Chapter 7
SEVEN
The machines ran with quiet efficiency as the gallon-sized stainless-steel containers hummed.
The room adjacent to the main area was where the magic happened.
They were filled with perfect fluids—perfect in every way.
The Puzzler stood in the middle of the room admiring his handiwork and his ambition.
No job would ever compare to what he had created here.
There were crimson drops on the floor that immediately caught his eye. He quickly investigated by putting two fingers on the sterile white floor and dabbing them. Then he brought his fingertips to his mouth and licked them. It was almost perfectly between salty and sweet.
His liking for the taste of blood was referred to as hematophilia. It fed his sexual fetish for plasma, which he associated with finding the perfect woman he desperately needed. It was something he’d had a taste for ever since he first cut his finger as a boy—he never forgot that day.