After that night, Samuel couldn't stop thinking about it, "his first kill"
The way it had felt.
The way it had excited him.
He began to research.
He spent hours in the dark corners of the internet, studying cases of serial killers, how they worked, how they avoided capture.
He read about the art of manipulation and torture, the psychology of victims, the mistakes killers made that led to their downfall.
And most importantly, he learned that a true predator does not act on impulse.
A true predator plans.
And so, he did.
Samuel began selecting his next target with precision.
The mentally ill had been easy.
Forgettable. Disposable.
But now, he wanted something more personal.
Someone people would notice.
Someone who would send a message.
Her name was Amanda Salgado.
A high school student, well loved in the community. The kind of woman who volunteered at church events and knew everyone's names.
She was kind. She was innocent.
And she was perfect.
Samuel watched her for weeks, noting her routine.
Every evening, she left the church at 7:30 PM, walked a few blocks to the market to buy some vegetables, and then took a tricycle home.
Her pattern never changed.
And that was her mistake.
The night he struck, it was raining light but steady, the kind that made people rush home, their heads down, too distracted to notice anything unusual.
Amanda had just left the market, balancing a plastic bag of groceries in her arms, when Samuel pulled up beside her in a rusted tricycle.
"Miss, need a ride?" he asked, his voice warm, and polite.
She hesitated, but the rain made her decision for her.
"Yes, thank you," she said, stepping inside.
She never made it home.
Samuel drove past her street, deeper into the outskirts of town, along the dark dirt road behind the old cockpit arena. Nestled among the cornfields lay an abandoned family property a nearly dilapidated house.
"Wait, this isn't—"
The blade was in her left shoulder before she could finish her sentence.
A sharp, calculated strike not deep enough to kill instantly, but enough to silence her.
She gasped, her hands clawing at the wound, blood spilling through her fingers.
Samuel leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear.
"I want you to know this isn't personal," he murmured.
She whimpered, her body convulsing as the life drained from her.
Samuel watched, his pulse steady, his breath even.
It wasn't like the first time.
This time, he was in control.
And it was perfect.
Ananda's body was found the next morning, in the town plaza dumped just beside the statue of Jose Rizal
Her hands and feet were bound with nylon rope, her eyeslids were cutted open in terror.
And on her left shoulder a stubbed wound with precision.
The town of Bantayan erupted in fear.
The mayor called for stricter curfews. The police swarmed the streets, desperate to find a lead.
And Samuel?
Samuel watched from the shadows.
The way the town trembled. The way his father looked helpless for the first time in his life.
And for the first time, Samuel felt alive.
This was just the beginning.
And Bantayan was his playground.