The alley smelled of gasoline, piss, and rotting food. Rodey kept his head low, walking home after another endless night at the hospital. His bag felt heavy, not from the scalpels inside, but from the weight of every broken body he had stitched, every patient he couldn't save.
Then he heard it.
A scream. Desperate. Cracking. Human.
His eyes snapped up.
Five men had a woman cornered against a brick wall. She fought, nails clawing, throat raw from begging:
"Please—help me! Somebody—please!"
Rodey froze.
And then he saw the people. A couple walking past, eyes down. A cab rolling slowly by, then speeding off. A shopkeeper across the street, pulling down his shutter. Everyone saw. Everyone ignored.
Something burned in Rodey's chest. Rage—thick, black, suffocating. His fists trembled. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
You bastards… all of you. You see this. You hear her. And you act like it's normal?
The biggest thug grabbed the woman's wrist and laughed.
"Shut up, sweetheart. No one's coming."
Rodey's voice cut through the alley.
"Let her go."
They turned, sneering. A man with tattoos creeping up his neck spat.
"And who the fuck are you? Some little doc in fancy shoes?"
Another pulled a knife, grinning.
"Walk away, boy. Or we'll carve you up first."
Rodey's hand slid into his bag. His fingers wrapped around a scalpel, cold and familiar. His breathing slowed, his fury sharpened to a blade.
"I said," his voice shook with controlled fire, "let her go."
They laughed. The tattooed man stepped forward.
"Or what? You gonna—"
The scalpel flashed. A clean slice across the throat. Blood sprayed the wall, the man choking as he collapsed.
"Holy shit!" one of them screamed, charging.
Rodey didn't hesitate. He moved like he was in surgery—precise, brutal. A cut to the artery. A stab straight into a chest. A slash across a tendon so the man dropped before the killing blow. One by one, Rodey cut them down.
The alley echoed with their screams. And then—silence.
Rodey stood, chest heaving, scalpel dripping. The woman sat trembling on the ground, clothes torn, body shaking. Without a word, Rodey shrugged off his coat and dropped it over her shoulders.
"Cover yourself," he said, his voice rough but steady.
She clutched the coat, eyes wide, then scrambled to her feet and fled into the night.
Rodey turned to the crowd that had gathered—faces pale, eyes wide, mouths shut. The same people who had pretended not to see.
"You cowards!" Rodey roared, voice thundering through the alley. His hands shook with rage as he pointed the bloody scalpel at them.
"You saw her begging! You heard her scream! And you did nothing! NOTHING!"
The crowd flinched back, whispering.
"Jesus…"
"…he's insane…"
"…monster."
Rodey's chest heaved. He looked down at the bodies, then up—straight at you. His eyes burned, voice breaking into a growl:
"Now… you're gonna see what a simple, sweet man can do when he sees all odds… all sorts of madness. Now…" his lips curled into a half-snarl, half-smile, "…now you'll see my madness."
The alley was silent but for his ragged breathing.
And in that silence, the monster was born.