The man ran.
Branches clawed at his torn clothes as he stumbled through the forest, breath ragged and uneven. A deep cut ran across his left eye, blurring his vision with blood. Bruises covered his arms, and every step sent pain shooting through his legs — but he didn't dare stop.
Something was behind him. Something that wanted him dead.
The forest was silent except for the crunch of his boots and his panicked breathing. The night pressed in like a living thing, cold and suffocating.
Then he tripped.A single misstep — one mistake that would cost him everything.
He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his body. As he scrambled to get up, a sound sliced through the night — low at first, then rising into a furious roar.
A chainsaw.
He turned.Through the darkness, a figure appeared — tall, steady, unstoppable. Over his head hung a pig's mask, its hollow eyes glinting under the pale moonlight.
The figure stepped closer, revving the chainsaw once more.The man's scream never left his throat.
That was the last thing he ever saw.
Morning came.A thin mist crawled over the trees as the city woke to the sound of breaking news.
"A person has been found dead in the Riverside Forest," a reporter said, standing behind the police line."The victim's hands and legs are missing, and the face has been removed. Authorities are working to identify both the killer and the victim."
Her voice was calm, but her eyes weren't. Fear had already reached the city.
In a dim apartment across town, Detective Lucas William watched the report on a flickering television.He sat in silence, the blue light casting a cold tone on his face. A cup of untouched coffee sat beside him, long gone cold.
He muted the TV and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Another case. Another corpse.But something about this one felt… different.
Too precise. Too clean. Too intentional.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
Lucas answered. His voice was calm, almost weary."Detective William."
A pause. Then a voice from the precinct:
"Sir, we've got another one. Same pattern."
Lucas closed his eyes for a moment, then stood and reached for his coat.He didn't need to ask where.
Because deep down, he already knew.The Pigman had just begun.
Detective Lucas William sat alone in his office. The blinds were half-closed, slicing the dull afternoon light into pale, uneven lines across the floor. A half-eaten chocolate donut rested beside a mug of coffee that had long gone cold.
The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the ticking clock on the wall.His desk was buried beneath stacks of open case files, photos, and handwritten notes — a lifetime of questions that never stopped multiplying.
And now, the Pigman case.
Every report, every detail, every photo — they all led to the same nightmare.The killer didn't take hearts, organs, or anything random.He only ever took the arms, the legs, and the face.Nothing more. Nothing less.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, staring at the papers scattered in front of him. The question kept looping in his mind.Why those parts?Was it ritual? Hatred? Or something else — something personal?
He took a slow sip of the bitter coffee, then set the cup down with a quiet clink.
The door creaked open.Detective Oliver James walked in, his sleeves rolled up, a half-smirk on his tired face.
"Still thinking about your favorite psychopath?" Oliver asked.
Lucas didn't look up. "It's hard not to."
Oliver grabbed a chair and sat across from him. "You've been staring at those files all morning. Maybe take a break before you lose your mind."
Lucas let out a low chuckle. "Breaks don't stop killers."
"Neither does skipping lunch," Oliver said, pointing at the donut.
Before Lucas could reply, a firm knock echoed at the door.A uniformed officer stood there, holding a small brown package wrapped in rough paper.
"It's for you, Detective William," the officer said. "No return address. It was left at the front desk."
Lucas frowned, taking the package carefully. His name was written in uneven black ink, each letter pressed too hard into the paper.
He turned it over in his hands.No stamps. No sender. No markings.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Expecting something?"
Lucas shook his head slowly. "Not like this."
The room fell quiet again — heavy, almost suffocating. The ticking clock seemed louder now.
He could feel it in his gut — this wasn't a random delivery.It was a message.