Ingram was a predator. Every moment of his life, he hungered: to possess, to dominate, to extinguish. Every cell of Ingram’s body was locked in an endless scream, fueled by incandescent rage. An inferno that never guttered. He visited that rage on his targets, relishing their cries and the chill of their flesh cooling beneath his savage touch. He dug his graves by hand with a smile. He hunted, and hunted, and hunted, day in and day out. He loved what he did. He loved to kill.
