In the dying stillness of forgotten South Dakota towns, something malignant moves beneath the surface-quiet, watchful, unseen. He wears the mask of a drifter, a quiet man with the scars of dead parents and a childhood steeped in cruelty. But what walks in Zach Jackson's skin is not merely a man-it is hunger wrapped in flesh, precision cloaked in calm. He kills without haste. Without regret. Without identity. To him, they are not people-they are statistics, bodies to be cataloged, moments to be perfected. Each stop across the country leaves another unmarked grave, another mutilated testament to his need for control, for legacy. Their names vanish; they become only numbers-entries in a ledger of extinguished lives. At every scene, he leaves a signature. Not for remembrance, but challenge: "BTB." Better Than Bundy. That's what it means. That's what drives him. Not lust. Not rage. But competition. A game of supremacy waged in blood, bones, and silence. Zach's body is dying now, rotting from the inside as cancer eats through him like rust through steel. But before the decay claims him, he speaks. Not in apology, not in repentance, but in cold confession. Answers spill out-answers to questions law enforcement never thought to ask, truths buried too deep for forensic dust or thermal scans. His voice is not a warning. It's a scripture. A record of how evil walks among us unnoticed. Smiling. Blending. Surpassing the legends we thought we understood. And he's not finished yet.