They say knowledge is power. I say it’s an infection.

It starts small—an itch at the edge of your thoughts. A curious twitch when you hear about a murder on the news. A dry swallow when they show the grainy CCTV footage. A strange, indescribable feeling when you realize the killer was never caught. And that… somewhere… someone got away with it.

And so, here you are. You've opened this book, despite the title, perhaps thinking it's satire. Maybe you were intrigued. Maybe you laughed. Maybe you thought, “Surely no one would seriously write something like this.”

That would be your first mistake.

This book is not satire. This book is not a joke. It is not a manifesto, not a call to action, and not some teenage provocation meant to shock and fade. This is a study. A mirror. A slow, careful autopsy of what lies just beneath the skin of civilization.

What you are about to read is a manual, yes—but not in the traditional sense. There will be no step-by-step guide, no glorified gore, no numbered list titled "Top 10 Ways to Get Away with Murder." That’s not what this is.

This is worse.

This book will teach you nothing you didn’t already know.

You already understand how to hurt people. You’ve done it before. Maybe not with a knife, but with a word. With a silence. With neglect. With the truth delivered too early, or the lie spoken too late. You are already capable. That’s what makes you dangerous.

This book will simply peel away the excuses you’ve wrapped around yourself. It will show you the quiet architecture of cruelty. The quiet science of breaking a human soul. The joyless art of vanishing without a trace. It won’t tell you what to do.

It will tell you what you’ve always wanted to do, but were too afraid to admit.

Still here? Good. That means the infection has taken hold.

Let’s make something very clear: this is not for the fantasists, the edgy teens, the copycats and wannabes. This is for the thinkers. The listeners. The quiet ones who watch the world and feel nothing. This is for the ones who never cry during funerals.

This is a story, yes. But within that story are lessons—lessons written in shadow and sealed in blood. Each chapter you read will feed your understanding, piece by piece, as if you were learning a language that’s always been buried in your bones. The language of silence. Of power. Of control.

You will meet me. You will learn from me. Not as a friend. Not as a mentor. But as something worse. A reflection you cannot ignore. A narrator who whispers what you've never dared speak aloud.

There will be no heroes in this story. No redemption. No detectives racing to save the day. No justice served cold.

There will only be choices. And consequences.

And by reading this, you become part of it.

What does that mean?

It means that as the story unfolds, you will be challenged. Not morally—morality is fragile, decorative, a thin membrane stretched over animal hunger. You will be challenged psychologically. You’ll begin to ask yourself questions. You’ll begin to think in ways you shouldn’t. And you won’t be able to stop.

You will begin to notice things. You’ll start watching strangers longer than you should. You’ll become aware of blind spots. You'll look at trash bags differently. You’ll wonder how long a person could scream before anyone came. You’ll become careful with what you type, what you throw away, what you leave behind.

Because after a while, a terrifying truth will set in:

It’s not hard.

That’s the truth no one wants to admit. That’s why stories about serial killers are dressed in fantasy—because the real thing is terrifyingly mundane. The true predator walks without style, kills without flair, and disappears without applause.

They live next door. They buy groceries. They nod politely. And they know how to clean up.

So here is my final warning, and I give it with neither sarcasm nor sympathy:

If you continue reading, don’t pretend you’re above it.

Don’t say you were just curious.

Don’t lie to yourself.

This isn’t a book about killing. It’s a book about the imagination of some people who wanted to take a live of someone

And I only hope you’re not the type to take good advice too seriously.

Turn the page.

I dare you.

The sizzle of meat in a pan was the only sound in the apartment. Rich, smoky air curled around the ceiling light, thick with garlic, rosemary, and something else—something coppery.

A man flipped the cut with practiced grace, the sear perfect, the edges just starting to crisp. Blood—still fresh—hissed against hot steel. A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He didn't hum, didn't speak, didn't blink much. Just cooked.

Behind him, a thin trail of red dripped from the countertop. A cleaver rested beside it, bits of flesh clinging to the edge like pink ribbons. Two fingers, still twitching with muscle memory, lay forgotten on the floor like discarded garnishes.

He reached for a bottle of wine. Merlot. Aged. Poured a glass with a flick of the wrist, then plated the meat with mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach.

He sat. Bowed his head.

"A good man died today," he said quietly. "And I'm grateful for the opportunity."

Then he took the first bite.

Outside, the city roared with traffic and neon lies. Inside, the man chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring more than just the taste. A ritual, not a meal.

Across the room, a blood-stained journal lay open on the table. Scribbled in harsh ink, one line repeated over and over:

"I don't do this for pleasure."

But the smile said otherwise.

He chewed slowly.

The meat was tender—surprisingly so. He'd brined it overnight, then pan-seared it just long enough to seal in the juices. The rosemary hit first, then the iron.

Across the room, the body waited.

Laid out on the metal table like a broken offering, arms separated at the joints, legs carved at the thighs. The ribcage had been opened with surgical precision—ribs bent back like a gutted animal. A missing chunk on the right side made the corpse appear almost hollow.

The man took another bite.

The silence in the apartment felt thick, reverent. No music, no news, only the gentle scrape of a fork on porcelain and the occasional drip of blood from the edge of the table.

One eye on the corpse was still open, staring upward at the ceiling fan, glassy and confused.

He noticed it.

Reached over. Closed it with two fingers.

Then returned to his meal.

Few minutes earlier

After hours driving in the late streets of Chicago, a wolf masked man drove into a house in a small neighborhood. He brought an axe with him and so as soon as he arrived at the house he parked the Van he drove somewhere near before wearing his mask.

"My name is not important, what important is one devil's soul taken by a monster itself"

He said

Step 1: park your vehicle somewhere near and not too far, don't forget the supplies

The van's engine hummed softly as it died in the shadows. The wolf mask, cold and unfeeling, settled onto his face like a second skin. He double-checked the heavy axe strapped to his back — a tool of necessity, not cruelty.

Footsteps swallowed by night air, he moved silently toward the house. The streetlights flickered, indifferent witnesses to the night's grim intention

Step 2: Approach with patience and purpose.

No sudden moves. No wasted noise. The lock gave way easily — years of practice had honed the skill, but tonight was different. Tonight, the ritual was more than habit. It was necessity.

Inside, the faintest creak of floorboards echoed in the silence like a heartbeat. Shadows danced as the moonlight spilled through the cracked windows. He paused, listening. The house breathed—ignorant of the visitor it had invited.

Step 3: swing the Axe

He found the man alone, half-awake, vulnerability shining in his eyes. The axe swung with measured force, a clean, dull thud against flesh and bone. No screams; just the quiet giving way to stillness.

Step 4: Make it manageable — never leave a body whole.

The room was still warm. Not from the body, but from the act. The axe, now resting against the kitchen wall, dripped slow and steady like a broken faucet.

He rolled up his sleeves, not out of disgust — but discipline.

From the duffel bag, he pulled out a heavy-duty tarp, industrial gloves, and a long, clean knife. Everything had a place. Everything had a function.

Kneeling beside the corpse, he exhaled through the wolf mask. The floor beneath him was slick.

"You were bigger than I thought," he muttered quietly. No rage. No remorse. Just observation.

Piece by piece, he worked. He wasn't careless. He wasn't fast, either. The process was sacred. Each joint was separated with learned ease — anatomy had become second nature long ago.

Every part went into thick black bags, double-sealed. Labeled, not with names, but symbols only he understood.

By the time the first light of dawn bled into the windows, the kitchen floor looked clean — like nothing had happened.

But the drain whispered differently.

Step 5: escape... Now...

He washed his hands slowly, watching the pink swirl disappear down the sink. Not on the handles. Not under the fingernails. Cleanliness wasn't about guilt — it was about control.

He moved with precision, collecting the plastic bags, now tied and weighed. No rush. Rushing is what gets you caught.

Outside, the early morning fog began to thicken, cloaking the street in silence. The van sat patiently, right where he left it — not too close, not too far.

The bags went in the back, covered by an old mattress and a box of broken furniture. Just junk to anyone looking in.

Before stepping into the driver's seat, he took one last look at the house.

The door was locked again. The lights off. The house stood just as it did before — except now it kept a secret behind its quiet walls.

As he drove off into the gray, he whispered through the mask:

"Lesson complete. The first of many."

In the late night of Chicago there was a man, sitting in the diner—waiting for something to happen.

"Will that be all sir?"

Said the waiter to the man

"Ah... Yes... The meals here are getting more enjoyable each night huh?"

Said the man after taking a sip of his coffee.

"Well thanks for your appreciation sir, we—"

Before the waiter could finish her sentence, the man suddenly got a call on his radio.

*Radio buzzing* "dispatch this is Officer Connor here, inspector do you copy?"

Without hesitation the man left the diner and responded to his call

"This is inspector Reyes do you copy?"

Said Reyes while walking to his car in the heavy rain

"Sir we've found another crime scene of the mass murder in Chicago" said officer Connor through Reyes's radio

"I'll be right there just watch everything that you think are valuable for proof" said Reyes as he started his car to go to the crime scene

3 hours after the murder and Reyes's arrival

Step 1: Observe the silence before the storm.

The scene was unnaturally quiet.

No sirens. No chaos. Just the yellow tape fluttering in the cold wind and the sour stench of blood soaked into the earth. The body was gone — taken by forensics — but the echo of violence remained.

Reyes lit a cigarette under his hood and exhaled slowly.

"You didn't kill out of impulse," he murmured, eyes sweeping the lawn. "You enjoyed this."

Step 2: Let the room speak first.

Inside, the furniture was untouched — but there were footprints in the kitchen, leading nowhere. The floor tiles had been wiped… mostly.

Reyes crouched down.

"A rookie would miss this. A streak of red between grout lines." He traced it with his gloved hand. "He's getting careful, but not perfect."

Step 3: The weapon is a message.

The victim's file lay open in his hand. Killed with an axe — same pattern as the last one.

"Same depth. Same angle," Reyes whispered. "Not rage. Rhythm."

He looked at the forensics officer nearby. "He enjoys the choreography. He's making art."

Step 4: The garbage tells the truth.

Outside, Reyes examined the trash bins. Empty. Too empty.

He looked to Officer Connor. "He dumped something. Maybe on the way here, maybe after. Get traffic cams from every route within a ten-mile radius. I want footage an hour before and after the estimated time of death."

Connor nodded. "You think he slipped up?"

Reyes gave a cold smirk. "They all do. Eventually."

Step 5: Return to where it started.

Before leaving, Reyes stood at the center of the crime scene — right where the victim had collapsed.

He closed his eyes.

"He stood here… looked at his victim… and said something. There's always something."

He looked back at the wall, then at the dried smear of blood shaped like a handprint.

"I'll find you, freak. One pattern at a time."

Step 6: Watch the witnesses — even the quiet ones.

A neighbor stood at the edge of the tape, arms folded, face pale.

Reyes approached slowly. "You saw something."

The man hesitated. "I… heard humming. Low. Like someone singing to himself. Then… nothing. Just the rain."

Reyes nodded. "People hum when they're calm. Or when they think they're alone."

He jotted it down. "Humming. Add that to the profile."

Step 7: The absence of mistakes is itself a mistake.

Inside the home again, Reyes noted how clean it was.

Too clean.

"No blood spatter on the ceiling. No drag marks. No broken furniture."

He looked around. "He brought tools. He brought time. This wasn't a crime of chaos. It was planned. Ritualistic."

Step 8: Find the ghost in the house.

Reyes opened the victim's laptop. Surprisingly untouched.

"Locked," he muttered. "But not wiped."

He handed it to the tech specialist. "Crack it. I want to know who this man was emailing, what he feared, what he knew."

Then he stared at a small family photo frame on the desk.

"Everyone leaves a ghost behind. I want to talk to his."

Step 9: Smell the contradiction.

In the corner of the kitchen, a faint scent — out of place. Not bleach. Not rot.

"Is that… rosemary?" Reyes muttered.

He leaned down near the stove. A small, still-warm pan.

"He cooked here," Reyes said slowly, eyes narrowing. "He stayed."

Connor blinked. "He ate?"

Reyes nodded. "He feasts where he kills. That's not just evil — that's control."

Step 10: Leave with a question, not an answer.

Reyes stepped out into the rain again, cigarette half-burned in his mouth. The sirens were fading. His shoes crushed gravel and ash.

He looked back one last time.

"If this was art," he whispered, "then what's the next masterpiece?"

He climbed into his car, started the engine, and dialed a number.

"Get me the files on the previous killings," he said coldly. "I want to build a map — not of where he's been, but where he's going."

Crime scene report:

Victim name: Tom Hamilton

Age:43

Status:divorced, single

Possible death cause:broken head by Axe

Crime report:pedophilia, kidnapping, sexual abuse

Note:Possible vigilante movement further investigation required