[Location] Warehouse 34 (The Den)

Hunting, as Todd called it, was best done under the cover of night. Humans were diurnal animals, and night tended to bring out the worst in them. He was no exception to this rule. People also tended to forget that there was a reason their ancestors were afraid of the dark. Monsters aside, most predators hunt better in the dark. Most big cats will kill large prey in the dark and drag it back to their den to eat at their leisure in the daylight hours.

A permanent den was far off Todd's radar, but he had grown to like that method. Neutralize, or at least immobilize someone in a convenient alley, then bring them to a second location. As he was new to the area, Todd hadn't found the right sort of place, but the cold in his bones hadn't given him much time to look. He'd reached the point where he slipping up left and right. While he was sure that overindulgence had been what got him to this state in the first place, if it made him any sloppier than it already had he wasn't going to be able to stay in Pittsburgh for long.

Despite his worries, the Cryptid had made it here just fine. He'd gone unnoticed as he found a lone individual in those back streets, cut them down with a practiced slice of the metal claws, and heaved them up onto his shoulders at such an angle that the flow of red just trickled into his coat. A stain he was more than practiced in getting out.

What he failed to notice, as the scent of blood surrounded him and the promise of a meal enticed the cold to burst forth from his bones, was the occasional drip of that flow in small patches behind him. The drops were occasional, and dried quickly on the cooler cement at this time of night, but if they caught someone's eye they'd be rather obvious.

For a while, though, he had nothing to worry about. His earlier selection of warehouse, clearly abandoned with a well-placed drain toward the back, seved him very well, even without the internal padlock he would've preferred. Perhaps he should've waited to make the kill until he got here, but he couldn't risk someone trying to struggle while he carried them in his weakened state. It'd be fine in the long-term, he was sure, since he didn't plan to use the place again. Besides, he hadn't picked somebody who'd be missed. Another low-life addict. He would've much preferred a dealer, but beggars can't be choosers. That was his opportunity, and he'd had to take it.

Madness always has a method, and although the work was bloody, Todd had enough experience to maximize efficiency. His coat was set aside in a corner, the victim's clothes in a different corner. He had a duffel bag full of butcher's tools he'd collected over the years - nowhere all at once, absolutely not. He could hardly fight with the stuff but it made this part easier. The part of his process that might offput people the most was the fact that he ate his meals raw, as they were. Taste was the farthest thing from his mind when he had to do this, and given that he knew full well he didn't need to cook it to digest it made the whole process faster.

He always started at the head, then the torso. Limbs, which could be dismembered and carried if need be, were always last, in case he started to get paranoid. Plus to start with the face meant that it was easier to divorce the idea of a person from the food he needed to survive. The ability of his jaw to crack through the toughest bones also served him well. Then the softer insides, then the tedium of pulling the ribs apart. The ribs were definitely the hardest, and he always started to feel the relieved lethargy of fullness as soon as he finished with them.

After an hour's hard work, he sat there in the center of that warehouse. He was thoroughly soaked in crimson, from his hands to his shoulders, all down the lower half of his face where his mask stopped hiding it and dripping onto his shirt. He popped the last finger of one hand into his mouth and savored the soft pop, crunch, crunch as the bone gave out. Just about finished, one arm and one leg left, set aside. He picked up the arm, forced the elbow joint to separate, and pulled the humerus free. The hand and forearm went back to the ground as he bit into the bicep with a content sigh. He wasn't quite ready to let the tired contentment take him, but it was a good sign that nothing had interrupted him.

Yet.