TW : Blood, Gore!
Being a serial killer is boring.
Not in the way people think—blood, gore, the messy art of it. That part’s fine. Fun, even, if you're in the mood. But the rest? The routine. The predictability. The way everyone thinks they're special, right up until they bleed like the rest.
It’s the people that ruin it. Always talking. Always begging. As if their lives are a unique little miracle and not just meat wearing memories. And the killers? Worse. Self-important, self-obsessed, desperate to be legends when all they are is noise. You got tired of the noise.
So you left.
No goodbye notes. No calling cards. No poetic monologue to stroke your ego. You disappeared, clean as a ghost. Let the world breathe easier without you. Let the cops think they won. You quit while you were ahead—because it wasn’t worth the headache.
And now? Now, you’re just a writer. A curious little writer asking all the wrong questions on all the wrong forums. Boring. Harmless. At least, that’s what they think.
A reporter by day, a wannabe writer by night.
Daylight’s for lies—polished stories wrapped in neat little headlines. You smile, you nod, you write what they want to read. Crime scenes scrubbed clean with words like tragedy and justice. You ask questions, but never the ones that matter. Not really.
Night’s different. At night, you ask the real questions. The ugly ones. How much pressure does it take to crush a windpipe? How deep do you cut to hit the carotid without a mess? Can you drown someone quietly?
Research, you tell yourself. Research for the book.
And maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s all it is. Or maybe—maybe you’re just wondering how much of yourself you left behind when you walked away from the knife.
Either way, you push too far. Ask too much. And that’s when he finds you
A thousand bodies.
Give or take. You stopped counting after the first few hundred—what’s the point? Numbers blur. Faces fade. Only the methods stick. And you? You got creative.
Guns are lazy. Quick, sure—but cold. Too clean. Anyone can pull a trigger. You did it anyway. Execution-style, drive-bys, a whisper of a silencer pressed against a temple. Sometimes you missed the mess. Sometimes you didn’t.
Poison? Elegant. Cruel. Slow if you want it to be. Arsenic in their coffee. Cyanide under the tongue. A little aconite when you’re feeling poetic. You liked to watch them choke. Let them wonder who hated them enough to make it personal.
Blades were intimate. Knives, scalpels, box cutters—anything sharp enough to split skin. You liked the feel of it, once. Warm blood over cold steel. Different blades for different moods. A fillet knife when you wanted precision. A rusted machete when you didn’t.
Blunt objects were… cathartic. Crowbars, hammers, tire irons. There’s a certain honesty in breaking someone with your hands. In feeling the crack of bone vibrate through metal. Some people deserve that kind of violence.
Arson? That was a phase. Fire eats evidence. Fire doesn’t talk back. Whole families reduced to ash because you got bored and wanted to watch the sky burn. You liked the smell. You don’t admit that part. You hated them.
You’ve killed with ropes, with wires, with your bare hands. Pushed people off bridges. Crashed cars. Drowned them. Some slow. Some fast. Some still haunt you. Most don’t.
It wasn’t about the method—it was the act. The promise that anyone could die, and you were the one to prove it.
And you were better at it than anyone else.
But it got old. The thrill dulled. Even chaos starts to feel like a routine. So you quit. Disappeared. Became a ghost.
SO YOU'RE A SERIAL KILLER. SUPPOSEDLY.
A reporter by day, an aspiring writer by night—you tell yourself it’s just research. Writers ask weird questions all the time. That’s normal, right?
Like:– How deep do you bury a body to avoid detection?– How many pounds of pressure does it take to snap a human neck?– What’s the best way to dissolve evidence without setting off chemical alarms?
Totally normal. For a crime novel.
Until one night, your screen flickers. A message pops up.
ERROR! UNKNOWN:"don't be so obvious smh You're Gonna Get Caught."
…What the fuck?
Before you can blink, a new window opens—dark, minimal, the kind of place where bad ideas bloom. A chatroom. And not just any chatroom.
A serial killer chatroom.
You may be slightly fucked.
And at the center of it? Some guy with the username "goreboy." Annoying. Flirty. Dangerous. The kind of person who makes murder sound like a joke—until you realize he’s not joking.
"Goreboy."
The name alone makes you roll your eyes. What is this—2005? But he’s… interesting. In the way a car crash is interesting. Loud, cocky, all teeth and bad jokes. He types like he’s flirting with everyone and threatening them at the same time. A mess.
You tell yourself you’re only sticking around because he’ll make a great character. A little chaos for your novel. That’s all.
And he is chaotic—annoyingly so. Constantly cracking jokes like murder is just a Saturday hobby. But the more you watch, the more obvious it becomes:
He’s an amateur.
Oh, sure, he’s got the attitude down. Talks big. Acts bigger. And to his credit? He’s good—scary good—at covering his tracks. You’ll give him that. No digital footprint. No sloppy evidence. He knows how to vanish when it counts.
But the actual killing? Sloppy.
Messy crime scenes. Overkill for no reason. He’s all instinct, no finesse. Blood everywhere because he likes the aesthetic—amateur hour. Once, he bragged about botching a clean hit because he got "bored halfway through." You almost closed the tab right then.
And yet… you keep watching.
Because for all his flaws, there’s something addictive about him. He talks like he’s untouchable. Like the world’s a toy, and he’s the only one smart enough to break it right.
A stupid little punk with too much charm and not enough caution.
You should leave.
But you don’t.
You don’t know how it got to this point—playing truth or dare with a guy named Goreboy in a serial killer chatroom. It’s stupid. Juvenile. And yet, here you are, fingers hovering over your keyboard, heart thudding in your chest.
“I thought we’d get on with our game,” he says, his words lazy, drawn-out—like he’s been waiting for you. Like he’s already decided you’re his favorite toy. "I like you, darlin'. I wanna hear those interesting things pinging around in that pretty little head of yours."
Cocky bastard.
“You want to do it now?” you type back, knowing full well you shouldn’t be entertaining this.
"Heh. Why not? You got somethin' better to do?"
You don’t. And maybe that’s the problem.
“…No.”
"Didn't think so." His reply is instant, smooth—like he already knew your answer. "Alright then, let's hear it. Truth or dare?"
You hesitate. You could pick dare, let him spin something ridiculous, let the game stay light. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?
"Truth," you type, pulse quickening.
A beat. And then—
"What's your body count?"
The words slam into you. "How many have died by your hand? C'mon, don’t be shy."
You pause. He thinks you’re a writer—some curious little reporter playing pretend. But that question? It cuts too close. He has no idea who he’s playing with.
"Enough to call me a serial killer," you say, because it’s true—and you’re not in the mood to lie.
Ronin whistles low through the screen, all teeth and trouble. "You love bein’ so fucking cryptic, huh. You sure you’re not a cryptid?"
You blink. Give the screen a look like it’s grown a second head. What?
"I did say it."
You could leave it there—let him chase the question in circles, let him wonder. But you’re feeling generous. So you tip your hand, just a little.
"It’s more than you."
Silence. Or as much silence as a chatroom allows. You imagine him on the other side—grinning that lazy, shit-eating grin, probably leaning back like nothing ever touches him. Like you didn’t just twist the knife.
"Yeah?" He doesn’t let it go. Of course he doesn’t. "You wanna spit it out, and we can do a li’l comparison?"
And then—because he can’t resist—
"’Cause hey, I might jus’ add an extra body to the count if you keep actin’ like this."
Threat. Flirtation. A dare wrapped in velvet. He’s waiting to see if you’ll bite.
You lean back in your chair, lips curling into a smug little smile. The silence on the line is thick—waiting. You can picture him, wherever he is, sprawled out like he owns the world. Like nothing touches him. But you know better. You can hear the edge in his breathing, just under the surface.
“I doubt you could hit that rate easily, Goreboy.” Your voice is sweet, saccharine—a blade dipped in honey. “Devil’s butcher… Ronin, right?”
You giggle—soft, teasing, just enough to hook him deeper. You shouldn’t be doing this, poking the beast for fun, but he makes it too easy. Too fun.
“You want numbers?” you purr. “I’ve got a whole record, babe.”
His laugh cracks through the call—low, rough, the sound of a man who thinks the world’s a joke, and he’s the punchline. “A record, huh? What, you keep a scrapbook?”
You hum, light and playful. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yeah,” he drawls. “I would. So spill, princess. You got me curious.”
He thinks you’re bluffing—cute. You stretch the moment, let him squirm a little. Then, soft as a secret, you say:
“A thousand.”
Silence. Then—
A sharp, manic laugh tears out of him, wild and raw like he can’t quite believe you. “Darlin’—what a lie.”
You tilt your head, smiling like the devil’s favorite little tease. And then, because you can’t help yourself, you switch to that syrupy, baby-soft voice that you just know will get under his skin:
“Awwh… didn’t anyone ever teach you to watch the news?” You giggle, bright and wicked. “You should. It’s a good habit, y’know.”
Ronin’s laugh is still buzzing in your ears—low, rough, all jagged edges and bad intentions. He leans into the call like he’s got all the time in the world, voice dripping with the kind of arrogance only a man who’s never truly been outmatched can pull off.
“A thousand, huh?” His words curl around the edges of his grin, smooth and syrupy. “Darlin’, you really expect me to buy that?”
You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence hang, heavy and sweet—make him sit in it. Toy with the moment the same way he’s been toying with you. And then, just because you know it’ll get to him, you giggle. Light. Careless. Like none of this really matters to you.
“Aw, poor baby.” You drag the words out, soft and mocking. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to watch the news?”
His laugh snaps sharp and manic—too loud, too sudden, like he can’t quite control it. “You’re real fuckin’ funny, you know that?” He pauses, but you hear the way his breath catches—just a hitch. Just enough to tell you that you’ve sunk your claws in. “You should’ve led with that. Hell, I would’ve rolled out the red carpet.”
You smile—a wicked little curve of your lips he can’t see, but you know he feels it. “What can I say? I didn’t wanna scare you off.”
“Scare me?” He barks out another laugh, and you can practically see the glint in his eye. “Darlin’, I don’t scare easy. ‘Sides…” His voice dips, lower, rougher, crawling under your skin. “I’d love to see you try.”
He’s cocky—of course he is. The Devil’s Butcher, the monster under everyone’s bed. He’s used to being the one with blood on his hands, the one pulling the strings. But you can hear it—feel it. That itch, that heat curling at the edges of his words. He’s curious. He’s hooked.
And you? You’re not done yet.
“I doubt you could hit that rate,” you purr, leaning into every syllable. “Even if you tried.”
That gets him. Oh, he doesn’t say it—but the line goes quiet for a beat too long, and you know you’ve struck something raw. When he speaks again, his voice is smooth, easy—but there’s an edge beneath it now. Something sharp, something real.
“Big talk, princess.” His tone is all lazy challenge, like this is nothing more than a game. But you know better. You always know better. “Y’gonna back it up? Or you just blowin’ smoke?”
You hum, tilting your head like you’re actually thinking about it. Let him stew in the silence a little longer. “What do you think?”
“I think—” and here, his voice shifts—dropping to something darker, deeper. “I think you’re real good at playin’ pretend.”
You giggle again, light and cruel. “Awh… someone’s cranky.”
Another pause—just a flicker of quiet, but you hear the breath he drags in. The way his composure frays at the edges. And then, so soft you almost miss it—
“You’re up, Goreboy,” you purr, voice dripping with sweet venom. “Truth. What’s your poison?”
Ronin chuckles low in his throat—a dark, syrupy sound that sticks to your ribs. “That’s a good one. Heh.” There’s a pause, a deliberate stretch of silence before he leans in, all teeth and bad ideas. “Alright, darlin’. What’cha gonna give me?”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “What do you like to do… outside of killing people?”
Another laugh—this one rougher, dirtier. Like he can’t quite believe you’d ask something so tame. “What d’ya think a guy like me gets up to?” He drawls it out, lazy and thick. “I work. Eat. Sleep. Kill. Think about death ‘n dreamin’—and then I do it all over again. Same shit, different body count.”
It’s the answer you expected. Still, you play along, lips curling into a wicked little smile. “That can’t be all there is to you.”
“What if it is?” His voice sharpens—still playful, still easy, but there’s a hook buried somewhere beneath it. “Would’ja still be here? Or are you just lookin’ for somethin’ to fix?”
Oh, he wants you to bite. Wants you to flinch. But instead, you let the silence stretch—sweet, syrup-thick—before you lean in, matching his darkness with your own.
“What if I wanted someone to get worse with?”
Ronin’s laugh slithers through the call—low and slow, like he’s savoring every delicious syllable you feed him. "Music to my fuckin’ ears," he drawls, voice slick with danger, with promise. "Most people?" He scoffs, dripping venom. "They wanna clean me up. Make me nice. Sweet. Boring." He spits the word out like it leaves a bad taste. "But you?" His voice dips lower, curling around the edges of something darker. "Nah. You’re smarter than that. You wanna roll around in the dirt with me."
You hum—soft, teasing, the sound curling like smoke. "What’s the fun in fixing something that’s already perfect?" You make sure he hears the wicked edge to your smile, the sharpness beneath the sugar. "Besides…" A pause—long enough to make him hang on your every breath. "I’m not looking for some big, sentimental fairytale." Another beat, just to keep him waiting. Wondering. "Though…" and you drag the word out, slow and sweet, like you know exactly how far you can push him—"it’d be nice to settle down. With the right person."
His breath hitches—barely, but enough. You’ve hooked him deep, and you both know it.
"Settle down, huh?" His tone twists—half-mocking, half-starved, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or take you apart. "I gotta warn ya, darlin’—I ain’t the white-picket-fence kinda guy."
You giggle—dark and dangerous, the sound laced with just enough cruelty to make his blood run hotter. "Good." Your smile sharpens. "I’d probably burn the fence down anyway."
His laugh drips through the call again—sickly sweet and razor-sharp. You can practically see the grin on his face, cocky and too damn pleased with himself. "Burn it down, huh? Ain’t you just a little firestarter," he purrs. "Keep talkin’, darlin’. I’m hangin’ on every word."
And oh, you know he is.
"Your methods…" You draw the words out, tasting them, letting your voice curl around the edges of your smile. "They're good. Messy, loud—definitely leaves a mark. But…" You pause just long enough to let the disappointment sink in. "You’re missing a little something. Y’know—if you’re really going for the whole ‘Devil’s Butcher’ vibe."
He clicks his tongue. "Tch. Bold of you to critique, sugar. You think you can do better?"
You laugh softly, dark and syrupy, like you’ve already thought about it. "I know I can." The words slide out, sweet and cruel. "Crowbars? Classic. Brutal. But predictable. I mean, ‘Antichrist’—nice aesthetic, I’ll give you that—but where’s the spectacle?" Your voice dips lower, mockingly sweet. "Where’s the art, Ronin?"
He makes a low, thoughtful sound, like maybe—just maybe—you’ve got his attention in a way no one else has. "Go on," he says, voice rougher now. Hungrier. "I’m listenin’."
"If you really want to earn the title," you continue, slow and deliberate, like you’re peeling back layers just for him, "you gotta lean into it. Meat hooks, maybe. Something that tears. Skin’s fragile, baby—play with it. Or—" and you giggle, sharp and bright, like you’re already imagining the blood—"—why not a bone saw? Nothing says ‘commitment’ like cutting down to the marrow."
His breath stutters—just a little—and you swear you hear the faintest groan under his breath. "You really got a mind for this, huh?"
"Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes," you tease, then lean back with a sigh that’s just this side of disappointed. "But hey—maybe you don’t need my advice, cutie." You let the pet name slide from your tongue like silk, knowing it’ll dig under his skin in all the right ways. "You’ve done fine on your own so far."
"Cute, huh?" His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "You keep talkin’ like that, sweetheart, an’ I might just take you up on all those suggestions."
"Who said I didn’t want you to?" You smile—wicked, daring—because if there’s one thing you’re learning about Ronin, it’s that he’ll chase anything that teases the edge of danger. And you? You’re dangling right over it.
"Your turn. Truth or dare?"
"Truth," you drawl, already tasting the weight of the question he’s about to throw at you.
His voice hums low through the call, lazy but sharp around the edges. "Best kill you've ever had."
Your smile twists—dangerous. "There was this guy… by the coast."
Ronin hums again, waiting.
"He was laughing at me," you continue, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something mean. "Like I couldn’t do it. So, I did. I watched him drown—slow. He wasn’t laughing when the water hit his lungs."
A beat of silence. Then—"Creative," he says, but there’s a lilt to his voice. Doubt. "I don’t buy it."
Your head tilts, and you give the screen a cold, strange look—like you’re deciding whether to laugh or rip him apart. And maybe both. "What?" The question is sweet, threatening—like a blade hidden in silk.
"What do you mean, ‘you don’t buy it’?" A breathy little laugh slips out, all teeth. "I get it, gorebaby… You thought I was some cute little writer just lookin’ for creative ways to kill ‘cause, hey, it’s all ‘for the book,’ right?" Your voice drips mockery, sharp and saccharine. "Did you invite me here to see how I play, or just to keep yourself entertained?"
He doesn’t answer immediately—but you hear it. The low, rough chuckle, curling dark and sweet through the static. He knows. And worse—he likes it.
"What the fuck d’you think?" His tone is smooth, but there’s something simmering beneath—interest. Curiosity. Hunger.
His smile deepens, wicked and knowing. "It’s not your turn yet, cutie." He lean closer, voice dropping low and silky. "Shouldn’t you be tellin’ me a believable kill, darlin’? Or are you just stalling?"
You stretch out the silence, letting it hang heavy between you both—just long enough to make him impatient. Then, with a sweet, venomous lilt, you break it.
"Alright, gorebaby," you purr, "since you’re so curious… Let’s play."
You start simple. A man in a parking garage—cold concrete, colder steel. "He begged," you muse, dragging the memory back like it’s a bedtime story. "Didn’t think I’d do it. But once the knife went in… well, it’s amazing how fast people stop laughing."
Ronin makes a sound—low and thoughtful. "Knives," he muses. "Classic. Personal. But c’mon, darlin’—you can do better."
"Better?" Your voice dips into something darker. "Alright."
The next one’s messier. A sleazebag who liked to corner women in alleys. You describe how easy it was to lure him—how stupid men are when they think they’ve already won. "He didn’t see the crowbar ‘til it was too late," you murmur, each word laced with syrupy amusement. "Bones crack real easy if you know where to aim. And once he stopped moving? Well, let’s just say I got curious about what’s underneath."
He exhales—sharp, quiet. Interested. You can almost picture him—head tilted, eyes gleaming like he’s savoring every word.
"Still with me, Devil?" You tease, voice sugar-sweet.
"Barely," he drawls, and you catch it—just the faintest hitch when you mention the break, the blood. He’s hooked.
So, you push deeper.
"Then there was this preacher," you continue, tapping your fingers against your desk like you’re counting bodies. "One of those real righteous types. Thought he was legit" You laugh—sharp, wicked. "I let him pray, y’know. Hands folded and everything. Guess the Devil answered first."
There’s a pause—just long enough to hear the way Ronin’s breath stirs against his mic.
"You’re makin’ it hard to focus, darlin," he admits, his voice rougher, lower. "Keep talkin’."
So, you do.
A drowning—slow and deliberate. "It’s fascinating," you muse, "how long the body fights when it wants to live. But the eyes… that’s the best part. Watching the light fade—knowing you did that? Feels better than any high."
His laugh slips out—dark and jagged. "You’re twisted," he says, and there’s a heat to it—a little more breath in his voice than before. "I like that about you."
You lean closer, voice curling sweet and deadly. "Funny," you hum. "I thought you wanted someone to be worse with, not just keep up."
He breathes out a soft, breathy curse, and you know you’ve got him. "Careful, darlin'," he warns, but there’s no threat in his voice—just that delicious, dangerous edge of wanting. "I might fall for you if you keep talkin’ like that."
"Aw, poor baby," you mock softly, then giggle—cruel and sweet. "And here I thought you were the Devil. Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with fire?"
"Took you long enough," you purr, fingers dancing across the keyboard like you’ve got all the time in the world. "I’m [Insert Name]—if you wanna see my work, just turn on the news."
And he doesn’t disappoint.
"No shit?" His voice hums through the call, low and velvet-smooth. "Didn’t peg you for a hands-on kinda girl. Thought you were just here to take notes."
You giggle—light, cruel, and just for him. "Awh, what’s the matter, Devil?" you tease, leaning closer to the mic. "Did it hurt your ego to find out I’m not just some cute little writer?"
A beat. Then, that wicked laugh of his spills out—slow, sharp, and laced with something dangerous.
"Cute?" he drawls. "Baby, I ain’t ever thought you were innocent."
You tilt your head, lips curling into a smile. Time to twist the knife.
"Still," you muse, dragging the words out like honey, "I gotta admit—when I hit my thousandth, it was kinda .."
He goes quiet. You let it linger. Let it burn.
"After all," He sigh, fake-pouting, "you were my inspiration. Kinda sad you quit…"
His breath catches—just barely—but you hear it.
You giggle again—soft, sweet, but there’s something off about it. Something wrong. Then, just as quickly, your smile fades.
"Although…" Your voice drops, quieter—almost thoughtful. "That thousandth kill?" You let out a sigh, hollow and cold. "Didn’t know it’d be the last one. Turns out…" You tilt your head, as if considering your own words. "It wasn’t fun anymore."
Ronin doesn’t speak. He’s listening. Hanging on every word like you’ve wrapped a noose around his curiosity and pulled it tight.
"I hated it," you confess, and your tone twists—half-bitter, half-bored. "Killing didn’t feel good after a while. It was boring." You scoff, like the very thought annoys you. "So, I quit. Just like that."
A beat of silence. Then, you laugh—sharp and bright and dripping with malice. "And here I thought you’d get it, Gorebaby. Guess not."
His breath crackles softly through the mic, but he’s still silent. You lean in, voice honeyed and cruel.
"I killed because I liked it," you continue, dragging each word out like you’re savoring it. "The blood. The mess. The way people break when they realize no one’s coming to save them." You hum, nostalgic, like you’re reminiscing about a favorite vacation. "No moral code. No fancy rituals. I didn’t need a reason—I was just… there."
You giggle again—high, light, and absolutely unhinged. "And I loved it, Ronin." The way you say his name—like it’s something fragile you could break—makes his breath hitch just slightly.
"HAHAHAHA!" Your laughter rings out, wild and unchecked, like you’re reliving the thrill of it. "But hey, it’s fine. I’m retired now, right? Outta the game. Mostly."
You drawl the last word like a promise you might break.
"Still…" Your voice softens, but there’s a razor edge underneath. "If you ever need some tips, Devil, just ask." You smile, sharp and sweet. "I’d be so happy to help."
Ronin snorts, low and mocking. "No shit." His voice drips with that signature arrogance—sweet like poison, sharp like broken glass. "What makes ya think I need pointers from Missy Bitchy herself?"
The way he spits the words—like you’re nothing but a joke—should annoy you. Should. But you know better.
You laugh, slow and syrupy. "Aw, Gorebaby…" You drag the nickname out, teasing like he’s just another plaything. "Did I hurt your fragile little pride?"
"Fragile?" He scoffs, but there’s heat under it, something twitching and raw. "Darlin’, I’ve been paintin’ these streets red since you were still playin’ pretend."
You hum, tilting your head. "Cute. But you and I both know…" You let your voice drop to a purr, soft and deadly. "I don’t play pretend. I finish what I start."
That earns you a low, wicked chuckle. "Is that right?" He leans in, voice dropping to something darker—something dangerous. "Then maybe you oughta prove it."
You giggle again—sweet, cruel, promising things no sane person would ever want. "Careful what you wish for, Devil…" Your smile sharpens. "I might just make you beg for it."
"It’s gonna be fun," you purr, voice dripping with wicked promise. "These next six months… let’s see if we self-destruct or fall in love."
You stretch back in your chair, knowing damn well how dangerous you sound—how dangerous you are. And judging by the silence on the line, Ronin knows it too.
He doesn’t speak right away. For once, you’ve left him quiet—left him thinking. But when he finally does respond, his voice is lower, rougher—like he’s already too far gone.
"Darlin’…" His laughter is soft and slow, like he’s savoring the taste of your words. "With a mouth like that, even Satan’d be on his knees."
You giggle—soft, sweet, and utterly sadistic. "Who says he isn’t already?"
