The Villain – Chapter 1: Sully

Rain streaked down the darkened streets, turning neon reflections into twisted rivers of red and blue. The city slept uneasily, unaware that a predator moved silently among them. He was no ordinary man. He was Sully. And no one knew who he really was.

In a luxury high-rise, a businessman named Arjun Malhotra glanced at his watch, satisfied with another day of deals and power. Pride radiated from him like heat from a flame. He smiled, unaware that his every secret—his lies, his hidden sins, even the bodies he had buried—were being watched.

Sully was in the shadows, unseen. A quiet observer. He studied Arjun’s routine with precision, noting when he left the office, which streets he took, the security cameras that followed him like obedient guards. Everything was part of the plan.

No one knew what Sully looked like. Some said he didn’t exist, others whispered about a ghost that punished the arrogant. But Sully was very real. And tonight, he moved closer to his next target.

Arjun exited his car, muttering about unfinished deals, unaware of the eyes that tracked his every move. A figure slipped from the alley, blending with the darkness, silent as the mist curling around the streetlights. Sully’s presence was almost… unreal.

Moments later, a scream cut through the night. Arjun’s body crumpled, the life fading from his eyes. Sully stood over him for only a heartbeat, ensuring no trace of his existence remained, before vanishing into the rain-soaked city.

By morning, the police would find a scene without answers. No fingerprints. No motive. Just a prideful man silenced, and a mystery that would grip the city.

Sully watched from afar, a shadow in a world of ignorance. He had no name. No past. Only a purpose. And tonight was just the beginning.

Ending Line (Cliffhanger):

Somewhere in the city, another arrogant soul laughed in ignorance. Sully’s eyes were already on them.

-The Mark of S

The rain had not stopped since last night. It washed over the city like a curtain, as if trying to cleanse the sins that lurked in every alley. But some stains could never be erased.

At dawn, a street sweeper stumbled upon something that froze him in his tracks. In the shadows of the alley, sprawled across the cold pavement, lay the lifeless body of Arjun Malhotra, the powerful businessman who only yesterday had strutted out of his office with pride in his chest.

But it wasn’t the death alone that made the sweeper scream.

On the victim’s right hand, crudely carved into the flesh, was a single letter:

S.

The police arrived within the hour. The scene was cordoned off, reporters already buzzing around like vultures. And then came the trio who would lead the investigation.

Detective Nolan stepped out first. At 49, he was still sharp-eyed, his dark coat swaying with the morning wind. He bent down beside the body, his brow furrowed.

“Clean work. No struggle. Just… precision.”

Detective Hartley, 58, followed. He was the serious one, a man who never wasted words. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on the carved letter. “This isn’t random,” he muttered. “This is a message. Whoever did this… wanted us to know.”

The last to arrive was Detective Kim, the oldest of the three at 60. His back ached, his knees cracked, but his wit had never dulled. He crouched slowly beside the corpse and let out a low whistle.

“Well, well… looks like our mystery man finally learned how to sign his work. S, huh? Stands for what? Smartass?”

Nolan shot him a look, but couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips. Kim always managed to crack jokes even when death was staring them in the face.

Hartley ignored the humor, his voice steady and grave. “He’s marking territory. This isn’t about money. This isn’t a mugging. This is ritual.”

The officers studied the scene carefully. No fingerprints. No weapon. No sign of forced entry. The cameras nearby had mysteriously glitched during the night, showing nothing but static. Whoever this “S” was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn ghost,” Nolan muttered under his breath.

Kim straightened up, stretching his back with a groan. “Ghost or not, I want to meet the guy. Anyone who can carve a letter this neat in the rain must have steady hands. Maybe he’s a surgeon, maybe an artist.” He chuckled. “Or maybe just a bored lunatic.”

Hartley’s eyes narrowed. “No. He’s not bored. He’s hunting.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The rain tapped against their umbrellas, the city moving on as though nothing had happened. But the three detectives knew the truth.

This was only the beginning.

Somewhere, the killer known only by a single letter watched them. He was unseen, untraceable.

And his name was Sully.

Cliffhanger Ending:

From a rooftop across the street, hidden in the shadows, Sully observed the officers with quiet interest. His lips curled into a faint smile. “Let’s see if you can catch me before the city runs out of its prideful kings,” he whispered to the rain.

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The Villain – Chapter 2: The Name in the News

By morning, the entire city trembled. The story of the businessman’s brutal death had exploded across every channel, every radio station, and every front page.

On television screens in crowded cafés and lonely apartments, the same headline glared in bold letters:

“THE MARK OF S: SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE.”

Reporters scrambled for answers.

“Who is this mysterious killer carving ‘S’ into his victims?” one anchor demanded.

“Why is he targeting only the wealthy, the powerful, the untouchable?” another voice echoed.

The word Sully appeared for the first time in a broadcast. At first, it was a rumor—a whispered name from an online forum. But by evening, it had become legend.

“They’re calling him Sully,” the newsreader announced, her tone trembling. “A ghost in the rain. A shadow no one can see. A killer who has already claimed nearly fifty lives, all belonging to rich and powerful men.”

Gasps spread across the newsroom. Citizens listening at home froze. Fifty? That number struck like a thunderclap.

Detective Nolan sat in his office, the glow of the television painting his face in cold blue. He muttered under his breath, “Fifty… and no one noticed?”

Beside him, Detective Kim leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Shows you what money can do. Rich guys go missing, everyone thinks they’re off on vacation, hiding their scandals, or sipping drinks in Dubai. Turns out, they were all lying in shallow graves with an ‘S’ carved into them.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “Hell of a way to keep accounts balanced.”

Hartley didn’t laugh. He stood with arms folded, his eyes locked on the screen. “This isn’t chaos. This is order. He’s been planning for years, striking with precision. And no one has seen him.”

Across the city, fear spread like wildfire. Wealthy businessmen hired private security, locked themselves in fortified mansions, and whispered in paranoia. They all had secrets, and they all feared that Sully might be coming for them next.

But Sully was already ahead.

High above, in an abandoned loft overlooking the city skyline, Sully sat cross-legged on the dusty floor. The glow of a dozen televisions surrounded him, each showing frantic reporters, terrified tycoons, and the faces of the detectives now sworn to catch him.

His lips curled into a faint smile.

“Fifty is just a number,” he whispered. “I am not done. I will never be done. Pride will always rot this city, and I will always be here to carve it away.”

He traced the letter S on a broken piece of glass beside him, his reflection fractured into shards.

The city knew his name now. They feared it. They spoke it in hushed voices.

Sully.

The ghost in the rain.

The villain no one could catch.

And as the night swallowed the skyline, somewhere another rich man’s clock ticked toward its final hour.

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⚡ Cliffhanger Ending:

The camera cuts back to a wealthy tycoon laughing at a party, surrounded by friends, a glass of champagne in his hand. In the shadows behind him, unseen, Sully was already watching.

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The Villain – Chapter 3: The Lonely House

The city screamed Sully’s name in terror, yet no one had ever seen his face. They searched in mansions, in nightclubs, in hidden bunkers where the rich hid from their guilt. But no one ever looked at the abandoned edges of the city, where broken windows stared like blind eyes and weeds grew through cracked pavements.

There, hidden in plain sight, Sully lived.

To the world, he was a phantom. But in truth, he was simply a 38-year-old man, forgotten and overlooked, blending into crowds like dust in the wind. He carried groceries sometimes, walked past policemen, even sat in cafés—yet not a single soul ever remembered his face. He had made himself ordinary, invisible.

The house he called home was nothing but a ruin—peeling wallpaper, shattered furniture, and a piano with broken keys. Yet, to Sully, it was sanctuary. The outside world saw emptiness. He saw silence. Silence that gave him freedom.

That night, rain tapped against the rusted roof as Sully sat by the window, staring into the dark horizon. The glow of the city flickered faintly in the distance, but here, there was nothing but shadows and echoes. He reached for the old record player on the shelf, its gears squeaking like an old man’s bones.

He set the needle down. A soft tune began to play—scratchy, imperfect, but hauntingly beautiful.

And then, a voice.

Not his. A boy’s voice, recorded long ago, filled the hollow house. The boy sang of sorrow, of loneliness, of tears that fell apart like broken glass. The voice trembled but carried innocence, the kind only children could possess.

Sully closed his eyes.

The echo of that boy’s song wrapped around him, stirring something deep, something buried beneath years of silence and blood. His lips twitched, and for the first time in days, a sound escaped him.

A laugh.

It was low at first, almost reluctant, then stronger. The boy’s recorded voice sang with emotion, and Sully’s laughter tangled with it, creating a strange harmony—music and madness woven together.

“Tears fall apart…” the boy sang.

Sully repeated softly, “…but we remain.”

For a moment, the killer was not a ghost, not a monster, but a man remembering something he had once lost: companionship. Love.

In the hollow house, the walls carried the echoes—child’s voice and man’s laughter—spinning into something almost joyous, almost alive.

He remembered the boy. Not the world’s boy, but his. A boy who had once looked at him with unshaken trust, who had loved him in silence when the rest of the world turned away. Their bond had been strange, pure yet scarred by tragedy. And though time had buried that past, the music unearthed it again, like bones rising from the ground.

Sully opened his eyes, staring into the cracked mirror across the room. His reflection was a stranger—unkempt hair, hollow cheeks, a face lined with solitude. Yet in his ears, the boy’s laughter still lived.

He reached out, touching the mirror gently.

“You were the only one who saw me,” he whispered.

The house seemed to breathe with him. Every broken wall, every creaking floorboard carried their memory. The music played on, the boy’s voice breaking into higher notes as if crying to the heavens.

Sully laughed again, louder this time, tears burning his eyes but never falling. He was a villain to the city, a killer to the world. But here, in the ruins, he was simply a man clinging to the only fragment of love he had ever known.

The record crackled. The boy’s song ended. Silence reclaimed the room.

Sully sat there, chest heaving, as the echoes of their laughter still danced in the air.

And then he whispered, almost to himself, “They’ll never take this from me.”

Outside, thunder roared, and the rain grew heavier, drowning the city’s streets. Somewhere far away, another man in a suit raised a glass of wine, thinking himself untouchable.

But Sully had already chosen his next song.

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⚡ Cliffhanger Ending:

As Sully switched the record, faint footsteps echoed outside the abandoned house. Someone was nearby. Someone was listening.

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