The Fenrir Heavy Motorcycle's engine gave a low, beastlike growl. Its scarlet headlights stretched two long ribbons of light across the deserted asphalt, and Edward's face looked especially cold amid the shifting light and shadow.
Without a moment's hesitation, he sped straight toward the fried chicken shop.
The ease he had felt with his friends around him had long since given way to a heavy murderous intent.
Art, the Soul-Severing Clown. In another world, that name stood for ultimate cruelty, pure evil, and madness beyond all reason.
He was no mere psychotic killer. That was only his disguise.
Edward knew perfectly well that beneath that ridiculous exterior lurked a demon in the truest sense-a monster that delighted in torture and spreading fear.
Soon, the familiar fried chicken shop came into view.
The neon "Open" sign outside had gone dark. The entire shop lay shrouded in darkness, like a silent beast with its maw open to swallow everything.
Edward parked the motorcycle in the shadows at the street corner. Fenrir's engine fell silent at once, as though melting into the darkness.
He did not enter through the front door.
He circled into the alley behind the shop. The cloying smell of fried chicken still lingered in the air, but now another odor mingled with it-a rusty stench of blood so thick it turned the stomach.
The back door stood ajar. Its hinges gave a soft creak as Edward slipped inside.
The kitchen was a wreck. Frying baskets, plates, and condiment bottles lay overturned on the floor. Across the greasy tiles, a glaring trail of blood led from the kitchen to behind the counter.
Edward followed the blood trail. After a single glance, he looked away without expression.
The fried chicken shop's plump, perpetually cheerful owner lay twisted behind the counter.
His eyes were wide open, his face still frozen in the utter terror of his final moments.
His body... could no longer be called an intact body.
In an act of extraordinary cruelty and degradation, Art had turned him into a disturbing "work of art."
Not a ripple stirred in Edward's heart. He knew that against a monster like Art, any unnecessary emotion was a burden.
He closed his eyes, carefully sensing the pure malice lingering in the air.
The inhuman stillness and evil he had sensed in the fried chicken shop guided his perception like an invisible thread.
Art had not gone far.
That presence was intense and brazen, pointing without concealment toward an abandoned industrial district at the edge of town.
There were plenty of old warehouses there-an ideal place for any secret atrocity.
"Found you," Edward murmured, then turned and left the blood-soaked scene.
A few minutes later, Edward reached the forgotten warehouse district.
Rows of massive sheet-metal buildings cast sinister shadows beneath the moonlight. Their broken windows resembled empty eye sockets.
The malice reached its peak inside the largest warehouse.
Its roller shutter was halfway down. Dim, flickering yellow light seeped out from within, along with faint bouts of muffled, desperate sobbing.
Edward swung off the motorcycle, as light on his feet as a cat.
Without making a sound, he slowly approached the gap beneath the shutter.
He crouched and peered inside.
The warehouse's interior was like hell.
In the center, a lone industrial pendant lamp cast its light over a horrifying stage.
Tara, the dark-haired girl he had seen at the fried chicken shop, was bound tightly to a chair. Tape sealed her mouth, leaving her able to make only desperate, muffled sounds.
Tears and snot covered her face. Her body shook violently with fear as she was forced to watch the utterly horrific scene before her.
Across from her, the blonde girl, Dewen, hung upside down from chains, completely naked, her arms and legs spread wide.
Tiny wounds covered her pale body. Blood ran down to the ends of her hair and dripped into a rusty metal bucket beneath her. Drip, drip-the only rhythm in that dreadful space.
And Art, the black-and-white clown, stood between the two girls.
His back was to the entrance, and a rust-covered handsaw hung from his hand.
He did not begin immediately. Instead, like an actor onstage, he performed a ridiculous pantomime.
First, he gave the bound Tara an exaggerated bow, as if to say, "The show is about to begin."
Then he turned to the suspended Dewen, tracing his finger over her trembling body as though searching for the perfect angle to start sawing.
He even took out a tape measure and solemnly measured Dewen's waist before nodding in satisfaction. He raised the handsaw, its teeth gleaming coldly beneath the light.
He glanced back at Tara. His painted grin stretched wider, filled with silent mockery and the ecstasy of an imminent feast.
Tara's muffled cries grew more piercing. She struggled madly, but it was futile.
Art raised the handsaw and aimed it at Dewen's midsection. He intended to saw her friend in half alive, right before Tara's eyes.
Just as the sharp teeth were about to touch the girl's delicate skin-
Edward moved.
He needed no flashy entrance, no heroic declaration.
Scum like this needed only a bullet.
With a thought, two ornate pistols, one black and one white, appeared in his hands.
They were [Ebony and Ivory].
Bang!
A crisp gunshot shattered the frozen horror.
A bullet moving too fast for the naked eye struck the handsaw in Art's hand with pinpoint accuracy.
Clang!
The tremendous impact blasted the handsaw straight out of Art's grip. It tumbled through the air several times before slamming into the distant wall with a shrill metallic crash.
Dead silence fell over the warehouse.
Tara and Dewen stopped crying. They stared blankly at the sudden turn of events.
Art froze.
Slowly, in halting increments, he turned his head. His ridiculous little black hat tilted to one side with the movement.
His greasepaint-covered face turned toward the entrance. His eyes held no emotion, only emptiness.
He saw Edward standing outside the gap beneath the shutter.
Edward slowly rose and stepped out of the shadows, both pistols aimed steadily at the clown's head.
Art stared at him, tilting his head at an unnatural angle of nearly ninety degrees.
Rather than growing angry at having his plans interrupted, he seemed to stretch that exaggerated grin even wider.
It was as though he had discovered a new toy more entertaining than torturing girls to death.
Ignoring the two victims who had already lost their "appeal," he began walking slowly toward Edward, one step at a time.
His gait was stiff and bizarre. Every step seemed to land on the heart.
Edward gave him no chance to come closer.
Bang!
Another gunshot rang out.
This time, the bullet's target was no longer a weapon.
A tongue of flame burst from Ebony's muzzle, sending a bullet straight into Art's chest.
The tremendous kinetic force erupted on impact. As though struck by an invisible sledgehammer, Art's tall body flew backward and slammed heavily onto the floor, where he lay motionless.
Yet Edward's expression did not relax in the slightest.
He knew this was only the beginning.
Sure enough, just two seconds later, Art's body suddenly twitched on the floor.
Then he "sprang" up in a posture that defied the laws of physics, as though his body had no bones.
He looked down at the bullet hole in his chest, which kept oozing black blood. Then he pushed his white-gloved fingers into the wound and pinched out the deformed bullet.
He held it up before his eyes, examined it curiously, then casually tossed it onto the floor.
Then he raised his head again and looked at Edward, that chilling smile utterly unchanged.
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