Cold Steel, Warm Blood

Pt. 1: Jonathan Mills

Psychopath: A mentally ill or unstable person; especially : a person affected with antisocial personality disorder.

Sociopath/ASPD/Antisocial Personality Disorder: A mental health disorder characterized by disregard for other people.

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Sociopath.

And aptly so. I don't like humans. Too loud, too smelly, too... annoying.

Psycho.

Insulting... insensitive... not far from the truth though.

Homicidal maniac.

Heh. If only they knew.

He took up his beloved blade and allowed a moment to admire the sheer beauty of his most favored tool. Neither too large, nor too small. Seven inches of glinting, silver steel. Its tang set firmly in the oak handle, carved to mold to His hand perfectly. Its edge sharpened and honed to the point where you could perform flawless surgery. His most treasured possession.

He looked up to stare into the mirror set before Him, gazing at the face that gazed back. Long, slicked back brown hair. Pale skin set perfect over a strong, lightly stubbled chin, a sharp jawline, a straight nose. Hauntingly green eyes drank in the sight before him, and pale lips pulled slightly upwards in a pleased smile.

His eyes travelled down to his attire. Tonight was the night to hunt, so He dressed appropriately; a tailored, midnight-blue, three-piece suit with a glossy-black vest covering a crisp, white dress shirt. No tie. His lip curled at the thought. He hated ties. Despised them. They were constrictive and pointless.

Beneath the suit jacket, a small sheath hung close to His rib cage on His left side. He was right handed. Smiling minutely, He slid the gleaming blade into its sheath, taking pleasure in the sound of the steel gliding on leather and the faint 'snick' of the tool settling in place. Waiting to be drawn. Waiting to be used.

Muffled shouts broke Him from His reverie. Ah, my guest is awake! With a gleeful expression, He buttoned the second button on his jacket and crossed the room to a heavy, steel door, secured with three deadbolts, a cross bar, and an industrial grade key-lock. With nimble, experienced fingers, He deftly undid each lock without hesitation, unlatched the bar, and unlocked the door with a heavy, iron key. The door swung open with an ominous, rusty groan.

"H-hello?" A tremulous voice called out. "I-is someone there? Somebody, please help me!"

He grinned a manic smile as He slowly began to descend the wooden stairs at a leisure pace. He began to hum softly to Himself as he came upon the steel-plated basement floor which led to another, less secured door. This one had only one deadbolt, a key lock - which required a different key than the first door - and a small, impact-proof glass window. He peered through the window, still humming softly, and spied His current guest.

A young man, possibly in his mid-twenties, with short, curly blond hair, a slim build, and hazel eyes, lay strapped to a stainless-steel table in the middle of a ten-foot-by-ten-foot room. The floor was stainless-steel, decorated liberally with shallow-cut grooves and non-slip padding. A heavy, square-foot steel grate, set over a large drainage hole, lay just beneath the table. The walls were concrete, and littered with metal shelving, all supporting a menagerie of odds and ends; from jars filled with preserving fluid, to various tools and implements. Each with their own purpose. Long, fluorescent lights hummed in the ceiling and cast long shadows on the floor.

The young man looked positively terrified and utterly confused; this only enhanced His excitement, and had his knife-hand twitching eagerly. No! I must remain patient. There will be time enough to do my work. He patted his jacket where his beloved knife rested soundly. Soon, my dear, your thirst will be quenched. He unlatched the door and inserted another iron key into the lock, the bolt sliding out of place with a heavy clunk. He grinned widely.