Drip, drip, drip. The echo of falling water bounced off tiled walls while cold clung to every surface, and Moody slowly began to regain consciousness. The only thing he saw was darkness, thick and absolute, the kind that exists in the deepest caves where nothing lives, yet somehow he was there, the only inhabitant of this black void. With every passing minute his awareness sharpened and new realizations formed, he knew he had been unconscious for hours from the stiffness in his body, and he knew he wasn’t free. His real name was Matheus, but everyone called him Moody, including himself, because he never talked much and always seemed distant, like he was angry at the world. He remembered walking home from school on a rainy Friday afternoon, rain pouring down hard enough to soak him through, but he didn’t care about getting sick or anything else. The last thing he remembered clearly was a car stopping beside him and someone offering him a ride, and then nothing. Now his right hand was chained tightly with metal cuffs to something immovable, something cold and unforgiving. The smell around him told him more than his eyes could, chemicals filled the air, sharp and artificial, like solvents or paint. He guessed he was in a basement, maybe some abandoned industrial place, somewhere forgotten. At first he felt fear, but it passed quickly, replaced by a strange calm, like his mind had decided panic was useless. Drip, drip, drip, the sound continued, steady and indifferent, marking time in a place where time no longer mattered.

Big Mike sat comfortably in his chair in front of the TV, smoking Marlboro Golds and washing them down with his favorite cheap beer, letting the routine of his life settle into him like always. He worked double shifts at a chemical plant in a small town near Chicago, a place where nothing ever really changed, and he didn’t need anything more than that. His day had been as boring as usual, a nagging boss, repetitive work, nothing worth remembering, until the drive home when he finally found what he had been looking for. Mike was a massive man, his size earning him his nickname back in school, and his past was something he buried deep, refusing to think about the things that shaped him. At exactly seven in the evening he stepped outside toward the tool shed behind his house, carefully stepping around puddles, and began choosing something for the night. After a moment of consideration he picked what he needed and returned inside, already feeling anticipation building. When Moody heard footsteps, he froze, holding his breath, and suddenly the room flooded with harsh fluorescent light. Across from him stood a huge figure, and only then did he realize he wasn’t alone, pieces of other people were scattered everywhere, limbs separated from bodies, torsos abandoned like broken objects. The floor was covered in a slick mixture of blood and something else, though the chemical smell overpowered everything, preserving what should have decayed. On a wooden shelf at the far end of the room stood rows of human heads, arranged like trophies, with one empty space waiting. Mike looked at his collection first, satisfied, then at Moody, gripping a chainsaw in his hand, ready to begin, and without hesitation he did exactly what he had planned, methodical and emotionless. By the time it was over, the basement was quiet again, and Mike returned upstairs to his chair as if nothing had happened, just another finished evening in a life that never changed.