PIGTOWN: DECADENCE
Chapter I:
Tobias Salman
“At my age, I don’t expect surprises anymore…”
-Some old romantic song
The call came at 3:12 AM.
Ivar Nux didn’t greet him. He just said:
"Pigtown. There’s a body. Discretion."
"Who?"
"You’ll know when you get here. Come alone. Tell no one."
The tone was dry, but the urgency was unmistakable. Nux didn’t call at that hour unless it mattered. Then he hung up.
Tobias Salman sat on the edge of his bed. He switched on the lamp and began mentally cataloging the few facts he had. Normally a light sleeper, tonight it took him longer to come back to full awareness. As if his body already knew this day would be unusually long. Or dirty. Or both.
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He dressed as always: shirt, coat, notebook, weapon. Three knocks on the doorframe before stepping out. A ritual. Not out of habit, but superstition. He didn’t believe in luck, but
he believed in gestures. The kind that had kept him breathing for nearly two decades. Ritual was part of him, like the scar on his left side.
He descended into the underground parking. Slid behind the wheel. Exhaled. Waited. A vibration on his phone: coordinates. He smiled, bitterly. Muscle memory. A deja vu that left a bad taste. He scanned the map. He knew the area. Had been there once or twice, though nothing came back clearly. He didn’t push it. Started the engine. The garage door opened with a tired, metallic groan—like an eyelid fighting to stay awake. The city outside was asleep. Not a soul in sight.
Pigtown was under forty minutes away via the old highway. Fog hung low and motionless, as if it had decided never to leave. Moisture blurred the windshield, forcing him to flick
the wipers on intermittent. Sodium lights stretched endlessly down the straightaway, casting a hypnotic rhythm of shadow and light. Pulses. Flickers. A lullaby of concrete
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and neglect. He yawned. Switched through radio stations. Static. Songs from another era. Anything to stay awake.
The first threshold came in the form of a rusted sign: “Ottänak,” slashed hastily with a white X. He was in. The cursed name: Pigtown. No one said it without reason. Especially not the chief of police. It was a taboo nickname, a derogatory term for the main city of the filideisus. Used only by those who knew that society had more than two faces. That the official mask was already cracking.
The coordinates led him to a liminal zone—barely urbanized. The site sparked something. An artificial hill. A concrete and glass structure, half-swallowed by wild vegetation. Built to remain hidden, not to endure. He had been here before. Didn’t know when or why, but his body remembered. That discomfort of a memory not fully formed prickled at the base of his neck.
He parked beside Nux’s vehicle. Behind them, a small yellow city car. Nothing notable. Not yet. Nux stood at the entrance. He didn’t speak. Just handed him a latex glove.
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"Where?" Salman asked, slipping it on.
Nux didn’t answer. He tilted his head, motioning him inside.
The door opened with a wet whisper. The air inside was still. It didn’t smell of death. It smelled of incense—and old metal. A mix that spoke not of life or death, but something older. Something ceremonial.
A woman stood beside the body. Young. Ashen skin. Immense, motionless eyes. Clearly filideisus. Her sadness was so present it seemed to shape the room.
Salman glanced at Nux as he slipped on the other glove, subtly nodding toward the woman.
"Brianna. Her assistant," Nux said. Flat tone. "She found the body."
The woman never met his eyes. Shock. That was clear. But something else in her stance—shame wrapped tight around fierce composure. As if staying upright was part of her duty.
Salman didn’t ask questions. Not yet.
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He approached the body. His stomach tightened at the sight, but he wasn’t surprised. Not yet. He didn’t know who she was. But the staging was deliberate. Brutal. This wasn’t a murder. It was a message.
Centered in the room: the corpse. Female. Filideisus. Middle-aged. Strong. Even in death, beautiful. Laid atop a carved wooden altar adorned with religious iconography of her kind. The three-fingered hand—one of their sacred symbols—repeated like a motif across the scene. Incense burners, still smoldering, flanked the body. A ceremonial purple cloth barely veiled her throat, cleanly opened with surgical precision. Blood had been collected in bronze bowls, connected by channels carved into the altar. One bowl had tipped, staining the polished floor with a thick, dark blot.
Her eyes were closed. Her mouth relaxed. And on her face, the oddest thing: peace. As if she’d accepted death.
Salman couldn’t yet understand the secrecy. To him, it was just another crime scene. He’d seen many. Too many. Except—this one had weight. Power. It lingered in the air.
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He unpacked his kit with practiced calm. Signaled Nux to assist. No words. Just a silent, trained choreography. Salman circled the body twice, touching nothing. Observing. Reading light and shape. He leaned closer to the face—and stopped. The silence deepened. He recognized her. But said nothing. Not yet.
He met Nux’s eyes. The captain nodded grimly.
Salman turned slightly, finding the girl again. For the first time, she looked back at him. Her eyes glistened. She nodded, just once. Small, but enough.
Salman swallowed hard. Something inside him shifted. As if until now, he’d hoped this was just another case. But now the weight came down. Heavy. Precise. Like lead.
His hand trembled for just a moment. He held still. Then straightened.
"Who else knows?" he asked quietly.
Nux shrugged. Scratched his head. Avoided his eyes. "A few. It needs to stay that way."
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Salman moved to the back wall. There, faint in the shadows, a symbol traced in something dark gleamed faintly on the polished surface. Not paint. Blood. A language. Old, but not lost.
The filideisus called it active memory. Humans called it superstition.
"Is it recent?" he asked.
Brianna looked at him again.
"It was drawn while she was dying," she said. "Or after. We don’t know."
She tried to continue, but broke off. Looked down. "You know who she is?" Salman asked without turning.
She nodded slowly.
"Yes. Tyberias Mallorca."
Salman closed his eyes.
The most influential spiritual leader of the filideisus. The only figure with true authority in both territories. The
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woman who, just hours earlier, had sealed a peace accord with the human minister in front of the entire nation.
Now she lay dead. Silenced. Ritualized.
She had called for calm in chaos. Peace in a fractured world ready to ignite. Someone had chosen to erase her voice.
And Salman finally understood the scale. Anxiety surged through him. He felt cornered. By Nux. By the filideisus girl. By something far beyond him. A silent machine of global collapse. He searched for exits. The walls closed in. He felt the weight of eyes. The air thickened. He needed to sit. His heart pounded. Nux noticed.
"Breathe," he said. "No one set you up. We’re in this together. But we need to keep it quiet. This could blow up in minutes."
Salman searched his face. The weight of it was there, etched into every line.
"Humans, apparently," he muttered.
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"If this leaks…" Nux started.
"Humans?" Salman said again, sharper.
Nux didn’t answer. Just nodded at Brianna.
She pointed to a second room.
"There."
The door was ajar. Salman stepped inside and froze. The walls were covered in blood-written phrases. Filideisus ceremonial script—battar. Urgent, childlike strokes. Raw. Sick.
Nux, voice hoarse, asked Brianna to translate. She stepped forward. Inhaled.
"Death to pigs… Helter Skelter… Khinzir…"
At the last word, she faltered. Her voice cracked. Not from shame. From something older. Deeper.
Khinzir.
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A word banned from official records but ever-present. On the margins. In extremist speeches. In walls etched with hate.
For the filideisus, it wasn’t shame. They knew their origins. They taught them. Celebrated them. In temples. In prayer. As symbols of endurance.
The pain wasn’t in where they came from.
It was in what that origin meant to others.
Once, they had been part of the human ancestral menu. Salman stepped back. A cold nausea gripped him. "This isn’t just murder," he said. "It’s a warning."
Nux nodded, somber.
"And if it becomes news, no treaty will hold."
The air grew heavier. Salman retraced his steps, now with his mind in motion. Inside, he was weighing the complexity of the moment. It was too much. But he had been trained for this.
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He had to regain control of the scene. Process. Organize. Extract as much information as possible. And for now, force himself to forget who lay on that altar.
He let out a long breath. From his inner pocket, he pulled a small voice recorder. The gesture was almost ceremonial. He adjusted the edges of his gloves with meticulous precision. Then he felt it—not in his mind, but in his body—the weight of responsibility settling on him.
Too much depended on his silence, his judgment, his composure. He couldn’t let fear take hold.
He knelt beside the altar and slowly lifted the purple cloth. With steady hands and a trained gaze, he began the inspection. Every detail mattered now. Not just for the crime—but for the message the crime carried.
He activated the recorder. His voice was firm, though slightly lower than usual.
"Female, filideisus, approximately fifty. Weight and height undetermined. Clean incision to the trachea. No visible signs of struggle. Possible prior sedation. Toxicology
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recommended. Blood dispersion contained. Collection channels active. Evidence of postmortem manipulation…"
Brianna flinched at the word "female," as if the term imposed a cold, brutal distance on what—just hours ago— had been a body of will, faith, and breath.
Nux and Brianna stood in silence, watching every move. The young woman strained to endure the pressure of the image before her: her mentor, her leader, the voice of her people, lying lifeless on a ceremonial altar.
Salman adjusted the flashlight. Shifted the body slightly. A detail caught his attention—small blood stains on the purple cloth, evenly spaced, symmetrical.
He frowned, shook his head, and pulled the cloth back a little further.
And then he saw it.
The chest had been mutilated.
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The three pairs of nipples—biological emblems of the filideisus lineage—had been removed with surgical brutality. Not rage. Method. Intent.
Brianna let out a dry gasp.
Salman turned just in time to see her clamp a hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
"Do it elsewhere. You’ll contaminate the scene," he said, not raising his voice.
She staggered back. Before leaving, she gave him a look— anger held behind glass. Then she crossed the threshold without a word.
Salman resumed the recording.
"The victim is entirely nude. All six mammary nipples have been surgically excised. At first glance, they appear to have been taken. No sign of them nearby."
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He returned to the body. His face showed no revulsion. Just cold focus. Eyes wide, intent on memorizing every detail.
The scene etched itself into his mind with painful clarity.
He heard her, just beyond the room, gagging again and again until it finally came. He didn’t see it, but he felt it. A part of him almost envied her. Maybe vomiting would have been a relief. A purge. A way to release the toxin crawling inside his chest like gas.
In a brief glance, he saw her hunched beyond the doorway, retching in what looked like a small utility bathroom. He fought to hold his composure. Forced himself to carry on.
He sat on a low stool near the altar. Nux was watching him. Salman closed the recorder, peeled off his gloves, and placed them beside his kit. A long breath escaped him. They exchanged a glance full of everything they couldn’t say.
Then something flickered at the edge of his vision.
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A shift. A movement.
He gestured subtly to Nux: stay still, stay sharp. A quick glance toward the bathroom—Brianna was still inside. With slow, quiet steps, Salman approached the corridor window. It was cracked open. The curtain rippled faintly. Through it, the backyard was a fog-choked blur, lit by a single exterior lamp.
But he could swear he’d seen something. A shape. Movement among the tangled vines crawling up the north wall.
He tensed. Held his breath.
"Nux," he called softly, not turning. "Backyard."
The captain responded instantly, alert. Brianna, emerging from the bathroom, was halted by a hand gesture. Nux motioned for her to stay. Pale, glassy-eyed, still trembling, she obeyed.
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Salman gave a clear signal. Nux didn’t ask questions. Both men drew their weapons and moved toward the rear door, covering each other.
The yard felt asleep. Shrubs frozen. Wet stones gleaming like mirrors. Only a fountain murmured steadily, a trickle of water over sacred carvings. Everything else was still. But thick with tension.
They circled the space, searching.
Nothing.
Then—a rustle.
Nux stepped into the darkest corner, where the wall vanished beneath the vines. He paused. Listened. Heard it: a shallow, ragged breath.
He looked at Salman.
And suddenly, something lunged.
A figure—small, fast, feral—launched at him. Claws and teeth. No words. Just guttural snarls and a piercing screech.
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Nux went down hard, blood spraying across his face. The attacker bit, scratched, shrieked like a caged animal.
Salman reacted on instinct. A sharp kick to the ribs. The creature flew sideways, hit the ground, rolled.
Then stood.
Finally, they saw it.
Still on the floor, Nux stared up in disbelief. It was a boy. Or something close.
Naked. Thin. Barely a meter tall. Skin dark and blotched with white. Covered in a fine down, like fur. As if he wore a map inked on his flesh—or as if his pigment had begun to fade.
The boy snarled. Screeched. Then bolted back into the house.
Salman gave chase. Down the hall. Up two steps. Past Brianna, who flinched away. Echoes. Damp air. Tension.
Then he stopped.
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In the ceremonial room, the boy was kneeling beside the corpse.
He was crying. Whimpering like a child who didn’t know how to name pain. Trembling hands took Tyberias’s cold arm and tried to place it over his head.
Seeking comfort. A final touch. As if her hand still held warmth.
The image was devastating. And unbearably tender.
Salman stood frozen. Nux entered behind him, wiping blood from his face, leaning on Brianna. They all stopped at once.
No one spoke.
Only the boy’s muffled sobs filled the room.
They exchanged glances. Unsure of what to do.
"A blanket. Bring a blanket," Salman said, eyes still fixed on the boy.
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Brianna understood instantly. She ran.
The boy turned. Growled. Crawled away, shaking. When Brianna returned, Salman took the blanket and stepped forward.
"It’s okay," he whispered. "Easy… easy."
He opened the blanket like a cloak.
The boy tensed. Leapt.
Tried to flee. Passed Nux.
The chief reacted on reflex. The butt of his weapon struck clean.
The boy dropped, unconscious.
They lifted him together. Silent. Carried him to the kitchen. Set him on the cold floor beneath a single light. And only then did they begin to understand what they were looking at.
Or rather—what they couldn’t understand.
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He appeared to be a young filideisus. But the features said otherwise.
The skin. The size. The red-rimmed eyes. The fur. The twisted joints.
And most of all—his hands.
Four fingers.
Not three.
Clearly shaped digits. No trace of the hoof-like anatomy typical of his kind.
Brianna, almost involuntarily, looked at her own hands. Then his.
Human?
Filideisus?
Something else?
Nux and Salman shared a glance. Then turned to Brianna.
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She shrugged. A helpless gesture. She’d never seen him before.
The boy lay wrapped in a stranger’s blanket. Silent. And the fear this time didn’t come from the murder. But from the certainty that what they had found… …had no name.
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