Los Angeles
——————-
"Be the reason someone closes their blinds." — Trevor Munch
The receptionist at the Marriott barely glanced at my ID. "Business or pleasure, Mr. Cole?"
"A little of both," I said with a tired smile. "Tracking down a skip trace. Apparently the guy owes my client six figures."
She nodded sympathetically and slid the keycard across the counter along with my ID. "Good luck."
If only she knew the real reason I was in town. I tucked the keycard into my wallet, my fingers brushing against the laminated ID nestled beside it. I didn't need to look at it anymore I'd memorized every detail. The photo, credentials, and the two words that opened doors and closed mouths.
Private Investigator
It wasn't a random choice. The profession offers everything a man like me needs: minimal suspicion, maximum freedom, and a built-in excuse to travel. Clients hire me to follow cheating spouses, dig up dirt on business partners, track down deadbeat dads who skipped town. They expect me to be invisible and forgettable. A ghost who delivers results and disappears.
Little do they know how good I've gotten at that last part.
The job also comes with downtime. Lots of it. Weeks between cases where I'm left to my own devices.
Over the years, I've filled that time with hobbies.
Lock picking.
Survival skills.
Amateur chemistry.
And more recently, anime…
Go ahead and laugh. A serial killer who binges anime in his spare time. But there's something deeply unsettling about the image, isn't there? Picture your final moments. You're gasping for air, vision fading, and the last thing you hear is some guy leaning close to whisper "uwu" in your ear.
I haven't done it yet.
But the thought keeps me entertained.
It's kind of of ironic, actually.
My current target was an otaku. A real piece of work named Trevor Munch five-foot-four, shaped like a fire hydrant , with badly dyed blonde hair that was jet black at the roots. He was supposed to be cosplaying Denji from Chainsaw Man. Alas he looked more like Denji's registered sex offender uncle.
Trevor was in town for an anime convention.
And no, he wasn't there for the "culture," or to mingle with like-minded individuals, or meet his favorite voice actors. He was there to sexually harass cosplayers.
His move was always the same. Find a woman in costume, approach her, and ask to be stepped on. Spit on. Degraded. Right there on the convention floor, surrounded by teenagers and families. The man treated these events like some kind of fetish free-for-all, a lawless zone where consent was optional and shame didn't exist.
Security had banned him a godly amount of times, yet the weasel kept coming back. The police had gotten complaints too, and somehow nothing ever stuck.
That's where I come in.
Trevor Munch didn't exactly meet my code. He was repulsive, sure. A stain on society. But I had rules. Loose ones, maybe, but rules nonetheless. I went after killers. Traffickers. The ones who slipped through the cracks of a broken system. Not just any piece of shit with a fetish and boundary issues.
But lately, the itch had been getting worse.
It had been weeks since my last hunt. Weeks of following cheating spouses and photographing fraudulent disability claims. Weeks of pretending to be normal while something dark and patient coiled tighter inside my chest.
I needed a release. And Trevor was... available.
There was also something about him I couldn't quite name an instinctual feeling. That prickling instinct that told me there was more to this greasy little man than convention harassment. Maybe I was right or I was just looking for an excuse.
Did it matter?
People love to justify killing, they like to dress it up in noble language love, revenge, karma, justice. They build moral frameworks and tell themselves they're righteous. Different. Better than the ones they put in the ground.
I used to do that too.
The truth is simpler and uglier.
I kill because I need to. Because something inside me hungers for it. Because when I watch the light drain from someone's eyes, I feel more alive than I ever do in the ordinary world.
Trevor Munch was going to die because I wanted him to.
That was reason enough.
I tailed him through the convention floor, weaving through crowds of cosplayers and overpriced merchandise booths. He wasn't hard to follow the blonde disaster on his head bobbed through the sea of wigs like a dying highlighter.
Then he stopped.
Dead in his tracks with no warning. Just froze mid-step like a dog catching a scent.
His expression shifted. Went slack and hungry. His mouth hung open slightly, breath quickening, eyes locked onto something ahead of him.
And then I noticed the tent. If you could even call it that.
Right there. Pitched proudly near his groin. In the middle of a crowded convention center. Surrounded by families and teenagers.
…
Tonight's the night. Tonight's the night. Tonight's the night.
I repeated the mantra in my head like a prayer not to prepare for the kill, but to cleanse my soul and eyes from the unholy sight before me. I was going to need blunt force trauma and a gallon of bleach to burn this image from my memory.
I followed his gaze, desperate for context. Desperate for anything that might explain-
Oh.
A Reze cosplayer.
She was stunning, I'll admit. The costume was immaculate dark hair, black choker, green eyes, the whole package. She'd nailed it. The kind of craftsmanship that took weeks and deserved recognition.
Okay. Understandable. Have a nice day, sir.
That's what I wanted to think. What I wanted to excuse it as. Just a degenerate with no self-control, overwhelmed by a pretty girl in a good costume.
But no.
Something about the way Trevor was looking at her was just wrong. It wasn't admiration. It wasn't even lust not the normal kind, anyway. There was something predatory in that gaze. Something calculating beneath the slack-jawed exterior.
Trevor eventually snapped out of his trance. He shuffled toward a cluster of benches near a vending machine and sat down heavily, positioning himself with a perfect sightline to the Reze cosplayer and he watched her.
I recognized the behavior. The patience of a man who'd done this before.
I needed to know how long she'd be here.
I made my approach confident strides, easy smile, the kind of harmless dad energy that put people at ease. The cosplayer noticed me and smiled politely.
"Hey, sorry to bug you. Your Reze is amazing, my daughter's here as Power and she'd flip if she could grab a photo with you later. Any idea how long you'll be around?"
Her face lit up. "Oh, thank you so much! Yeah, I'll be here all day, pretty much. I've got a panel at six, but I'm just hanging out until then."
"Awesome. I'll try to track you down. She's gonna be so excited."
"Can't wait!"
I walked away with a wave, already doing the math.
All day. Six o'clock panel. That meant Trevor would be parked on that bench for hours, watching, waiting for his window.
I slipped out of the convention center, merged with the crowd heading toward the parking structure, and disappeared.
Room 412.
Id already been there once today. I had followed Trevor from his hotel to the convention center this morning, watched him waddle through the lobby with his sad Denji cosplay.
The drive was about ten minutes, which gave me plenty of time.
And the motel only reinforced my gut feeling that something was off.
Out of all the options near the convention center the Marriotts, the Hiltons, the boutique spots with rooftop bars Trevor had somehow picked the most secluded, run down establishment in a five-mile radius. A sagging two-story motel tucked behind a defunct gas station, the kind of place that accepted cash and didn't ask questions and the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbor's moans.
It would make for a good killing site, honestly. I respected the accidental practicality.
I parked around back, away from the flickering security camera that probably hadn't recorded anything in years, and made my way to the second floor. Room 412 sat at the end of the corridor, tucked into a corner where the hallway light had burned out.
"How convenient."I said out loud.
I pulled out my lock picking kit and got to work. The lock were already cheap and a with a cheaper door thirty seconds was all it took and I was inside.
The room was exactly what I expected.
Crappy and stained. The carpet was a color I'd describe as "mysterious brown," and the bedspread looked like it hadn't been washed since the Reagan administration. I was fairly certain that if I shone a blacklight across any surface in here, the whole room would glow like Chernobyl .
I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started rummaging through Trevor's belongings.
Trevor had driven here from Washington State I'd clocked the plates this morning. That was a long haul. Fourteen hours, minimum. The kind of drive you only make when you're committed to something or running from something.
His suitcase sat open on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in a wrinkled mess. I sifted through the layers of unwashed anime shirts and crusty socks until my fingers hit something harder.
A ball gag.
I set it aside.
Next a shock collar. The kind they sell for "pet training," though I doubted Trevor owned any pets.
And then a dildo the size of a mutated cucumber. Thick, veiny, and an alarming shade of purple. It seemed like our dear Trevor had a thing for thanos…
I stared at it for a long moment.
"...Each to their own," I muttered unperturbed, setting it down with two fingers like it might bite me.
I kept searching. Trevor had struck me as the type to have secrets.
I found them in one of the more discreet compartments of his suitcase in a hidden zipper tucked beneath the lining. Inside was a box.
It was old. Heavy. Carved from some kind of dark wood I didn't recognize. The surface was covered in intricate engravings
of tentacles coiling around geometric shapes, spiraling inward toward a central eye. The craftsmanship was unsettling. Too detailed and along the edges, symbols in a language I'd never seen before, something that made my eyes ache when I tried to focus on it.
I opened the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a ceremonial dagger.
The blade was pitch black it wasn't painted or coated, just black. It absorbed the light around it. The handle was wrapped in leather that looked like skin, and the pommel was shaped into the head of something with too many eyes.
Beside the dagger, carefully arranged in a row, were three strands of hair.
Different colors and textures.
Blonde.
Brown.
Red.
Oh god.
…
Trevor Munch wasn't a convention creep.
He was a modern-day blacksmith. A misunderstood artisan. A collector of fine antiques and... human hair samples. Totally normal hobby. Very legal. Nothing to see here.
I owe him an apology, clearly. Maybe a crisp hundred-dollar bill and a heartfelt handshake will smooth things over. We'll grab coffee. Laugh about the misunderstanding. He'll explain that the tentacle box is a family heirloom and the hair strands are from his ex-girlfriends who all moved away to farms upstate.
My ass.
Trevor was going to die tonight.
And I was going to enjoy it.
I glanced down at my watch. Three o'clock.
Plenty of time I thought to myself.
I had a mental checklist to run through supplies to gather, a stage to set, and a creep to kill. Not necessarily in that order, but close enough.
I took the rental car I had leased under a fake identity and hit up a few stores, spacing out my purchases like a responsible serial killer. Plastic wrap from Home Depot, a bone saw from a hardware store two towns over, multiple suitcases from a thrift shop that smelled like mothballs and nickels. I paid cash for everything, smiled politely at every cashier, and made sure no single receipt told a complete story.
The rest of the supplies, Trevor had graciously provided. The ball gag.
The shock collar.
The mutated cucumber of agony.
I'd figure out what to do with that cthulhu box later.
—————
By the time I made it back to the convention, it was 5:30 pm.
I headed toward the spot where I'd last seen the Reze cosplayer, weaving through the thinning crowd with purpose. But when I reached the benches, my heart dropped.
She was gone.
And so was Trevor.
Shit.
I made my way to a nearby booth and flagged down one of the vendors. "Hey, sorry to bother you there was a Reze cosplayer around here earlier? Dark hair, black choker? My daughter was supposed to meet her for a photo."
The vendor shrugged. "Oh yeah, she left a little while ago. Said something about a panel."
Right. Six o'clock. The Chainsaw Man panel.
I'd cut it too close.
But it want over yet.
I made my way to the atrium where the panel was being held a large open hall filled with rows of folding chairs and a surprising number of people dressed as various devils. The Reze cosplayer wasn't hard to spot. Even in a sea of wigs and fake blood, she stood out. She sat near the middle of the room, attention fixed on the stage where some voice actor was doing a Q&A.
And there, off to the side, a few rows behind her-
Trevor.
He was sitting hunched forward in his chair, one hand buried in his lap, arm moving rhythmically , eyes locked on the back of her head with disturbing intensity.
Wait.
Was he…
I squinted.
Oh.
No. False alarm. He was just aggressively gripping his own thigh, rocking slightly with that weird, obsessive energy of a man who'd never learned how to exist in public. His other hand clutched his phone, probably open to her Instagram or something equally pathetic.
Still creepy. Just not arrestable.
Got my ass, though.
I exhaled slowly and found a seat near the back, keeping Trevor in my peripheral vision.
…
The panel eventually came to an end.
The crowd began to disperse clusters of cosplayers comparing notes, debating plot points, shuffling toward the exits in search of food or their next event. But Reze stayed behind.
She lingered near the front of the atrium, hovering at the edge of the stage where one of the producers was packing up. Probably hoping for a one-on-one. Maybe an autograph or just a chance to gush about the series to someone who'd actually worked on it.
Sweet and naive. Completely unaware of the gremlin lurking twenty feet away.
Trevor, being Trevor, had attempted to conceal himself behind a set of thick velvet curtains near the side exit. I say "attempted" because the man was shaped like a refrigerator, and no amount of fabric was going to hide the gut spilling out from behind the drape. He looked like a discount magician's assistant who'd gotten stuck mid-trick.
A few people shot him weird looks as they passed.
He didn't notice. Or didn't care.
Most of them probably assumed he was just committed to the bit method acting as Denji, the feral weirdo energy fully intact. If only they knew.
Minutes passed. The atrium emptied. Staff members collected abandoned programs and water bottles, barely glancing in our direction.
And then it was just the three of us.
Reze, still chatting with the producer.
Trevor, still lurking behind his curtain, breathing audibly.
And me, seated in the back row, watching it all unfold.
Now, I'm not opposed to the whole "saving the damsel in distress" trope. Swooping in at the last second, playing the hero, earning the gratitude of a beautiful woman it's a classic for a reason and had gotten me laid more times than I could count.
But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious.
I wanted to see how this would play out. What Trevor's move would be. How far he'd go before I stepped in. Call it professional curiosity.
I watched the producer hand Reze something, a business card, maybe. She accepted it with barely contained excitement, clutching it to her chest like a golden ticket.
Interesting. Good for her.
The producer gave her a polite nod, then turned and headed for the exit. The moment he moved, the rest of the staff followed like a flock of geese apparently, he'd been the only thing keeping them from clocking out. Within seconds, the atrium was empty.
Just Reze.
And Trevor.
And me, seated in the shadows like a gargoyle with popcorn.
I waited.
Trevor emerged from behind his curtain, moving toward Reze with a strange, shuffling gait. There was a weird swagger in his steps if you could call it that. Like a penguin making its way through a snowy landscape.
Then came the sniffle.
Not a subtle one. A wet, exaggerated, theatrical sniffle. The kind of sound a toddler makes when they want attention.
And then he opened his mouth.
"P-peekaboo...?" His voice had pitched up three octaves. Wobbly. Childlike. "E-excuse me, miss? Do you know where my mommy is?" He clutched something to his chest, a Pochita stuffed animal, of course. "C-can you help me find her? I'll... I'll give you my only Pochita..."
He started crying.
Snot bubbled from his nose. His lower lip trembled. His whole body shook with exaggerated sobs.
I almost choked.
This man this thirty-something , five-foot-four, fully erect earlier today man was pretending to be a lost special needs child. In the middle of an empty convention hall. To lure a woman closer.
I'd seen a lot of predator tactics in my time. This was a new one.
I caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the performance, and I nearly lost it. There was nothing childlike in that gaze. It was manic and calculating like one of those cymbal-clapping monkey toys from the eighties the same two brain cells firing over and over on an endless, unhinged loop.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
But Reze didn't see it.
She saw a 'special needs' man in a Denji costume, crying, clutching a stuffed animal, asking for his mother.
Her expression softened. Melted, actually. That universal look of "oh, bless your heart" spread across her face the maternal instinct kicking in, overriding every survival alarm that should have been screaming at her to run.
"Oh no, sweetie," she cooed, stepping closer. "It's okay. Don't cry. We'll find her."
I leaned forward in my seat. Things were getting interesting.