cornelius said, his voice dropping to something more serious.
"No, What I really want from you is much more..."
He crouched down so he was at eye level with Michael.
"You scared your son today, Michael. Do you remember? Outside the toy store. You grabbed his arm and you raised your voice and you made that little boy—your little boy—feel afraid of you. Afraid of the one person who should make him feel safe."
Cornelius stood, beginning to pace back and forth.
"The Architect taught me something, Michael. He taught me that those who spread suffering must be stopped. That balance demands it. That justice requires it."
His voice was fervent like a mad believer.
"He hunts the obvious monsters in the society like the rapists or the murderers or the sadists!! But I see deeper. I see smaller ones. The fear-spreaders. The people like you who infect their children with anxiety and terror."
"You created fear in your son," Cornelius continued, his knife tapping against his leg as he spoke. "And that fear will grow inside him like a tumor. He'll become an anxious adult. A frightened father. And he'll pass that fear to his children. The cycle continues. Generation after generation, spreading fear like a disease."
He stopped pacing and faced Michael directly.
"But I can break the cycle, Michael. I can cure your son by removing the source of his infection. By removing 'you'."
"Your death will free him from fear. No more scary daddy. No more source of trauma. He'll grieve, yes, but grief is clean. Fear is poison."
Michael shook his head frantically, tears streaking down his face.
"And here's the beautiful part," Cornelius whispered, stepping closer with the knife. "When I remove you from the world, I get to 'feed'."
The knife touched Michael's chest, right over his heart.
"Your fear, Michael. Your pure, unadulterated terror. This is what I truly want. This is what will fuel my psychic powers to remove others like you. Don't you see? It's a cycle. A perfect, wonderful cycle. You create fear, so I harvest your fear to give me strength to stop others from creating fear. Balance!Justice! Purpose!!"
Cornelius's free hand pressed against Michael's chest, feeling the racing heartbeat beneath.
"The gibbering horror that courses up from the depths of your being," he breathed. "The chemical chill that turns your blood into raging fire. The moment when your mind breaks and all that's left is the animal understanding that death is here, death is now, death is INEVITABLE."
His pupils dilated as he felt Michael's terror.
"Your fear, sir, is what I want. And oh, Michael... you have so much to give."
The knife pressed deeper, breaking skin. Michael's scream was muffled but the terror in his eyes was absolute, consuming, total—
And Cornelius drank it in like wine.
The blade slid between ribs expertly. The knife found the space between the fourth and fifth rib, angling upward toward the heart.
Michael's body convulsed. Blood poured from the wound and his eyes were wide, so wide with nothing but terror.
Cornelius withdrew the knife and plunged his hand into the wound.
His fingers found the frantically beating heart and felt it spasming against his palm. With a twist and a pull, feeling the vessels tear, he extracted it.
Michael's body shuddered once, twice, then went still. His eyes remained open, thenfixed on nothing.
Cornelius stood there, holding the heart in his blood-soaked hand, feeling the last tremors of life fade from the tissue. His face was serene.
"Thank you," he whispered to the corpse. "Thank you for your fear. Thank you for your purpose."
The heart stopped moving.
Cornelius then wiped it carefully with a rag. Then Then, almost tenderly, he bit into it.
Blood ran down his chin. His eyes closed, a soft hum slipping from his throat.
It was raw and metallic and perfect.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a smear of red. He then looked at the body again where the expression of terror was frozen forever.
"Wonderful," he said softly.
Then he blew out the candles one by one and walked into the dark, the taste of fear still warm on his tongue.
"For the Architect."
"For justice. For balance."