Into the Darkness: Chapter Eight - Previous Chapter
Chapter 9.
London dripped. The rain never fell cleanly here; it oozed down the glass and neon, thick with exhaust and regret. Damien stood beneath a buzzing streetlamp outside King’s Cross, the paper limp in his hand.
TWELVE MEN MISSING IN NORTH LONDON — POLICE BAFFLED.
The headline shouted through the drizzle. Below it, a smaller note caught his eye: “Public urged to remain calm. No connection found between disappearances.”
He read it twice. Calm was the last thing the city knew. Calm had been eaten years ago.
Damien looked up from the newsprint, dark hair slicked to his forehead, black suit absorbing every drop of light. The top button of his shirt hung open; his tie sat loose, like a noose untied. He looked too sharp for the street, too deliberate—like someone who had forgotten how to relax.
Across the road, a queue had formed. A long one—young professionals, tourists, even a couple of police officers still in uniform. They snaked along the pavement outside a narrow shop front glowing with white light.
THE TENDER CUT
The sign was chic and minimal, the typeface fashionable in its simplicity. One side of the glass displayed razors, shears, pomades—the trimmings of masculinity. The other side, in perfect symmetry, held glistening trays of meat, pastries, and pies. Two trades under one roof: barber and butcher.
Damien lingered under the awning, watching the line shuffle forward. The people looked entranced, their faces lit by the warm light spilling from the shop’s interior. Somewhere within, a straight razor clicked shut, and a meat slicer hummed. The noises blended into a rhythm that was almost hypnotic—steel whispering over skin, blade through flesh, art and appetite as one.
He caught the scent then: roasted meat, black pepper, and something sweeter, faintly metallic. It wormed its way through the damp air, impossible to ignore.
A woman at the front of the line emerged with a steaming paper box in her hands. She smiled as she passed him. “You’ve got to try them,” she said. “Best thing you’ll ever taste.”
Damien’s eyes followed her as she disappeared into the rain. Then he turned back to the glowing doorway.
He crossed the street.
The line parted for him without knowing why.
Inside, the air was warm and heavy with perfume and grease. Behind the counter stood two figures: a man in a black apron, his hair slicked back like polished obsidian, and a woman beside him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands red with the sheen of fresh preparation. They shared a glance before smiling in unison.
“Welcome,” the barber said, voice smooth as the blade in his hand. “You’re just in time for the dinner rush.”
The door shut behind him with a click that sounded too deliberate, too final. The hum of the city dulled into a muffled heartbeat beyond the glass. Inside, The Tender Cut was a shrine to precision.
Everything gleamed. Chrome counters. Black-tiled walls. White neon strips running like surgical scars along the ceiling. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and roasted meat, the strange marriage of hygiene and hunger.
The barber turned toward him, smiling. “Looking for a trim?” His voice was low, measured—every word sharpened to an edge.
Damien’s eyes flicked to the woman. She was taller than expected, her hair tied back beneath a butcher’s cap, her forearms corded with quiet strength. She was sliding a tray of unbaked pies into a small oven behind the counter. The scent—warm pastry, blood, and rosemary—made the air pulse.
“I’m more curious than anything,” Damien said. His voice carried that detached calm of someone used to walking through dangerous places. “Quite the crowd you’ve drawn.”
The woman turned, brushing her hands on a stained apron that had once been white. “People will queue for what feeds them,” she said. “Some hunger runs deeper than the stomach.”
The barber’s laugh was quiet. Intimate. It seemed to be meant for her, not him. “Don’t frighten our guest, darling. He’s only just arrived.”
She smiled, slow and indulgent. “He doesn’t frighten easily. Do you, Mr…?”
“Damien,” he said.
The barber gestured toward an empty chair. “Then, Damien, let’s make you comfortable.”
The chair was a throne of leather and chrome. Damien didn’t sit. Instead, he studied the mirror behind it. It reflected the room—razors, jars of combs, tins of pomade—but something was off. The mirror caught the barber and the butcher, but not the space between them. A thin strip of emptiness, like the glass refused to show what connected the two.
The barber noticed his gaze and smiled again, a little too wide. “Reflections can be unreliable in here,” he murmured.
From behind the counter, the woman called out, “It’s ready.”
She lifted a fresh pie from the oven, its crust golden, steaming. The scent filled the room, rich and comforting in a way that made Damien’s stomach twist. She set it on the counter beside the razor strop, the pastry glistening under the neon light.
“Would you like a slice?” she asked.
Damien’s gaze didn’t move from the pie. “No,” he said softly. “I came for answers, not for dinner.”
The barber’s hand tightened on the razor. “Answers,” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “That’s a dangerous appetite.”
The air thickened. The hum of the lights seemed to falter, dimming the room into a hush.
The butcher leaned against the counter, eyes bright as freshly cut meat. “Then you’ve come to the right place,” she said. “We know all about hunger.”
Damien let the silence linger, then slipped his hands into his pockets. His reflection stared back from the mirror—sharp suit, rain still clinging to the fabric like a second skin. He looked almost too composed to be wandering in off the street.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “I’m not here for a cut or a pie. Just a few questions. I write for The London Sentinel—human interest pieces, small business profiles, that sort of thing.”
The barber’s brows arched. “A reporter? That explains the watchful eyes.”
“Occupational hazard.” Damien’s smile was professional, almost warm. “You’ve been open, what, six months? Yet you’ve managed to draw more attention than most chains. Lines out the door. Rave reviews. A certain… cult following.”
The butcher laughed softly. It was the sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath—pleasant until you realised what it was. “People like good craftsmanship. They can taste it. Feel it. London’s full of cheap things—fast, empty, disposable. We offer something real.”
Damien nodded, taking mental notes he didn’t write down. “Real. That’s what everyone’s chasing now. Authenticity.”
The barber leaned against the chair, razor twirling lazily between his fingers. “You make it sound like a commodity.”
“Everything’s a commodity,” Damien said. “Even fear.”
The man’s eyes flicked up at that—just a flicker, but enough.
Behind them, the butcher opened a cooler. A brief hiss of cold air. Inside, wrapped parcels stacked neatly, too symmetrical, too uniform. She pulled one out and began trimming it with the precision of a jeweller.
Damien’s gaze followed the motion, the way her fingers worked—methodical, reverent. She looked up and caught him watching.
“You’re welcome to take a tour,” she said. “People love seeing where their food comes from.”
Her tone was innocent. Her eyes were not.
“Maybe later,” Damien replied. “For now, I’m more curious about your partnership. Barber and butcher—it’s unusual.”
The barber’s smile returned. “We met at a pop-up event in Shoreditch. I admired her knives; she admired my touch. We found we worked well together. Symmetry, you could say.”
“Symmetry,” Damien echoed. The word sat in his mouth like a stone.
He glanced again at the mirror. The strip of emptiness between their reflections was still there—an impossible seam in reality. His pulse quickened. He knew that wrongness. Not the cause, but the flavour of it. It was the same taste the air had before something ancient woke up.
The butcher slid another tray into the oven. “You should stay for dinner, Damien,” she said softly. “Our best stories are told over a meal.”
He buttoned his coat instead. “I’ll take your word for it. Maybe I’ll send a photographer next time.”
The barber’s smile never faltered, but his voice dropped an octave. “Do. But hurry. We prefer to serve our guests fresh.”
As Damien stepped back into the night, the city’s noise crashed around him again—horns, rain, and distant sirens. The warmth of The Tender Cut clung to his skin like residue. He glanced once over his shoulder.
Through the window, the two of them stood close together, heads inclined, smiling as they watched him leave. The oven light glowed behind them like the heart of some infernal machine.
They watched the man in the black suit disappear into the rain, his reflection swallowed by the streetlights. For a long moment neither spoke. The glass door clicked shut; the bell above it gave a single, lonely note.
The barber turned the lock. “Interesting one,” he said.
The butcher drew the blinds, sealing the shop in silver twilight. “He asked the right questions,” she murmured. “But not the right way.”
“He’s not ordinary.”
“No one who walks in here after dark ever is.”
The barber smiled faintly, rolling his razor between his fingers. “Then let’s not keep our last appointment waiting.”
The final customer sat alone in the chair—young, cheerful, oblivious. He scrolled through his phone, the soft light flickering across his face. The barber approached with the calm grace of ritual.
“Busy night?” the man asked.
The barber spread warm foam along his jaw, the scent of eucalyptus rising between them. “Always busy,” he said.
The razor whispered against the strop. Behind them, the butcher turned the sign to Closed and pulled the last blind shut.
Their eyes met. She gave him a slow, knowing wink.
The razor flashed once.
The room exhaled.
They moved as one. The barber steadied the chair, the butcher was already beside him. The rhythm was perfect—no panic, no sound save for the soft slide of shoes on the tiled floor. Together they carried the weight through the back door, into the preparation room where the air was cool and smelled faintly of iron.
The barber leaned against the door frame, arms folded. He watched as she began her work.
The butcher’s knives glinted beneath the stainless lights. Her movements were measured, calm, almost reverent.
The thighs were portioned first—clean, thick cuts for steak.
The ribs followed—neatly separated, ready for roasting.
The kidneys and lungs were set aside for tomorrow’s pies.
The remainder—what could not be sold or served—was called offal, and even that found its place.
When the work was done, the butcher tidied her station. The final task was always the same: disposal. She gathered what remained—the skin, hair, bones, and fragments too stubborn to yield—and fed them into the furnace. The fire accepted each piece without complaint. The scent that rose was not quite smoke, not quite ash—something older, heavier.
The barber stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Beautiful work,” he said softly.
She smiled. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
They stood together in the furnace’s glow, their hands brushing, the scent of pastry and smoke curling between them like incense.
Outside, London’s rain beat steady against the glass. Somewhere, a headline about missing men fluttered across another wet street corner, unread and unimportant.
Tomorrow would bring another queue.
And another meal.
The police station smelled of wet coats, stale coffee, and bureaucratic fatigue. Damien leaned against the front desk, black suit still damp from the drizzle outside, tie loosened at the throat, top button undone. He looked every inch the pressed reporter, though nothing about him suggested casual curiosity.
“So you’re saying you’ve noticed a pattern?” the sergeant asked, eyes tired and wary.
“Patterns aren’t always obvious,” Damien said evenly. “It’s the subtleties that matter. Small shops, new openings, businesses drawing unusual attention… Sometimes, people vanish simply because someone wants them to.”
The sergeant snorted. “You mean like a haircut?”
Damien allowed a faint, humourless smile. “In a manner of speaking.”
Before the officer could reply, the station doors banged open. Rain plastered a woman’s hair to her face. She moved with desperate energy, clutching a phone like a lifeline.
“Please!” she gasped. “My partner—he didn’t come home last night!”
The sergeant straightened, leaning forward. “Calm down, ma’am. Name?”
“Erin Walsh.” Her voice trembled, eyes wide. She pressed the phone toward him. “This is Nathan. He said he was just getting a haircut and shave. He never…”
The sergeant squinted at the screen. “Where?”
“Someplace near Brick Lane. Trendy. The Tender Cut—they do haircuts and meals. I… I didn’t think anything could go wrong.”
Damien’s eyes caught the photograph. The man on the phone screen: dark hair, rough stubble, not quite clean-shaven yet, grinning nervously at the shop’s glowing sign. Recognition hit him with a chill: he had seen this man the night before, standing in line, inhaling the scent of roasted meat, smiling at the butcher and barber.
He placed a hand on the sergeant’s elbow. “Come with me,” he murmured, voice low, urgent.
The officer hesitated, glancing at Erin. Damien leaned closer. “Look at this picture. That’s the man I saw yesterday. At a shop in Camden. The Tender Cut. He went inside for a haircut and shave… and he never came out.”
The sergeant’s face tightened. “Are you saying—”
“I’m saying be careful,” Damien interrupted, his tone a razor’s edge. “Whatever’s going on there… it’s not ordinary. Don’t send someone in alone.”
The rain outside beat against the station windows, a drum of warning. Damien’s gaze flicked back to Erin. Her hand gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. Nathan’s smile in the photograph now seemed grotesque, a fragile mask over something vanished.
The sergeant studied Damien, weighing the calm, the certainty, and the darkness behind his eyes. “Alright,” he muttered finally. “We’ll send a team. More than one.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “Be careful. This… isn’t random.”
The city beyond the glass seemed to lean closer, fog and neon twisting together. Somewhere, the pulse of streets and alleys carried whispers Damien had long since learned to read: a warning, a lure, a promise.
The sergeant nodded to a pair of officers. “Go. Check the shop. Ask questions, follow procedure. Nothing rash.”
Damien trailed behind, hidden in the shadows, black suit blending into the wet pavement. His eyes never left The Tender Cut. The city was alive with indifferent noise: car horns, distant sirens, footsteps on slick cobblestones. But here, under the neon sign, a slower, darker rhythm pulsed.
The officers pushed through the door. The bell chimed, polite, oblivious. Inside, the shop smelled of hair product, pastry, and something faintly metallic beneath it.
“Sergeant’s orders,” one said, showing his badge. “We’re investigating the disappearances of several men. You’ve seen anything unusual?”
The barber leaned casually against the counter, arms folded. The butcher polished a knife behind him, expression serene. Both smiled.
“Disappearing men?” the barber said lightly. “Never heard of it.”
“Absolutely no idea,” the butcher echoed.
The officers followed protocol, jotting notes, asking questions, scanning the space, oblivious to the subtle tension coiling between the two professionals and the quiet observer outside.
Damien’s mind raced. Questions weren’t enough. Observations weren’t enough. They had to be caught in the act — proof undeniable.
Down the street, a forensics van idled, lights blinking in rhythm with the rain. Damien slipped around the corner, silent and precise. The van’s back door was ajar. A quick glance, a flick of his wrist, and he had what he needed: a bottle of chemical reagent, used to reveal traces of blood in crime scenes.
Damien burst through the door, brandishing the reagent, fury and performative madness in every step. “What kind of monsters are you?” he shouted, shaking the bottle. “What have you done?”
The chemical hissed as it hit the barber’s chair and floor. Streaks and stains bloomed immediately, glowing bright and undeniable under the fluorescent lights.
The officers moved fast. One lunged to restrain Damien while the others closed in on the barber and butcher. Confident smiles fell away. The air thickened with tension, the scent of lather and pastry suddenly suffocating.
The first handcuff clicked shut on the barber’s wrist. The butcher’s eyes darted around the shop, calculating, furious, then gave way to manic revelation.
“You ate them!” she screamed, voice cracking through the shop like a knife. “You all ate them!”
The words hit the small crowd that had begun to gather outside, some drawn by the flashing lights, others by the chaos spilling into the street. At first, they hesitated, confused, until the meaning sank in. The pale pies, the savoury pastries, the glinting steak behind the glass—they had been eating… them.
A wave of nausea swept through the queuing public. People clutched stomachs, backs arched, heads tipped over trash cans. Vomit splattered onto the wet pavement. Some fell to their knees, shaking, eyes wide, unable to look away as the officers dragged the barber and butcher toward the squad cars.
Damien stepped back as the chaos unfolded, but he did not remain detached. A young woman in the queue stumbled, pale and trembling, retching violently over the wet pavement. Rain-soaked strands of hair clung to her face.
He moved to her side quickly, kneeling just enough to meet her gaze without crowding. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly, brushing her hair back from her cheeks with gentle fingers.
Her hands gripped his coat for balance. She shuddered, her breathing uneven, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. Damien stayed with her, steady and quiet, his presence a small anchor in the storm of nausea and panic around them. Behind them, the officers continued to secure the barber and butcher. The neon sign above The Tender Cut flickered mockingly, and the smell of pastry and smoke still lingered, an impossible reminder of what had transpired.
Even as the crowd recoiled, Damien remained beside the woman, whispering reassurance until she could stand on her own. For a brief, human moment amid the carnage of revelation, he was more than an observer—he was a witness to what it meant to survive horror.
The butcher screamed again, maniacal and triumphant, even in cuffs. “You’ll never know how good it tasted!”
The barber’s eyes, dark and gleaming, met Damien’s for a fraction of a second—a silent acknowledgement of admiration, pride, and inevitability—before they were bundled into the van.
The crowd retched, staggered, whispered accusations to one another. The shop’s neon sign flickered above the scene, now mocking in its cheerfulness. The Tender Cut – Grooming & Meats.
Damien adjusted his tie, shoulders settling, watching the officers secure the scene. The glow of the reagent on the floor remained, proof indelible, a testimony of the horrors hidden behind sleek surfaces and artisanal branding.
Damien lingered in the shadows outside the cordoned-off shop, black coat blending with the drizzle-slick streets. Police tape flapped in the wind, officers moved with careful precision, and forensic lights cut through the darkness like blades.
Inside, the forensics team sifted through the furnace ash, lifting small fragments—charred bones, remnants of what had been hidden carefully for months. Every discovery was catalogued, bagged, photographed. Damien watched silently, noting the meticulous process.
Above the shop, in the apartment where the butcher and barber had lived, officers found IDs tucked away, memories reduced to cold evidence, proof of lives taken and meals served.
The case moved swiftly. Court proceedings followed—two figures always calm, always rehearsed, their lawyers attempting procedural defences that the weight of proof rendered laughable. The butcher leaned back in the defendant’s chair, still smirking. “My pies,” she declared, voice carrying across the courtroom, “are the best. Truly.”
The sentence was read: life imprisonment without parole. The gavel fell like a hammer in Damien’s ears, echoing the rhythm of the city outside, indifferent as ever.
Newspapers splashed the story across front pages: “Artisanal Horror: Chef and Barber Convicted in Human Meat Scandal.” Headlines screamed outrage, outrage that society had allowed it to happen, outrage that the unsuspecting public had been complicit.
Crowds gathered outside the courthouse, fists shaking, voices shouting, faces pale with disbelief. They waved torn copies of the morning papers, demanding accountability, demanding answers.
Through it all, Damien remained on the periphery, silent and watchful, absorbing every detail: the terror, the anger, the fascination, and the impossibly thin veneer separating civilisation from depravity.
And somewhere, in recordings and testimony, the butcher’s voice lingered—unrepentant, manic, echoing long after the doors of the courtroom had closed:
“My pies are the best! You’ll all remember them, won’t you?”
Damien’s jaw tightened, a grim acknowledgement of the darkness humans are capable of—and the strange, enduring pride of monsters hiding in plain sight.
He turned, melting back into the city’s wet, neon-lit streets, a witness to horror, a shadow among shadows, knowing the story would linger long after the newspapers had yellowed.
The shadows started draw in closer and closer, wrapping around Damien, but his face lingered, looking out into the darkness...
I know you are reading this. I can feel your eyes on these words, tracing the steps, the horror, the quiet aftermath. Do you wonder how much darkness lives in the heart of humans? How easily it hides behind civility, behind a smile, behind a glossy sign and the smell of pastry?
I watched them—the barber and the butcher—smile while the city queued obediently, oblivious to what they consumed, both literally and metaphorically. I watched the line of people become part of the ritual, unsuspecting participants in a dance of appetite and cruelty. And I held a trembling woman’s hair back from her face as she vomited, her innocence shattered in seconds.
Monsters, you see, are patient. They don’t leap from shadows. They polish their knives, they perfect their craft, and they wait for opportunity, hidden in plain sight. And humans—humans will comply, unwittingly, because trust is easier than suspicion, because hunger is stronger than reason, because we want to believe in civility even as we swallow our own undoing.
I watched the ashes from their furnace, the fragments of what they had claimed, and I watched the courts pronounce sentences that could never undo what had been done. The headlines screamed, the crowd recoiled, yet the world moved on. Rain washed the streets, indifferent.
And here you are, reading this. Are you certain you are not complicit in your own way? That darkness cannot hide in your heart as well, waiting for a moment to surface?
Monsters, of course, believe in their perfection. But I know this—you will remember what they did, even if you cannot admit it. And perhaps, in that memory, you will recognise the shadows that exist not only outside, but within.
I am Damien. I walk among them. I watch. And I remember.
And somewhere, just beyond the neon and the rain, monsters are still smiling, sharpening their knives, and waiting for you to look away.
Chapter 9.
London dripped. The rain never fell cleanly here; it oozed down the glass and neon, thick with exhaust and regret. Damien stood beneath a buzzing streetlamp outside King’s Cross, the paper limp in his hand.
TWELVE MEN MISSING IN NORTH LONDON — POLICE BAFFLED.
The headline shouted through the drizzle. Below it, a smaller note caught his eye: “Public urged to remain calm. No connection found between disappearances.”
He read it twice. Calm was the last thing the city knew. Calm had been eaten years ago.
Damien looked up from the newsprint, dark hair slicked to his forehead, black suit absorbing every drop of light. The top button of his shirt hung open; his tie sat loose, like a noose untied. He looked too sharp for the street, too deliberate—like someone who had forgotten how to relax.
Across the road, a queue had formed. A long one—young professionals, tourists, even a couple of police officers still in uniform. They snaked along the pavement outside a narrow shop front glowing with white light.
THE TENDER CUT
The sign was chic and minimal, the typeface fashionable in its simplicity. One side of the glass displayed razors, shears, pomades—the trimmings of masculinity. The other side, in perfect symmetry, held glistening trays of meat, pastries, and pies. Two trades under one roof: barber and butcher.
Damien lingered under the awning, watching the line shuffle forward. The people looked entranced, their faces lit by the warm light spilling from the shop’s interior. Somewhere within, a straight razor clicked shut, and a meat slicer hummed. The noises blended into a rhythm that was almost hypnotic—steel whispering over skin, blade through flesh, art and appetite as one.
He caught the scent then: roasted meat, black pepper, and something sweeter, faintly metallic. It wormed its way through the damp air, impossible to ignore.
A woman at the front of the line emerged with a steaming paper box in her hands. She smiled as she passed him. “You’ve got to try them,” she said. “Best thing you’ll ever taste.”
Damien’s eyes followed her as she disappeared into the rain. Then he turned back to the glowing doorway.
He crossed the street.
The line parted for him without knowing why.
Inside, the air was warm and heavy with perfume and grease. Behind the counter stood two figures: a man in a black apron, his hair slicked back like polished obsidian, and a woman beside him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands red with the sheen of fresh preparation. They shared a glance before smiling in unison.
“Welcome,” the barber said, voice smooth as the blade in his hand. “You’re just in time for the dinner rush.”
The door shut behind him with a click that sounded too deliberate, too final. The hum of the city dulled into a muffled heartbeat beyond the glass. Inside, The Tender Cut was a shrine to precision.
Everything gleamed. Chrome counters. Black-tiled walls. White neon strips running like surgical scars along the ceiling. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and roasted meat, the strange marriage of hygiene and hunger.
The barber turned toward him, smiling. “Looking for a trim?” His voice was low, measured—every word sharpened to an edge.
Damien’s eyes flicked to the woman. She was taller than expected, her hair tied back beneath a butcher’s cap, her forearms corded with quiet strength. She was sliding a tray of unbaked pies into a small oven behind the counter. The scent—warm pastry, blood, and rosemary—made the air pulse.
“I’m more curious than anything,” Damien said. His voice carried that detached calm of someone used to walking through dangerous places. “Quite the crowd you’ve drawn.”
The woman turned, brushing her hands on a stained apron that had once been white. “People will queue for what feeds them,” she said. “Some hunger runs deeper than the stomach.”
The barber’s laugh was quiet. Intimate. It seemed to be meant for her, not him. “Don’t frighten our guest, darling. He’s only just arrived.”
She smiled, slow and indulgent. “He doesn’t frighten easily. Do you, Mr…?”
“Damien,” he said.
The barber gestured toward an empty chair. “Then, Damien, let’s make you comfortable.”
The chair was a throne of leather and chrome. Damien didn’t sit. Instead, he studied the mirror behind it. It reflected the room—razors, jars of combs, tins of pomade—but something was off. The mirror caught the barber and the butcher, but not the space between them. A thin strip of emptiness, like the glass refused to show what connected the two.
The barber noticed his gaze and smiled again, a little too wide. “Reflections can be unreliable in here,” he murmured.
From behind the counter, the woman called out, “It’s ready.”
She lifted a fresh pie from the oven, its crust golden, steaming. The scent filled the room, rich and comforting in a way that made Damien’s stomach twist. She set it on the counter beside the razor strop, the pastry glistening under the neon light.
“Would you like a slice?” she asked.
Damien’s gaze didn’t move from the pie. “No,” he said softly. “I came for answers, not for dinner.”
The barber’s hand tightened on the razor. “Answers,” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “That’s a dangerous appetite.”
The air thickened. The hum of the lights seemed to falter, dimming the room into a hush.
The butcher leaned against the counter, eyes bright as freshly cut meat. “Then you’ve come to the right place,” she said. “We know all about hunger.”
Damien let the silence linger, then slipped his hands into his pockets. His reflection stared back from the mirror—sharp suit, rain still clinging to the fabric like a second skin. He looked almost too composed to be wandering in off the street.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “I’m not here for a cut or a pie. Just a few questions. I write for The London Sentinel—human interest pieces, small business profiles, that sort of thing.”
The barber’s brows arched. “A reporter? That explains the watchful eyes.”
“Occupational hazard.” Damien’s smile was professional, almost warm. “You’ve been open, what, six months? Yet you’ve managed to draw more attention than most chains. Lines out the door. Rave reviews. A certain… cult following.”
The butcher laughed softly. It was the sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath—pleasant until you realised what it was. “People like good craftsmanship. They can taste it. Feel it. London’s full of cheap things—fast, empty, disposable. We offer something real.”
Damien nodded, taking mental notes he didn’t write down. “Real. That’s what everyone’s chasing now. Authenticity.”
The barber leaned against the chair, razor twirling lazily between his fingers. “You make it sound like a commodity.”
“Everything’s a commodity,” Damien said. “Even fear.”
The man’s eyes flicked up at that—just a flicker, but enough.
Behind them, the butcher opened a cooler. A brief hiss of cold air. Inside, wrapped parcels stacked neatly, too symmetrical, too uniform. She pulled one out and began trimming it with the precision of a jeweller.
Damien’s gaze followed the motion, the way her fingers worked—methodical, reverent. She looked up and caught him watching.
“You’re welcome to take a tour,” she said. “People love seeing where their food comes from.”
Her tone was innocent. Her eyes were not.
“Maybe later,” Damien replied. “For now, I’m more curious about your partnership. Barber and butcher—it’s unusual.”
The barber’s smile returned. “We met at a pop-up event in Shoreditch. I admired her knives; she admired my touch. We found we worked well together. Symmetry, you could say.”
“Symmetry,” Damien echoed. The word sat in his mouth like a stone.
He glanced again at the mirror. The strip of emptiness between their reflections was still there—an impossible seam in reality. His pulse quickened. He knew that wrongness. Not the cause, but the flavour of it. It was the same taste the air had before something ancient woke up.
The butcher slid another tray into the oven. “You should stay for dinner, Damien,” she said softly. “Our best stories are told over a meal.”
He buttoned his coat instead. “I’ll take your word for it. Maybe I’ll send a photographer next time.”
The barber’s smile never faltered, but his voice dropped an octave. “Do. But hurry. We prefer to serve our guests fresh.”
As Damien stepped back into the night, the city’s noise crashed around him again—horns, rain, and distant sirens. The warmth of The Tender Cut clung to his skin like residue. He glanced once over his shoulder.
Through the window, the two of them stood close together, heads inclined, smiling as they watched him leave. The oven light glowed behind them like the heart of some infernal machine.
They watched the man in the black suit disappear into the rain, his reflection swallowed by the streetlights. For a long moment neither spoke. The glass door clicked shut; the bell above it gave a single, lonely note.
The barber turned the lock. “Interesting one,” he said.
The butcher drew the blinds, sealing the shop in silver twilight. “He asked the right questions,” she murmured. “But not the right way.”
“He’s not ordinary.”
“No one who walks in here after dark ever is.”
The barber smiled faintly, rolling his razor between his fingers. “Then let’s not keep our last appointment waiting.”
The final customer sat alone in the chair—young, cheerful, oblivious. He scrolled through his phone, the soft light flickering across his face. The barber approached with the calm grace of ritual.
“Busy night?” the man asked.
The barber spread warm foam along his jaw, the scent of eucalyptus rising between them. “Always busy,” he said.
The razor whispered against the strop. Behind them, the butcher turned the sign to Closed and pulled the last blind shut.
Their eyes met. She gave him a slow, knowing wink.
The razor flashed once.
The room exhaled.
They moved as one. The barber steadied the chair, the butcher was already beside him. The rhythm was perfect—no panic, no sound save for the soft slide of shoes on the tiled floor. Together they carried the weight through the back door, into the preparation room where the air was cool and smelled faintly of iron.
The barber leaned against the door frame, arms folded. He watched as she began her work.
The butcher’s knives glinted beneath the stainless lights. Her movements were measured, calm, almost reverent.
The thighs were portioned first—clean, thick cuts for steak.
The ribs followed—neatly separated, ready for roasting.
The kidneys and lungs were set aside for tomorrow’s pies.
The remainder—what could not be sold or served—was called offal, and even that found its place.
When the work was done, the butcher tidied her station. The final task was always the same: disposal. She gathered what remained—the skin, hair, bones, and fragments too stubborn to yield—and fed them into the furnace. The fire accepted each piece without complaint. The scent that rose was not quite smoke, not quite ash—something older, heavier.
The barber stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Beautiful work,” he said softly.
She smiled. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
They stood together in the furnace’s glow, their hands brushing, the scent of pastry and smoke curling between them like incense.
Outside, London’s rain beat steady against the glass. Somewhere, a headline about missing men fluttered across another wet street corner, unread and unimportant.
Tomorrow would bring another queue.
And another meal.
The police station smelled of wet coats, stale coffee, and bureaucratic fatigue. Damien leaned against the front desk, black suit still damp from the drizzle outside, tie loosened at the throat, top button undone. He looked every inch the pressed reporter, though nothing about him suggested casual curiosity.
“So you’re saying you’ve noticed a pattern?” the sergeant asked, eyes tired and wary.
“Patterns aren’t always obvious,” Damien said evenly. “It’s the subtleties that matter. Small shops, new openings, businesses drawing unusual attention… Sometimes, people vanish simply because someone wants them to.”
The sergeant snorted. “You mean like a haircut?”
Damien allowed a faint, humourless smile. “In a manner of speaking.”
Before the officer could reply, the station doors banged open. Rain plastered a woman’s hair to her face. She moved with desperate energy, clutching a phone like a lifeline.
“Please!” she gasped. “My partner—he didn’t come home last night!”
The sergeant straightened, leaning forward. “Calm down, ma’am. Name?”
“Erin Walsh.” Her voice trembled, eyes wide. She pressed the phone toward him. “This is Nathan. He said he was just getting a haircut and shave. He never…”
The sergeant squinted at the screen. “Where?”
“Someplace near Brick Lane. Trendy. The Tender Cut—they do haircuts and meals. I… I didn’t think anything could go wrong.”
Damien’s eyes caught the photograph. The man on the phone screen: dark hair, rough stubble, not quite clean-shaven yet, grinning nervously at the shop’s glowing sign. Recognition hit him with a chill: he had seen this man the night before, standing in line, inhaling the scent of roasted meat, smiling at the butcher and barber.
He placed a hand on the sergeant’s elbow. “Come with me,” he murmured, voice low, urgent.
The officer hesitated, glancing at Erin. Damien leaned closer. “Look at this picture. That’s the man I saw yesterday. At a shop in Camden. The Tender Cut. He went inside for a haircut and shave… and he never came out.”
The sergeant’s face tightened. “Are you saying—”
“I’m saying be careful,” Damien interrupted, his tone a razor’s edge. “Whatever’s going on there… it’s not ordinary. Don’t send someone in alone.”
The rain outside beat against the station windows, a drum of warning. Damien’s gaze flicked back to Erin. Her hand gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. Nathan’s smile in the photograph now seemed grotesque, a fragile mask over something vanished.
The sergeant studied Damien, weighing the calm, the certainty, and the darkness behind his eyes. “Alright,” he muttered finally. “We’ll send a team. More than one.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “Be careful. This… isn’t random.”
The city beyond the glass seemed to lean closer, fog and neon twisting together. Somewhere, the pulse of streets and alleys carried whispers Damien had long since learned to read: a warning, a lure, a promise.
The sergeant nodded to a pair of officers. “Go. Check the shop. Ask questions, follow procedure. Nothing rash.”
Damien trailed behind, hidden in the shadows, black suit blending into the wet pavement. His eyes never left The Tender Cut. The city was alive with indifferent noise: car horns, distant sirens, footsteps on slick cobblestones. But here, under the neon sign, a slower, darker rhythm pulsed.
The officers pushed through the door. The bell chimed, polite, oblivious. Inside, the shop smelled of hair product, pastry, and something faintly metallic beneath it.
“Sergeant’s orders,” one said, showing his badge. “We’re investigating the disappearances of several men. You’ve seen anything unusual?”
The barber leaned casually against the counter, arms folded. The butcher polished a knife behind him, expression serene. Both smiled.
“Disappearing men?” the barber said lightly. “Never heard of it.”
“Absolutely no idea,” the butcher echoed.
The officers followed protocol, jotting notes, asking questions, scanning the space, oblivious to the subtle tension coiling between the two professionals and the quiet observer outside.
Damien’s mind raced. Questions weren’t enough. Observations weren’t enough. They had to be caught in the act — proof undeniable.
Down the street, a forensics van idled, lights blinking in rhythm with the rain. Damien slipped around the corner, silent and precise. The van’s back door was ajar. A quick glance, a flick of his wrist, and he had what he needed: a bottle of chemical reagent, used to reveal traces of blood in crime scenes.
Damien burst through the door, brandishing the reagent, fury and performative madness in every step. “What kind of monsters are you?” he shouted, shaking the bottle. “What have you done?”
The chemical hissed as it hit the barber’s chair and floor. Streaks and stains bloomed immediately, glowing bright and undeniable under the fluorescent lights.
The officers moved fast. One lunged to restrain Damien while the others closed in on the barber and butcher. Confident smiles fell away. The air thickened with tension, the scent of lather and pastry suddenly suffocating.
The first handcuff clicked shut on the barber’s wrist. The butcher’s eyes darted around the shop, calculating, furious, then gave way to manic revelation.
“You ate them!” she screamed, voice cracking through the shop like a knife. “You all ate them!”
The words hit the small crowd that had begun to gather outside, some drawn by the flashing lights, others by the chaos spilling into the street. At first, they hesitated, confused, until the meaning sank in. The pale pies, the savoury pastries, the glinting steak behind the glass—they had been eating… them.
A wave of nausea swept through the queuing public. People clutched stomachs, backs arched, heads tipped over trash cans. Vomit splattered onto the wet pavement. Some fell to their knees, shaking, eyes wide, unable to look away as the officers dragged the barber and butcher toward the squad cars.
Damien stepped back as the chaos unfolded, but he did not remain detached. A young woman in the queue stumbled, pale and trembling, retching violently over the wet pavement. Rain-soaked strands of hair clung to her face.
He moved to her side quickly, kneeling just enough to meet her gaze without crowding. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly, brushing her hair back from her cheeks with gentle fingers.
Her hands gripped his coat for balance. She shuddered, her breathing uneven, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. Damien stayed with her, steady and quiet, his presence a small anchor in the storm of nausea and panic around them. Behind them, the officers continued to secure the barber and butcher. The neon sign above The Tender Cut flickered mockingly, and the smell of pastry and smoke still lingered, an impossible reminder of what had transpired.
Even as the crowd recoiled, Damien remained beside the woman, whispering reassurance until she could stand on her own. For a brief, human moment amid the carnage of revelation, he was more than an observer—he was a witness to what it meant to survive horror.
The butcher screamed again, maniacal and triumphant, even in cuffs. “You’ll never know how good it tasted!”
The barber’s eyes, dark and gleaming, met Damien’s for a fraction of a second—a silent acknowledgement of admiration, pride, and inevitability—before they were bundled into the van.
The crowd retched, staggered, whispered accusations to one another. The shop’s neon sign flickered above the scene, now mocking in its cheerfulness. The Tender Cut – Grooming & Meats.
Damien adjusted his tie, shoulders settling, watching the officers secure the scene. The glow of the reagent on the floor remained, proof indelible, a testimony of the horrors hidden behind sleek surfaces and artisanal branding.
Damien lingered in the shadows outside the cordoned-off shop, black coat blending with the drizzle-slick streets. Police tape flapped in the wind, officers moved with careful precision, and forensic lights cut through the darkness like blades.
Inside, the forensics team sifted through the furnace ash, lifting small fragments—charred bones, remnants of what had been hidden carefully for months. Every discovery was catalogued, bagged, photographed. Damien watched silently, noting the meticulous process.
Above the shop, in the apartment where the butcher and barber had lived, officers found IDs tucked away, memories reduced to cold evidence, proof of lives taken and meals served.
The case moved swiftly. Court proceedings followed—two figures always calm, always rehearsed, their lawyers attempting procedural defences that the weight of proof rendered laughable. The butcher leaned back in the defendant’s chair, still smirking. “My pies,” she declared, voice carrying across the courtroom, “are the best. Truly.”
The sentence was read: life imprisonment without parole. The gavel fell like a hammer in Damien’s ears, echoing the rhythm of the city outside, indifferent as ever.
Newspapers splashed the story across front pages: “Artisanal Horror: Chef and Barber Convicted in Human Meat Scandal.” Headlines screamed outrage, outrage that society had allowed it to happen, outrage that the unsuspecting public had been complicit.
Crowds gathered outside the courthouse, fists shaking, voices shouting, faces pale with disbelief. They waved torn copies of the morning papers, demanding accountability, demanding answers.
Through it all, Damien remained on the periphery, silent and watchful, absorbing every detail: the terror, the anger, the fascination, and the impossibly thin veneer separating civilisation from depravity.
And somewhere, in recordings and testimony, the butcher’s voice lingered—unrepentant, manic, echoing long after the doors of the courtroom had closed:
“My pies are the best! You’ll all remember them, won’t you?”
Damien’s jaw tightened, a grim acknowledgement of the darkness humans are capable of—and the strange, enduring pride of monsters hiding in plain sight.
He turned, melting back into the city’s wet, neon-lit streets, a witness to horror, a shadow among shadows, knowing the story would linger long after the newspapers had yellowed.
The shadows started draw in closer and closer, wrapping around Damien, but his face lingered, looking out into the darkness...
I know you are reading this. I can feel your eyes on these words, tracing the steps, the horror, the quiet aftermath. Do you wonder how much darkness lives in the heart of humans? How easily it hides behind civility, behind a smile, behind a glossy sign and the smell of pastry?
I watched them—the barber and the butcher—smile while the city queued obediently, oblivious to what they consumed, both literally and metaphorically. I watched the line of people become part of the ritual, unsuspecting participants in a dance of appetite and cruelty. And I held a trembling woman’s hair back from her face as she vomited, her innocence shattered in seconds.
Monsters, you see, are patient. They don’t leap from shadows. They polish their knives, they perfect their craft, and they wait for opportunity, hidden in plain sight. And humans—humans will comply, unwittingly, because trust is easier than suspicion, because hunger is stronger than reason, because we want to believe in civility even as we swallow our own undoing.
I watched the ashes from their furnace, the fragments of what they had claimed, and I watched the courts pronounce sentences that could never undo what had been done. The headlines screamed, the crowd recoiled, yet the world moved on. Rain washed the streets, indifferent.
And here you are, reading this. Are you certain you are not complicit in your own way? That darkness cannot hide in your heart as well, waiting for a moment to surface?
Monsters, of course, believe in their perfection. But I know this—you will remember what they did, even if you cannot admit it. And perhaps, in that memory, you will recognise the shadows that exist not only outside, but within.
I am Damien. I walk among them. I watch. And I remember.
And somewhere, just beyond the neon and the rain, monsters are still smiling, sharpening their knives, and waiting for you to look away.
Into the Darkness: Chapter 10
Chapter 10. The room breathed in measured clicks and sighs. Fluorescent light hummed above the stainless tables, turning every surface—metal, tile, skin—into the same pale reflection. Oslo’s winter pressed against the windows, a long white dusk that never quite became night. She moved through...
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