The Angel of Death was a dangerous psychopath—one of the most wanted men alive. A brilliant serial killer who had never been caught, his true identity remained a complete mystery. People called him insane, not only for his cruelty but for the surgical precision of his murders. His victims were always found mutilated, their internal organs missing—removed with such mastery that they remained fresh, ready to be sold on the black market.

No one knew that his knowledge didn’t come from formal training. He had no mentors, no classrooms, no teachers—only stolen books, trial, and error. Yet his hands moved with the flawless steadiness of a seasoned surgeon. His killings were unpredictable, his methods impossible to anticipate—even for the FBI, who had hunted him for years in vain. He showed no mercy. He killed indiscriminately, even children, his face never betraying a flicker of remorse. Sometimes he left taunting messages written in the victims’ blood, mocking the authorities: "Stupid cops. You will never catch me. Pathetic."

To the world, he was a faceless nightmare. But by day, no one suspected him. At the university, he wore the mask of an innocent, naïve orphan—quiet, harmless, even pitiable. Yet when night fell, he hunted. For him, murder was entertainment. The fortune he amassed from selling organs was immense, but he chose to live in a modest apartment, its rooms filled only with the most expensive brands—a private theater for the double life he performed.

What made him even more terrifying than his cruelty was what he lacked: the ability to feel pain. A rare syndrome had left him incapable of experiencing it. And so, he found twisted pleasure in watching others writhe, scream, and beg—for sensations he would never feel.

Meanwhile, Lucien ruled as a ruthless mafia boss, feared across the underworld. Unlike the Angel of Death, he retained a sliver of empathy—just enough to make him human, but never soft. He commanded power, money, loyalty, and fear in equal measure. But recently, devastating news had reached him: his right-hand man, one of his most capable lieutenants, had been found dead.

"I didn’t expect that lunatic to touch what was mine," he muttered, swirling a glass of deep crimson wine while a cigar smoldered between his lips. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned with cold rage. "From this moment on, hunt him down."

"B-but, Boss..." one of his men stammered nervously. "We don’t even know who the Angel of Death really is. Even the FBI gave up on finding him. He’s too clever, too unpredictable."

The mafia boss arched an eyebrow, amused.

"Angel of Death?"

"Y-yes, sir. That’s... that’s what people call him."

A thin smirk curved across Lucien’s lips.

"Interesting. I don’t care how you do it. Find him. I want this diamond in my hand."

That night, as his convoy rolled through the city, Lucien prepared to leave for Tokyo to negotiate with the Yakuza. But at exactly 3 a.m., through the tinted window of his car, something unusual caught his eyes: a lone figure stumbling across the empty street, his hands drenched in blood, clutching his abdomen as though wounded.

"Stop. Wait."

The car screeched to a halt. Lucien stepped into the silence of the night, the cold air brushing against his tailored suit. His sharp eyes followed the crimson trail glistening on the pavement. Around the corner, in a narrow alley, the source revealed itself—a body, torn apart beyond recognition, its limbs scattered grotesquely. Unlike the usual precise dissections, this one was shapeless, ruined... unfinished.

He knew why. The killer himself was hurt.

Pressing forward with silent steps, Lucien followed the trail deeper into the shadows. And then he saw him: a man moving unsteadily, blood dripping steadily from a stab wound in his stomach, yet his expression was eerily calm. No wince. No flinch. No pain.

That, more than anything, made Lucien’s lips curl into a grin.

In a swift motion, he seized the man’s wrist and yanked him into the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. Their eyes met—golden-red predator to empty, abyssal void.

"Found you..." Lucien’s voice was a low, dangerous murmur, his breath laced with smoke and wine. "Angel of Death."

The silence between them crackled like electricity, not fear—but recognition. Predator meeting predator.