Inside a dilapidated warehouse, Elikxil sat tied to a chair, arms bound behind her back.
Just minutes ago, she had been arrogantly yelling that they wouldn't escape, claiming the Dog Head Society would catch them sooner or later. Now, she was reduced to sobbing pleas for mercy.
Owen hadn't been formally trained in interrogation, but he had witnessed Bryan's methods before—and mimicking them was enough to break someone like Elikxil, who wasn't even trained.
"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything you want to know! Please, just stop! I can't take it anymore!"
Elikxil was covered in blood, snot and tears smearing her face, her whole appearance wretched and pitiful.
Owen had only used his claw knife to make about a dozen cuts on her body—then sprinkled salt over them. That alone had been more than enough to get her talking.
"Where are our friends?"
"S-southeast side of the town... an old abandoned factory..."
"What are you doing with them?"
"Someone... someone is waiting there. They paid to... to kill your friends themselves..."
"Kill them? Why?"
Monica's eyes widened in disbelief.
"No reason... it's a service... the Dog Head Society provides for the rich..."
"What is the Dog Head Society? Who runs it?"
"I... I don't know exactly. I just lured people in. Their leader's name is Douglas. The Dog Head Society regularly delivers foreigners... so those rich freaks can kill them for fun..."
Elikxil stammered the words out between sobs.
Owen judged her to be telling the truth—but, following Bryan's example, he decided to go a second round.
"You're lying..."
"No! No, I'm not! Please stop, please! I'm telling the truth—AHHH—!"
After a few more fresh wounds, Elikxil was nearly broken, teetering on the edge of collapse. That confirmed for Owen that her story was genuine—but what she revealed left both of them stunned.
The Dog Head Society specialized in providing rich Europeans with live victims to fulfill their murder fantasies. They lured people to the town using various bait—beauty, relaxation, romance—and then handed them over to the paying clients to be brutally executed.
These people could kill their victims in any way they wanted—no matter how sadistic—and no one would interfere.
Owen recalled the train ride—how Monica and the other women had been drawn in by Elikxil's pitch about a "beauty spa." And the so-called pickup guys? Tempted by the promise of easy flings with local women.
Looking back now, it all seemed obvious. But at the time, no one had suspected a thing—they'd chalked it up to clever tourist-trap gimmicks.
Even more horrifying was that all of Owen's earlier suspicions were accurate. Others had noticed something was wrong before and tried to report it—but it had been useless. The police were in on it. So was the inn.
That Harvest Festival party? A joke. It was a carefully crafted event by the Dog Head Society to give their clients a chance to interact with their prey up close.
The better they got to know their target, the more satisfying the kill.
Some of them were so twisted they would go out of their way to befriend their victims—or even sleep with them—just to make the eventual murder more gratifying.
It was pure perversion.
As for the town's residents—they weren't exactly accomplices, but they all knew what was going on and chose to stay quiet.
The town was poor. The Dog Head Society brought in jobs. The victims—foreigners—brought in money. The townspeople profited, their standard of living improved, and even those who had moral objections simply avoided involvement rather than speak out. Anyone who did would be challenging the whole town.
It was terrifying.
Hearing all this sent chills down Owen and Monica's spines. If they hadn't escaped, they'd be prey by now too.
But Beth and the others were still in danger.
Time was tight.
According to Elikxil, the clients would head to the factory shortly after the victims were delivered—there wouldn't be much of a delay. If they arrived too late, Beth and the others could already be dead.
Owen didn't kill Elikxil.
Slitting her throat would've been too kind. He left her to die in agony.
They locked the warehouse door from the outside, Elikxil's screams muffled behind it. The location was remote—though not far from the inn, it was secluded enough that no one would likely pass by.
Following Elikxil's directions, they located her car and drove toward the abandoned factory she'd mentioned.
The town wasn't big. Within twenty minutes, the towering chimney of the factory came into view. Owen parked by the side and, with Monica, climbed onto the car's roof and vaulted over the wall.
Just as Elikxil had described, the front gate was guarded—around a dozen burly white men stood watch.
The two snuck in through a side entrance. The factory was clearly long-abandoned—cracked walls, layers of dust, and spiderwebs were everywhere.
Elikxil hadn't known the internal layout, having never been inside herself. So Owen and Monica moved cautiously, sticking to the shadows, slowly making their way forward.
They climbed in through a window. Inside, this part of the factory had clearly been renovated—cleaner, more organized. Looked like some sort of locker room.
Voices echoed from down the hall. Owen and Monica exchanged a look and ducked into a dark corner.
The voices drew closer—two men, chatting casually.
"Stuart, I'm about to have my first kill—I'm so excited..."
"Todd, I don't know if I can do it. I mean—I'm not sure I'm ready..."
"Come on, man. You got the Dog Head tattoo. You have to kill, or they'll kill you. It's a shame though—your original target got switched last minute. You won't be killing the one you had contact with..."
The voices faded into the distance.
Owen and Monica gave each other a sharp look.
Stuart—that was the man who'd hit on Monica during the party. No wonder he had somehow known her name—Monica had been his assigned prey.
But since they had escaped, the Dog Head Society had reassigned Stuart another victim to make up for the loss.
Owen had only caught a glimpse—but Stuart and Todd were both wearing something like a slaughterhouse uniform: bright orange-red jumpsuits, rubber gloves.
When their figures disappeared around a corner, Owen and Monica slipped out of hiding. In the nearby lockers, there were several more of those same slaughter uniforms.
Clearly, the clients dressed this way when they did the killing.
Owen and Monica quickly changed into a set each.
Moments later, both dressed in full gear—jumpsuits, rubber caps, gloves, and masks—they passed around the same corner Stuart and Todd had gone.
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