A rather popular and controversial topic to debate was whether the Psycho Slums occurred unintentionally or voluntarily. It had only been eighteen years since Psychwatch was founded, yet most of the country still wasn't ready to embrace them. Only a few states along the East Coast had permitted their services while the rest of the world remained offline, still wondering whether sympathy and proper mental health treatment were worth sacrificing their personal freedom of thought to the authorities.

These Psycho Slums were the closest getaways one could find from the watchful eye of the doctor-cops. Even regular cops tended to avoid those neighborhoods like the plague. They saw them as places where citizens on the verge of cracking could break down in peace, where they couldn't lay a hand on innocent people. Either they were unlucky enough to get caught by the authorities and had to deal with the legal consequences, or they had to endure the consequences of whatever choices and mistakes they made on their own. And if it ends in violence, the Psycho Slums would consume their corpse and make sure no one would ever learn of their significance.

But deep within the shadow-engulfed neighborhoods lined with dilapidated brownstones and abandoned stores, one man was fully aware of what he could do and what he was going to do. He knew that the freedom provided to him by the dreaded reputation of the Psycho Slums meant anarchy could be started by any person. Nobody, including himself, knew the full extent of the horrific fantasies plagued his thoughts. All he knew was that people were going to suffer.

The Multi Man sat alone in a chair, rinsing the blood off his dagger.

The light of the moon shone down on him through the hole in the skylight above him. Shards of glass surrounded him like an army ready to strike. His blazer dangled off his chair beside him, the sleeves speckled with red marks. His clean dagger glistened in the moonlight as the blood dripped into the water in the bucket below him. He slung his blazer back over his shoulders, making sure the bandages wrapped around his arms remained adhered to his skin.

No one, not even his own colleagues, knew what he looked like. His mask never came off nor did the bandages engulfing his arms. They won't know what was done to me, he thought to himself. Only what I will do to them.

The sound of footsteps grew louder as Dawson approached the entrance to the room. His sleeves were dowsed with red mist and in his left hand was a bloodied axe. "We got rid of the evidence," he said with exhaustion. "He never saw a thing coming."

"There's always someone who has to feel guilty at the last minute," the Multi Man groaned. "Joining me means never looking for a way out. He jumped into the pool, yet he refused to swim. So he drowned just like the other ones lacking loyalty."

"Don't you feel a little remorseful, sir? I mean, he said you were his last hope. Like you were the only person in this world who gave him a meaning."

"Well if I do, I haven't noticed."

Dawson remained quiet. He slowly approached the bucket full of water and blood and nervously dipped the axehead into it. "I hope you don't mind me asking, sir," he continued, "but why don't you ever hesitate to resort to violence?"

The only response he got was laughter. And it wasn't even from his own boss. He looked behind to see Crimson leaning against the door frame, playfully waving her machete around like a baton. Her mask was off, her crudely scribbled grin replaced with a sadistic smirk. Her red eyes glowed dimly in the moonlight and her white hair smoothed beautifully down her head like snow on a mountain. Those who knew her well knew that was the closest to peaceful she'd ever be.

"What's so funny?" Dawson asked.

"You're so adorable, Dawson," Crimson chuckled. "I know it can take a while for some newbies to get used to the lack of restraints on overkill, but how long have you been with us already?"

"I'll do the explaining, Crimson," the Multi Man replied as he rose from his chair. "Go check on your brother. Put him to sleep again the hard way if you have to."

"But we both still have bruises from that."

"You're either getting your bruises from him, or you're getting them from me. Your choice."

Crimson's irreverent leer vanished instantly. It was the first time Dawson had ever seen her show fear. Even when she stormed off, she did it in a manner as if her life were hanging by a thread. He didn't know how long it would take for him to start falling for those little tricks, especially considering he'd never even seen the Man lay a hand on the twins.

"Dawson," the Multi Man spoke in his typical cold demeanor. "Do you believe it's possible for you to be hurt by another human being?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Do you also believe you are capable of inflicting the same thing in return?"

"I'm pretty sure. But I don't know why I'd want to."

He tensed up at the sound of glass cracking against the floor. The room went silent. His superior waited in the shadows, his head hanging low as he glanced at the trashed floor. Not another sound was heard throughout the building. No wind. No cars passing by. Not even the footsteps of the others prowling the abandoned mall's floors.

It was as if he and this Multi Man were the only ones left on the planet.

The glass cracked again as his superior walked closer and closer to him. Dawson looked down. The axehead was only a few feet away from him, still wading in the crimson-colored waters. He would never be able to reach it. Plus, who knew how many other weapons the Man was hiding?

Dawson shut his eyes, glad he'd never once taken off his mask in front of these people.

Much to his surprise, a hand lowered down onto his shoulder. His eyes proceeded to creep back open, and the first thing he saw was a dirty white glove gripping his shoulder. When he opened the other eye, he turned his view to the mask in front of him, the bright red X's over the eyes seemingly gazing into him. Then there was that grin forever plastered on that mask, disguising whatever horrible thought the Multi Man had about the people around him.

"It's not about if you want to," the Man replied. "It's all about if you have to."

"What do you mean?" Dawson asked.

"From your point of view, would you say that there's no need to hurt someone if they never hurt you?"

Dawson swallowed back fear. "Yes."

"Then don't you think that it's alright to hurt them back as long as they made the first move?"

"W-w-what do you believe, sir?"

The Multi Man paused for a moment, letting go of his subordinate's shoulder. "After a while," he spoke, "you start to realize that you don't need Psychwatch to predict what people think or do anymore. You begin to figure out how people work and react. And if there's one thing people like to do, it's outdo each other."

"Is that why you like violence so much, sir?" Dawson asked, taking a few steps back.

"You make me sound like I can't be controlled," the Multi Man replied. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Uh..."

After a pause, the Man continued. "What I like to do is get a job done. And make sure it gets done perfectly so it will never have to be repeated or improved. What I like, Dawson, is making sure people never underestimate my threats."

Dawson didn't reply. Instead he adjusted his mask to make sure the end remained just over the tip of his chin.

"And that's where I go back to our bad habit of outdoing," the Man continued. "People always want to overpower each other. The first guy flings an insult. The second guy throws a punch. The first guy makes his move again by beating the living daylight out of the second. He might not even care if the bastard lives to learn the lesson. But if the second lives, he'll either walk away with his lesson learned or he'll cross the line. Nothing matters to him as long as he knows the first guy fears him with every fiber of his being."

"But why would they go through all that just to make sure they fear each other?" Dawson asked.

"Because, Dawson, to make a person lose their value, you don't just tear their body apart. They can still find the will to live and convince themselves they're worth putting back together. You tear their mind apart, and they'll be nothing but an empty shell. Just a puppet cut from its strings. You can give them the whole world, but it won't matter if they don't find any meaning in it."

Dawson paused. "Did someone hurt you, sir?" he asked.

The Multi Man didn't respond. He kicked the bucket of crimson water over, spilling its contents into a hole in the floor. He walked over to the door past Dawson but paused before he could take another step out the room. "Maybe," he replied. "Maybe not. I could just be trying to get in your head."

"I hate to say it, sir, but I'd prefer if you didn't do that."

The Multi Man patted Dawson on his shoulder for the last time that evening before addressing him in his usual, cold demeanor. "It's too late, kid. I'm already inside."