Who is "The Unstoppable Killer?"

And why is everybody asking?

Scene: A dimly lit dive bar in the heart of Dimes Square.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke, the kind that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left. The jukebox wheezes out a forgotten 80s track—synth-heavy, distant, like a memory trying to resurface. A bartender wipes down the counter, eyes averted, as if he knows better than to acknowledge what’s happening in the corner booth.

Jack Ludkey sits across from a figure that flickers at the edges, as if reality itself struggles to contain it. The Unstoppable Killer stirs a drink with a single, razor-sharp finger. The liquid does not ripple.

Jack: So, let’s start with the obvious—why Dimes Square? Why here?

The Unstoppable Killer: [Chuckles, voice like static over a police scanner.] You ever see what happens when a place starts believing in its own myth? The artists, the journalists, the failed actors—spinning their own legends until they start to feel real. Someone whispered about me in the right afterparty, and suddenly, I was here.

Jack: You're saying... you were willed into existence?

Killer: Call it collective manifestation. Call it a tulpa. Doesn’t matter. What matters is they believed in something like me—an apex predator in vintage Carhartt. And belief? That’s blood in the water.

Jack: You talk about this place like it summoned you. But there have always been predators in scenes like this.

Killer: Sure. But those were just people. Egos with switchblades. I’m something different. I don’t need clout, I don’t need followers. I don’t even need a motive.

Jack: Then what do you need?

Killer: [Grinning, teeth too sharp, too numerous.] A good story.

Jack: You’ve left a trail of bodies. Artists, critics, influencers—

Killer: [Leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow fills the entire bar.] I don’t pick favorites. The scene was always eating itself anyway. I just sharpened the knife.

Jack: Some people say you only go after the ones who don’t belong. The posers, the tourists, the ones faking their way through it.

Killer: That’s what they tell themselves to sleep at night. “It won’t be me. I’m real. I get it.” [Laughs, the sound like metal scraping metal.] But tell me, Jack—who actually belongs here?

Jack: [Shifts in seat.] That’s—

Killer: It’s always been a closed loop. Everyone clawing at the edges, hoping no one notices they weren’t invited in the first place. And me? I’m just the thing they always feared was coming.

Jack: And what’s that?

Killer: Consequence.

Jack: People are already saying you’re a cautionary tale. That maybe you’re what happens when irony curdles.

Killer: Cute. But irony doesn’t stop a blade. And you? You’re here. Talking to me. That means some part of you wants this story to keep going.

Jack: Maybe I just want to understand.

Killer: [Smiles, eyes dark voids in the flickering light.] Understanding isn’t the same as stopping.

Jack: Then let me ask you something else—do you ever feel regret?

Killer: You think a wildfire regrets burning down a forest? I’m not some slasher with a tragic backstory, Jack. I’m momentum. I’m the fear that keeps people from checking their phones on the walk home.

Jack: But fear fades. Scenes change. What happens when no one’s afraid anymore?

Killer: Then I go where the next story starts.

A silence stretches between them. The jukebox crackles, cutting out for a moment, then picking up in the middle of another song no one remembers putting on. Jack looks down at his tape recorder. The red light is still blinking.

Jack: One last question. Can you be stopped?

Killer: Only when they stop telling the story. But they won’t. Not yet.

The Unstoppable Killer leans back, dissolving into shadow and cigarette smoke. The seat across from Jack is empty. He exhales, unsure when he started holding his breath.

Outside, the streets of Dimes Square are quiet. For now.