“What a terrible day,” Zander said with his head down.

He was strolling through the middle of the west wide. It was a bright day, with the sun warming up the open sidewalks to an unusual degree. Birds were chirping, the breeze was humming, and the fall air was crisp. There were even people out and about, laughing and conversing as if all was right with the world.

And Zander despised it.

He wasn’t sure why, but there was a longing within his heart that continued to sink the more he thought about it. He knew that he was sad for his friend. He had always read that there is an emptiness that people feel when faced with the death of a loved one.

I’ve been to my grandparents' funeral, he thought to himself, but why does this feel different?

There was something else that was on the cusp of understandability—something that was on the fringe of his knowledge that plagued him. Every time he would get close to figuring out what it was, it would vanish. And that annoyed him. That saddened him. That angered him. All sorts of emotions riled up when this “thing” escaped him, because this “thing” constantly dragged him down. He felt as though, as time continued to march on, he was sinking deeper and deeper into some unknown ocean.

As he continued to stumble about, his mind continued to fracture in two. Half of him continued to lament the loss of his friend, while the other half of him could not help but be consumed by his work…catching the Slayer. In fact, the more he fell into this depression, the more obsessive he became with this work.

“My friend…” he said, absentmindedly. “My…friend?”

He lingered on that word. “Friend.” What a funny word. It’s such a familiar word—one that was practically second nature to him. And yet, there was something to it. There was something there in that word, something about it, that continued to take over half of his mind. He knew that there was something there and he desperately tried to rationalize it. It was as if there was another word buried beneath it, one that continued to disguise itself, using “friend” as a cover for something…deeper.

Was it hesitation? he thought. No, that’s not quite it. Is it something contradictory? Closer, but not quite. Maybe it’s a word that comes from a past exploit of mine. Or perhaps it’s something that one of my old friends used to say.

His mind then retraced itself back through the years, examining everything of significance that his friends used to say. Whenever he thought about Vincent, it was always something stupid or funny—there wasn’t a lot of seriousness behind his words. However, when he thought about Eliot, his racing mind came to a stop. It didn’t matter what Eliot was saying, Zander’s thoughts halted every time.

There has to be something there; something about Eliot.

As he continued to play his memories forwards, almost like a VHS tape fast-forwarding, he got closer and closer to the present. Nothing seemed to jump out at him until he finally landed on his argument with Vincent from the day before. And that’s when a single part of that stuck out to him.

It was when he grabbed Vincent by the shirt and pulled him close. He can vividly remember the anger he felt, and arguably was still feeling. Most of all, he remembered screaming at Vincent: “I don’t want revenge. I want my [redacted] back.”

That’s it! He started to feel like he was making progress towards the truth. However, every time he replayed that scene, one word would always be static. It was as if his own memory was betraying him…or protecting him?

What did I say? he frantically thought. What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say? What did I say?

Slowly, with each replay, the word became ever-so clearer. It was agonizingly close now. He could almost see it. He could almost feel it. The truth was inches away from reaching him and all he had to do was reach out for it. He finally reached out to grab it and…

He stopped.

Why? Why did I stop?

He tried to go back and find out what he was missing. He knew that the truth was right there! But he was scared. Something about that word scared him like nothing else in his life. He felt as though if he took the time to uncover that word, everything about him would start to unravel. Somehow, he knew that the pieces of himself that were barely hanging on by a thread would instantly shatter…and he didn’t want to face that reality. It wasn’t something that he could reason with. It was a mirror that seemed just a little too painful for him to look into.

And so he cried.

And cried.

And cried.

And cried all the way to his room.

Once inside, he did what he always had done when his emotions began to get the best of him: work. Like a maniac, he opened his notebook and began pouring through all of his notes. He wanted that one half of his brain—the one that thought about the Slayer— to drown out the other side that was causing him pain.

He forced his mind to run in high gear. Methodically, systematically, and obsessively, he began to work. Every detail of every note of every page of every thought that he possibly had was examined. He traced so many patterns, so many shapes, and so many nonsensical lines that his notebook was eligible to anyone but himself.

Hours, perhaps even days went by without him even noticing. His stomach never growled, afraid that it would interrupt whatever madness was overtaking him. His eyes seemingly never blinked, completely concentrated on the task at hand. The only times he would leave would be to go out to the sites of murders, so he could document them within his notes. It was like a well-oiled, albeit abused machine.

He would hear about a murder. Go out to that site. Write down everything there was to know about it. Head back. Scribble down what he learned. Combine it with previous notes. He even stopped remembering the reason behind this obsession—he just continued to do it, much like an abandoned machine, left with the final instructions of its long-dead creator.

After doing this for three days straight, something eventually began to reveal itself to him. It was then and only then that he took a step back. He let his mind ease up just for a second so that he could see this newfound revelation from a wider angle. As he poured over his notes, diagrams, maps, and citizen interviews, something caught his attention.

The map of the city, which he used to plot the locations for every confirmed Slayer murder, showed a pattern. He noticed that every killing happened at or near the border between the east and west side. Not only that, but the few instances that were just off of the border were actually on the east side.

Zander took another step back and scratched his head. If the Slayer was such a threat to west-side people, then why haven’t there been any murders on that side?

He then placed his finger on the map, following the red x’s down (which were indicators of a murder site). As he did that, he also noticed something else that was highly unusual. Now, humans are creatures of patterns. Our brains are wired in ways that like to make patterns out of anything, even things that are purely coincidental. Most scientists attribute this to something that’s deeply embedded in our ancestral evolution. Zander knew this, but even logic couldn’t sway him from what he saw.

Towards the southern side of London, an unusual shape began to emerge. The sites of Slayer murders formed a circle of sorts around a particular area. It was a neighborhood that Zander knew had been abandoned or evacuated by Libra, due to the threat of Aries or something—at least that’s what he remembered being told by someone. It wasn’t a particularly accessible region either. So why were these killings happening around its perimeter? It’s not as though Aries’ base was there nor any point of interest. It was almost as if something else was hidden there. Something that the Slayer didn’t want anyone to know about.

“It’s almost like the Slayer is protecting something inside of that circle.”

The moment that thought left his mouth, a light went off in his head. There was something about this that he felt was certainly connected. His own intuition told him that whatever was in the south was key to revealing who the Slayer is and what their deal is.

“I have to go to the south side,” Zander said, rubbing his temple. “If I’m correct—which I always am—then there has got to be something there.”

His thoughts, words, and mind began to move even faster as excitement coursed through him. Whenever something finally started to click in his mind or he started to work on something, he wouldn’t stop or think of anything else until he was finished. Everything within his body would accelerate to a point where only he could understand his own thoughts and words. That’s what it was like being a genius. It was liberating, but also isolating. This was probably why he found companionship in the friends that he did—they never bothered to compete with him, academically. They only existed to make fun of him and see him for something other than his brain.

“Ok,” he continued to say, “so if I go in approximately an hour…and the train…but maybe the signs would also help.” His scattered words began to come out of him, stopping partway when another thought entered his brain. “If there’s really something in the south, then I have this practically solved. Based off of…well, I guess it could be something else, maybe it’s…or, actually, I guess…”

He then grabbed his notebook, backpack, writing utensils, and jacket. With a firm huff, he raced downstairs, blowing past the cafe. He paid no one any mind as he went directly for the front door. Because of that, he didn’t see Tom King until he ran into him.

“Woah, son,” Tom said, backing up a few feet.

Zander shook himself back to partial reality. “Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there.”

“It’s all good, youngin’!” Tome said with a smile. “Just be careful next time you’re lost in your own head. Say, where are you going in such a huff?”

Zander, reorienting himself, replied, “Oh, just somewhere that I have a suspicion about. I’m sorry, I don’t really have the time to talk.”

“Well alright then, just be careful walking with your head down like that, especially if you’re going somewhere dangerous.”

“I know the dangers of where I’m going. I’ll be alright.” He then turned back around and started to walk out the door.

“If you say so,” he heard Tom call out. “The south can be a rough place. You never know what you’ll expect.”

“Yes, yes,” Zander absentmindedly said, closing the shop door behind him.

The moment he stepped outside, a sobering wave washed over him. It was a chilling wave. It caused him to freeze in place. Something wasn't right and he had to reflect on it for a second. The moment he realized what felt out of place, a panicked confusion set in.

How did he know? he wondered.

All at once, it felt like a thousand eyes were staring directly at him. No angle felt safe. It was like there was suddenly no place to hide from the prying eyes. He tried to reason with the sudden emotions.

Maybe I let something slip, he argued. No, I recall nothing of the sort. And if he was working downstairs the entire time, then he couldn’t have heard me. I tested this the first day we stayed here. The only way I could hear what was going on from the other side of the door would be to stand right next to it. And even then, I had to lean into the door. So how did he know?

Every bit of rationale was constantly thrown away. He tried to find some sort of logic as to why Tom knew, but he kept landing on intentional spying. And because of that, he began to grow uneasy.

Well, now hold on, let’s not make any assumptions, he hesitantly thought. Let’s wait and test this out. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I have time to spare for now.

And so, he made the choice to go towards the northern side of the city, instead. It was a decision that he made based on instinct, rather than logic, which was a rarity for him. Something in his gut told him to do it, and it was something that he couldn’t ignore.

A few hours went by, the sky turned to a twilight orange, and the night was soon approaching. Zander returned to the front of the Black Magic cafe. He had spent the day in the northern part of London in a state of numbness. He didn’t really do a whole lot except eat and barely think.

After taking a few deep, reassured breaths, he entered the cafe. Once inside, he saw that there was only a single waitress helping the four or so patrons inside. Curious, Zander approached.

“Where’s Tom at?” he asked. “He’s here, right?”

The waitress looked at him and smiled. “Oh, Tom? I think he said he suddenly run a couple of errands or something. I didn’t think we were short on supplies but he insisted that he had to go.”

Zander’s eyes widened a bit and his lips started to quiver. “And where exactly did he go?”

“Hmmm, I’m not too sure. He didn;t say.” She then grabbed a plate and started to make her way back to the kitchen.

“Wait,” Zander called out. “Did he say anything about going towards the south?”

She turned around and raised an eyebrow at Zander. “Why would he go there? That place has been a dangerous nest for a long time. Actually, I think I heard that another murder took place down there not but an hour or so ago.”

Zander’s stomach sank into a worried pit. All he could do was stare forward with the widest, more worried eyes imaginable.

There’s no way, he thought to himself. There’s just no way…but I can’t deny it. Because if I’m right…

“Helloooooooo,” the waitress said to Zander, waving her hands in his face. “Are you good? You seem a little pale.

“What? Oh, I’m alright,” Zander replied, shaking his head. “I, uh, just need to rest in my room for a bit.”

With instant haste, Zander made his way up to his room. With a speed he never knew he had in him, he quickly packed up everything he had. His notebooks, clothes, utensils, notes hanging on the walls, and anything else that he had in there. He stuffed as much as he could in a bag and left whatever didn’t fit in the room. He made sure to leave no notes behind, though.

It’s not safe here anymore. It’s not safe here anymore.

Frantically, he scoured the room one last time to make sure he wasn;t leaving behind anything that could tell anyone what he knew. His eyes then found themselves locked onto his bed, where his personal diary was left. As he rushed over there, he heard a knock at the door.

He stopped, frozen in place.

What do I do? What do I do?

A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind. He could jump out the window. He could not answer the door. He could try to hide. He could simply open teh door and try to talk his way out of it.

However, before he could land on any single solution, he heard the tumblers to the door’s lock click. Whoever was on the other side had access to a key. Slowly, Zander looked back at the door with horrible anticipation.

The doorknob twisted with an agonizingly slow pace. Eventually, the door began to swing open and standing on the other side was something that sent a chill down Zander’s spine. A whiplash of emotions ran through his head, causing him to nearly faint from being overwhelmed. It was like looking into the face of death, itself.

And it broke him.