Chapter 155 Night Crawler Back

Daryl didn’t wait.

The second Liam stepped toward him, Daryl turned and bolted like a terrified animal. Pure panic drove him. He didn’t look back—he didn’t dare look back. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted toward the chain-link fence behind him, the metal glinting under the pale moonlight like salvation.

He didn’t slow down.

He leapt, grabbing the fence and scrambling upward like his life depended on it—because it did.

But he didn’t make it halfway.

Liam moved.

No wasted motion. No flourish.

Just speed and purpose.

In a single smooth step, he crossed the gap and grabbed Daryl by the back of his hoodie like he was nothing more than a rag doll. Then, with terrifying calm, he ripped him off the fence and slammed him to the ground.

THUD!

Daryl’s body hit the concrete with sickening force. The air exploded out of his lungs. His vision blurred. Pain screamed through his back as he gasped, his eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

He clutched his stomach, coughing and choking on the pain, body spasming.

"Stop moving," Liam said coldly, his tone as flat and empty as a steel blade.

But Daryl, gasping for breath, didn’t listen.

He placed his trembling hand on the floor and tried to rise—desperation fueling him.

Crack!

A chilling sound shattered the night.

Liam’s boot came down, hard and brutal, on Daryl’s outstretched hand.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

The scream tore through the silence like a dying animal’s cry. Daryl thrashed as he looked at what used to be his hand—now a mangled mess of twisted flesh and shattered bone. His fingers were bent in unnatural directions. One was nearly ripped off entirely, hanging by nothing but skin. Another had bone piercing straight through.

It didn’t even look like a hand anymore.

Just a destroyed chunk of meat.

"Stop. Moving," Liam repeated, voice still cold... still terrifyingly calm.

Daryl obeyed this time.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He just sobbed, broken and shivering, gasping in agony. But even that annoyed Liam.

"Shut the fuck up," he said sharply, and instantly, Daryl muffled his cries. Tears still rolled down his face, but he bit his lips together to keep the noise in.

Liam crouched down and unzipped the bag he had brought with him. From it, he pulled out a roll of thick, industrial tape.

"No," Daryl whimpered, barely audible. "Please... don’t kill me... please, I’ll do anything... anything... please..."

Liam didn’t reply.

He just gave a faint, emotionless smile.

And taped Daryl’s mouth shut.

The whimpers became muffled sobs.

The street was silent again. Only the sound of the wind and the soft rustling of leaves could be heard as Liam stood up, adjusted his shirt, and stared down at the broken man beneath him.

Daryl was going nowhere.

Mission complete.

—

Back at Liam’s apartment...

The moonlight poured in through the window, soft and silver, casting gentle shadows across the room.

Lana stirred under the covers.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim light. Still only half-awake, she turned slightly and saw Liam beside her—lying still under the blanket, his face relaxed, his hair slightly messy, his features sharp even in sleep.

She smiled faintly.

Then, without thinking, her fingers reached for him—trailing gently along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin.

A soft sigh escaped her lips.

But within seconds, her hand fell limp.

Sleep pulled her back into its embrace.

She slipped under once more.

Liam opened his eyes.

He hadn’t been sleeping.

Not even close.

He waited a few more seconds to make sure she was truly out. Then, silently and with calculated precision, he lifted the blanket and slid out of bed.

First, his boots came off—quietly.

Then his shirt—he folded it and set it aside.

From the bottom drawer, he pulled out the exact clothes he’d been wearing earlier before he went after Daryl.

He changed back into them, every move controlled and silent.

Then, without a sound, he slid back into bed.

He lay down beside Lana, adjusted the blanket, and closed his eyes.

As if nothing had happened.

---

Vanessa gripped the steering wheel with both hands as she parked just outside the alleyway marked off by yellow police tape. Her knuckles were white. Her hair was a little messy from being forced out of bed at such an ungodly hour, strands falling over her face and neck. Her usually sharp eyes were dulled with exhaustion, with faint dark circles under them—clear proof of the sleepless nights that had been piling up lately.

With a frustrated growl, she slammed her palm against the steering wheel.

"Can’t I get a fucking good sleep these days?" she muttered bitterly.

She hadn’t even been asleep for two hours when the call came in: Another body found.

She dragged herself out, half-dressed and barely functioning, and drove straight here. She didn’t even remember most of the drive.

The moment she stepped out of her car and adjusted her belt and gun holster, she saw him—Chief Josh Michelle, already standing at the edge of the crime scene with his usual coffee in his hand. His eyes were puffy too, but his gaze sharpened the moment he saw Vanessa approaching.

He looked her up and down with a subtle twitch of his lip—messy hair, tired eyes, rumpled shirt hugging her chest, her hips shifting side to side in her usual confident stride. Even half-dead from fatigue, she was still a goddamn goddess in uniform. It irritated him. And aroused him.

"Vanessa," Josh said grimly, "you need to prepare yourself for this one."

She scoffed, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last a lifetime, Chief. Nothing surprises me anymore."

Josh just gave her a look and stepped aside to let her pass through the tape.

Vanessa walked into the alley.

And stopped cold.

Her breath hitched.

Even after everything she’d seen in her years on the force—murders, overdoses, suicides—this was something else.

This was something out of a horror movie.

A human body had been cut into parts. Arms, legs, torso—all sliced clean and then gruesomely sewn to the wall like some sick, demented art project. The limbs were positioned to form twisted, rigid letters across the fence.

Letters that spelled out:

NIGHT CRAWLER

Vanessa’s heart slammed in her chest. Her mouth went dry.

And then she saw it.

The head.

It was placed neatly on a nearby dumpster. Metal wires had been stabbed into the corners of the mouth, yanking the lips into a grotesque imitation of a smile. It wasn’t a smile. It was a nightmare frozen in time.

The smell hit her next.

blood, urine. She barely turned her face in time.

She rushed to the side, clutching her stomach, and bent over as she vomited behind a large bin.

"Shit..." she gasped, wiping her mouth.

Josh turned at the sound—and stopped.

From his angle, he could see her bent over completely, her hips in the air as her perfectly fitted uniform pants hugged her ass. Even in the dim alley lighting, the curve of her backside was impossible to miss. His face lit up slightly, despite the horrific surroundings. A part of him—a very wrong part—was grateful she had turned to puke in that direction.

He lingered a second too long before forcing his eyes back to the scene.

Just then, one of the forensic techs walked up, holding a tablet.

"Chief," the man said with urgency in his voice. "We’ve ID’d the head. Facial recognition ran the scan twice to be sure. It’s confirmed."

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

The man looked grim. "Daryl Clinton. High school student."

Josh stiffened.

Of course he knew Daryl. The kid had been a nuisance since he was fourteen. Petty theft, truancy, fights—always hanging around with that Kyle bastard. Nothing serious enough to lock him up for long, but just enough to make sure he was on the radar.

Behind them, Vanessa straightened up again, wiping her lips with a cloth from her pocket. She rejoined them quietly, still pale, eyes haunted.

"Daryl Clinton?" she asked. "Wasn’t he Kyle’s friend?"

Josh nodded. "Yeah. Always by Kyle’s side."

"Damn it," he muttered, rubbing his face. "I know who this is. It has to be that Liam guy."

Vanessa’s tired eyes narrowed. "I already told you—Liam had nothing to do with Kyle’s death. He was in my house when it happened. You confirmed it."

Josh grumbled but didn’t argue.

"Okay, okay... I believe you. But then who the hell did this?"

Before the silence could stretch, another forensics officer spoke up from beside the dumpster.

"Sir," he said, voice careful. "It wasn’t Liam."

Josh turned to him. "Why did you say that?"

The man held up a tablet showing two crime scene comparison reports. "We believe whoever killed Kyle is the same person who did this to Daryl. The method, the brutality, the symbolism... It’s too similar. But there’s something else."

He turned the screen again.

"There was another body. Local thug. Mid-twenties. His throat was slit—clean, fast. Died instantly. But no other damage was done to him. No stitching. No display. His body was just left there, almost like an afterthought."

Josh raised his eyebrows. "So?"

The tech continued. "It’s like the killer only had a personal grudge with Daryl. The thug wasn’t part of the message. He was just in the way."

Vanessa looked at the display again, and her lips parted slightly in realization.

"So you’re saying..." she said slowly, "Kyle’s killer came after Daryl? For revenge?"

"Exactly," the man said. "And if it was Liam, then he had to be responsible for Kyle’s death too but he wasn’t..." He gestured to Daryl’s body. "This was emotional. Personal. Anger-driven. Whoever did this hated him."

Josh folded his arms, brow furrowed in thought.

Vanessa looked back toward the sewn-up body spelling NIGHT CRAWLER, her stomach tightening all over again. It felt like something bigger was beginning... something darker.