He hunts at night, in secrecy of shadows. Approaching unheard, free to melt into the edges of the room, unseen. He watches, preferring to know his victims. He steps with fine precision, drifting across creaky floorboards as if he were incorporeal.
But he is real.
In this way he hunts – renegade surveillance. New tape. Press record.
The child sleeps soundly, dreaming. It never wakes; they never see each other’s eyes. It’s a mercy really. The child’s life is over before it knows that its father and mother have already had their throats cut. They were awake. They struggled, and the hunter enjoyed it, knew it would make for better footage, to be watched again. But to wake the child seemed like a crime far worse than all the rest. So the child died silently. It was imperceptible, as knife cut into flesh, the exact moment that sleep became death.

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