He is known only by the name whispered in hushed, terrified tones: The Impaler. But the moniker is a cruel misdirection. He doesn't use a stake. His victims aren't found on wooden pikes, but pinned to walls and ceilings, their bodies contorted in a final, silent scream of anatomical impossibility. The only evidence left behind is a single, massive, and deeply unsettling hole, punched clean through brick, steel, and bone. He isn't just a killer; he's a living, breathing act of structural violation, a grotesque parody of masculinity made flesh and fury.