Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or places is entirely coincidental. This story contains extreme graphic violence, gore, and disturbing themes. It is intended for mature audiences only. Please do not attempt to replicate any actions depicted herein. Reader discretion is advised.
The Feed of Fear
By admin AIgorepic.com
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The city never slept, but its young professionals lived in quiet dread. For months, the online underworld had been buzzing with whispers of a new monster lurking in the shadows of the internet: the anonymous poster on aigorepic.com who called himself "The Obsessed."
On a rainy Thursday evening, the latest upload dropped.
Sarah Bennett, 28, a bright-eyed marketing coordinator at one of the city's largest advertising firms, had vanished three days earlier after leaving her downtown office late. She was the picture of ambition—sharp suits, quick smile, always the first to volunteer for extra projects. No one suspected her "sins" until The Obsessed revealed them in his post.
The main image hit like a gut punch: Sarah’s face, eyes closed in eternal rest, black hair splayed wildly with messy bangs framing her pale forehead, crimson blood streaming from her full lips and down her chin like macabre tears that pooled at her neck. A hand in a white sleeve gripped her jaw possessively from behind, fingers stained dark red. In the other hand, held high like a trophy for the camera, was her severed right foot—pale skin glistening under the harsh light, deep red rivulets dripping from the clean amputation at the ankle and between the toes. The entire scene was framed against the familiar white interface of aigorepic.com, with its grid of previous toxic posts and thumbnails mocking the viewer from the background.
The caption read:
"Another deserving soul joins the collection. Sarah thought she could crush dreams beneath her pretty heels while climbing the corporate ladder. I adore the elegance of a woman’s head—the windows to her soul—and the softness of her feet, the foundation she walks on. But I only harvest from those who deserve the blade. The pure have nothing to fear… yet. Who’s next in your office?
– The Obsessed
#HeadsAndFeet #TrophyTime"
Attached was the video. Viewers who dared click play were transported into hell.
The footage, shot in high definition from a tripod, opened in a soundproofed basement room. Sarah was bound tightly to a metal chair with zip ties and rope, still wearing her white office blouse now stained with sweat and fear. Her eyes were frantic, mascara running down her cheeks. “Please… I don’t know who you are. Let me go. I have a boyfriend, my parents—”
The masked figure stepped into frame. Tall, dressed in a plain white long-sleeved shirt and a surgical mask covering his lower face, only his dark eyes visible above it. His voice was calm, almost soothing. “You doctored reports, Sarah. You got your rival fired. You stepped on people to get that promotion. Your feet carried you over the broken backs of others. Your head plotted every betrayal. Now they belong to me.”
He circled her slowly, gloved hand stroking her hair once before yanking her head back by the roots. Sarah screamed and thrashed against the restraints as he drew a long, sharp hunting knife. The camera captured every merciless detail: the blade pressing against the soft skin of her throat, the first shallow cut that made blood well up instantly, then the deeper sawing motions as he worked the edge back and forth. Her screams turned into wet gurgles. Blood sprayed in pulsing arcs across the white tiles and his shirt. Her body jerked violently, eyes rolling back, legs kicking uselessly. It took nearly four agonizing minutes—the sickening wet sounds of cartilage and vertebrae resisting, the final crunching snap as the head separated completely from the body. He lifted the severed head by the hair and held it up to the camera, blood still pouring from the raw neck stump, her face frozen in a final, silent scream of terror.
But he wasn’t done. He placed the head carefully on a stainless-steel table, then turned his attention to her feet. He lifted one leg, still warm, and methodically worked the knife around the ankle joint, slicing through tendon and muscle with precise, almost loving strokes. When the blade met bone, he switched to a small bone saw. The high-pitched rasp and the crunch of bone echoed through the audio as he cut cleanly through. Blood pooled on the concrete floor in a widening crimson lake. One foot came off completely; he set it aside. Then he repeated the process on the right foot—the one that would become the centerpiece of his trophy photo—squeezing it gently once it was free, blood oozing between his fingers. He held the severed foot up to the lens, turning it slowly so the camera could admire every curve and drip. “Perfect,” he murmured. “So delicate even in death.”
The video ended with him arranging the final scene exactly as it appeared in the still image: positioning himself behind the headless body, one hand cradling Sarah’s severed head against his chest, the other proudly raising the bloody foot toward the camera while the aigorepic.com feed glowed in the background.
As the post went viral in the dark corners of the web, panic rippled through the city’s glass office towers. Young women checked their locks twice at night, avoided walking alone after sunset, and whispered about the man who remained a ghost. No fingerprints, no DNA matches, no security footage. The Obsessed was everywhere and nowhere—perhaps the quiet colleague in the next cubicle, perhaps the stranger on the subway.
Sarah Bennett was gone, but her image lived on in pixels and nightmares, a warning to every ambitious woman who dared walk the corporate corridors.
The next post could come at any time.
And no one knew whose head and feet would grace aigorepic.com next.
