Damien Ward pushed open the heavy wooden door of the café.
The shop sat tucked away in a quiet alley, the streetlamps outside casting pools of dim amber light. In the distance, he could hear the faint buzz of a flickering sign tube from the convenience store at the corner, and farther still, the low metallic hum of a streetcar sliding along its rails.
Inside, the air was empty save for the lingering scent of coffee. Behind the counter, the owner was bent over, polishing a coffee pot. Hearing the door, he glanced up at Damien."Back already?"
"Yeah. Back," Damien replied, flipping the "OPEN" sign at the entrance to "CLOSED." The owner gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment before returning to his work.
Damien had been working part-time at this café for nearly six months now. Since getting into university, he had been living alone in the attic space the owner provided.
The parents of this body—his current body—had died in that accident eight years ago, and what little inheritance they'd left had long since run dry.
Fortunately, Damien had few demands for comfort, no particular hopes for the future. He had grown used to drifting through life like this.
He passed through the café's narrow aisle, sidestepping chairs with practiced ease, and climbed the creaking wooden ladder to the attic.
To call it an attic was generous—it was little more than a small room partitioned from the uppermost floor with wooden boards.
The space was dark. Damien groped for the switch on the wall, and the bare incandescent bulb flickered to life. The cramped room was crammed with odds and ends:
In one corner, burlap sacks of coffee beans stamped with foreign lettering. Against the wall, an old, battered table cluttered with books and notes he'd forgotten to put away, alongside a weathered laptop.
Damien flipped open the laptop and, as usual, logged into a bookmarked anonymous chatroom—one he checked almost daily.
Ark·Abyss — a haven for fringe occult enthusiasts.
Its members posted and discussed urban legends and supernatural encounters—anything from seeing a headless ghost dancing under a streetlight, to recordings of phantom footsteps in abandoned hospitals.
"Saw a headless ghost clubbing""Footsteps with a cane on the 3rd floor of the old hospital at midnight""Admin's dinner tonight: instant noodles with an egg"
Most of the time, Damien lurked silently.
Tonight, a new post notification blinked. He sipped from the mug of instant coffee the café owner had left him and clicked on the thread.
Title:Sighting Report at the Chemical PlantAuthor:Night_Owl — a name that rarely appeared in the chat.
Night_Owl: "Not sure if I should even post this… but even now, I'm still chilled to the bone."
"Something happened tonight, near the abandoned chemical plant in District 22. The place is creepy even in daylight—no streetlights, no people."
"I was just passing by. I'd heard the rumors about strange things happening there, so I thought I'd take a look. That's when I noticed the back door of the building was ajar… just a sliver, like someone had recently gone in or out."
"It was late—dead quiet. My nerves were already on edge, but curiosity got the better of me. I peeked inside. The corridor was pitch-black, but far ahead, something flickered. I thought it was a flashlight… except the light was odd, pulsing irregularly."
"I held my breath and crept closer. That's when I heard it—shhhk-shhhk—a slow, sticky tearing sound. Almost like flesh being pulled from something. Every so often, there was a muffled grunt… or maybe a faint moan. I can't explain it, but the hairs on my neck stood straight up."
"The smell was worse. Rot… but with something chemical in it. Made me gag."
"Then I heard footsteps. Heavy, steady, slow. I panicked and ducked behind a stack of old plastic drums and rags near the doorway."
"A figure emerged. Tall, thin, wearing a worn-out coat. One hand held a woven sack that dragged along the floor, rattling with a dull clatter."
"His lips moved as he walked, muttering something—words I couldn't catch. A chant? The rhythm was strange, but steady."
"I didn't move until he was long gone. I ran all the way home. I couldn't sleep until just now. And when I looked up some things earlier, I got more and more convinced—if that was really 'Buffalo Bill,' then he might be active again…"
"I regret going there. I'm probably going to have nightmares for days. If anyone here lives in this city, please—stay away from District 22 at night. I'm not joking."
Damien leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
The name Buffalo Bill was infamous in urban legend circles—a serial killer mythologized into something almost unreal. The stories claimed he skinned his victims alive and stuffed moth eggs into their mouths.
The police had never identified him. Some doubted he existed at all. Others suspected copycats—or even a group of killers sharing the name.
Still… the detail in this post was too vivid to be fabricated by someone who hadn't seen it firsthand.
"Could it really be him…" Damien muttered, a slow excitement rising beneath his caution.
If this was true, then Buffalo Bill was not only in Raccoon City, but had been in District 22 tonight.
And as far as Damien was concerned… that made him the perfect candidate for a certain ritual.
After all, what risk could there be in investigating?
If Night_Owl had seen what he claimed, he might have more information—information Damien needed.
He opened a private chat.
D: "Hey, I just saw your post in the group… are you okay? Safe right now?"
Read.
A few seconds later, the typing indicator appeared.
"...Who are you?"
Damien typed quickly, keeping his details vague.
D: "I've been in this group for a while. I've always followed rumors about Buffalo Bill. Your story caught my attention—wanted to make sure you're okay… and maybe ask about some details."
"If you'd rather not say, I understand."
Half a minute passed.
"I'm fine. At home. Doors and windows locked. Just posted to warn people. Honestly, I'm not sure I should tell anyone more about this."
"If Buffalo Bill's involved, there could be trouble."
Damien could read the hesitation between the lines. If he had truly crossed paths with a killer, talking about it wasn't a casual decision.
D: "I get it. It's dangerous. But I've been following these cases for years. A friend of mine had a relative who was one of the victims. The police never solved it. That's why I keep an eye out for anything related.
"Your account is important. If you're willing, could you tell me more? Maybe the exact location of the plant, or anything else you noticed? I promise I won't share it."
A long pause. Then:
"† Location data for the chemical plant."
"All right… truth is, I posted hoping someone would believe me. I can't shake the feeling this isn't over. I took some photos, but they're blurry. Too dark, and my hands were shaking. But… I found something."
An image loaded.
A clear plastic bottle, slightly warped from being gripped too tightly. Dust clung to its surface. Inside was something unsettling:
At the bottom, a layer of pale gray powder, like scales. Resting atop it were several oval, semi-translucent eggs—each about the size of a bean, their milky-white surface tinged with gray, covered in fine ridges. Under the light, the ridges caught a faint, fuzzy sheen.
And inside a few of them… dark specks. Like eyes. Or organs, curled and half-formed.
Damien's grip on the mouse tightened.
If this was what he thought it was, then Night_Owl had something that could lead him straight to the killer.
D: "I'm not here for anything else. Just like you, I want the truth. If we could put Buffalo Bill away, you wouldn't have to live in fear. Would you be willing to meet?"
No typing indicator. Just silence.
Damien cursed under his breath—he might have pushed too far.
Then, finally:
"Someone just knocked on my door."
"Not anyone I know. I didn't order anything, but he keeps saying he's here to deliver food… voice is strange, like he's forcing it lower."
"The peephole's covered now. No sound from outside."
Damien's eyes went wide, palms damp with sweat.
D: "That sounds dangerous. You should call the police."
The reply came quickly:
"I'm afraid it's him… Buffalo Bill."
"He's still outside. I can hear him breathing… sniffing at the crack under the door."
Damien's throat tightened. He could picture Night_Owl curled up behind the door, every second stretching into eternity.
D: "I'm calling the cops. Don't make a sound. Hide your phone. Stay alive."
"Night_Owl? You there?"
Read.
No reply.
One minute passed. Then three.
The typing indicator never returned.
Night_Owl's icon dimmed to gray. Offline.
The room was suddenly so quiet, Damien could hear nothing but the low hum of the desk fan.