The serial killer known as Psydeath was being monitored around the clock by a team of elite psychics, a combined force of Chosen Ones and Cut Throats who meticulously tracked his every movement. They knew everyone he talked to, everything he said, and everything he did, and how long it took him to do it. They used their powers to predict his future, see into his dreams, and read the minds of his neighbors, friends, family, and acquaintances. They had a growing collection of items taken from his apartment and his homes in the past: a piece of paper he'd written his thoughts on, a discarded switchblade covered in dried blood, a toy robot he liked. Their understanding of the strange little man was growing more and more complete by the hour.

Psydeath was a former member of the Animal Brotherhood street gang. Testimony from other Brotherhood members revealed that he'd been abused as a child, leading to personality issues and severe mental instability. His father left the family household at a young age and his mother was an alcoholic. She brought a string of violent men into their home, leaving Rex and his little sister at their mercy. They were beaten, starved, and humiliated on a daily basis. His eventual transition to a criminal lifestyle seemed entirely a result of his desire to escape this horrible environment, but further added to his misery by saddling him with an addiction to hardcore drugs which in turn led him to suffer a whole host of disturbing delusions.

After being expelled from the gang, he reemerged in Grandebelle as an isolated, socially inept loner. He lived in a run-down apartment building where he constantly bothered his neighbors with strange noises and psychic disturbances. He dabbled in a variety of eccentric hobbies, from creating dioramas to drawing pictures of animals to spying on his neighbors with binoculars. But he spent most of his time either reading or meditating.

And he emerged every night under the cover of darkness to go on a killing spree.

Psydeath targeted other psychics exclusively. He was an opportunistic killer. He could identify other psychics without even detecting their aura and he went after them with reckless abandon. Sometimes he'd spend his entire night going after a group he'd learned about from some source or another, but more often than not he just wandered around killing whoever happened to cross his path and then went home when he got tired.

He wasn't particularly calculating by any stretch of the imagination. He was careless, even lazy at times. He'd often ignore the presence of witnesses, he often let his victims escape, and he was often seen sauntering back to his apartment covered in gore like he was in a slasher movie. He didn't seem to understand the gravity of what he was doing. Killing was just something he did to entertain himself on his nightly walk through the city, a little game to pass the time and get his blood pumping.

Yes, despite his incredible level of psychic power, Psydeath was an incompetent killer. As such, the white organizations who ruled over the Pit decided to track his movements and strategically avoid him rather than expend precious resources capturing or destroying him. The Psydeath Task Force watched him night after night from a comfortable luxury hotel suite high above  streets of the Pit, coordinating with field agents throughout the city in a massive surveillance operation that kept a sharp, constant eye on Psydeath at all times. 

The members of the task force were careful not to make their presence known, employing sophisticated countermeasures against remote viewing and psychic intrusion. But as it turned out, there was little need for such subterfuge. Psydeath never once noticed he was being watched. No, he never once suspected the watchers were there at all. He wandered through life like a sleepwalker, oblivious to everything around him, even as his behavior was carefully scrutinized to uncover every little bit of useful information he had to give up. Piece by tiny piece, slowly but surely, the Psydeath Task Force put together the clues. Eventually, they found his fatal weakness.

"Psychometry doesn't lie. HQ was right."
"He's getting weaker?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it."
"Hmm."

"Here's what I think is going on. He absorbs energy from the psychics he kills. But he can't contain it for long in that messed up body of his. And he can’t generate more on his own. That's why he goes out hunting every night."
"Ridiculous."

Two psychics sat side by side on a couch next to a small black table cluttered with electronic devices, both of them Cut Throats wearing expensive suits. The more experienced of the two was the object reader Corina, a slightly overweight older woman with light brown hair. Her colleague, known as Crisis, was a young man with an air of intimidation about him, his sharply angled face giving off an impression of a sinister skull.

"I know what you're thinking. But it makes sense," said Corina, sipping her coffee. "I bet that's why he's going out further and further outside his usual area, too. He's had nothing but homeless people to kill for a few weeks now and he's getting desperate for stronger prey."
"Maybe he's just bored. How fast is he losing his energy, anyway?”

”Not that fast, but he’ll run out of juice eventually. It’s a mathematical certainty. We just have to be ready to pounce when the time comes."

"I’m still not convinced. But supposing you're right... what if we clear out the riffraff around his apartment? Make him work a little harder to get a proper meal. In the worst case, nothing happens. Best case, he goes hungry and we can confirm your theory. What do you say?"

"Sounds like a dirty job. There's a lot of homeless addicts in this part of town."
"Our freelancers are always up for a challenge. You've got the authority to sign off on this one, right?"

"You betcha."
"Tell the boys to round them up and kill them off. Every last one of them. And tell them to do it clean. No witnesses. No evidence. Wipe 'em out."