Rain drizzled over the city, painting the asphalt in sheets of silver and shadow. The crime scene was tucked beneath an overpass near the eastern docks, where the sound of waves crashing against rusted metal containers sang a grim lullaby. Police lights danced across the alley, bathing the narrow corridor in hues of red and blue. It was almost beautiful—almost. If not for the body.
Jonas crouched beside the corpse, his gloved hands hovering just above the puddle of blood that formed a halo around the victim's head. The throat was slit clean, so precise it bordered on surgical. Eyes wide open, mouth parted in silent protest, the man had died swiftly—maybe even painlessly. But it was the method that twisted something inside Jonas.
"That's three with the same signature," he said, glancing up at Damien.
Damien stood just behind him, stoic, unreadable as ever. His eyes lingered on the body longer than necessary. "Same type of blade?" he asked.
"Looks like it. And the poison—it's there again. Toxicology will confirm, but I'd bet my badge on it. Same sequence: poisoned, then the throat slit." Jonas rose slowly. "You think our new guy is trying to copy the old serial patterns from two decades ago?"
Damien didn't answer. He only stared.
[Past – 17 Years Ago]
The house was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that made you feel safe, but the one that made every creak of the floorboards feel like a scream. Damien, sixteen, stood in the kitchen with his back to the hallway. A chair lay on its side near the dining table. His father's body was slumped against the counter, neck gaping open in a deep red smile. The whiskey bottle he'd always clutched in life was now shattered beside his feet.
Damien's hands trembled—not with fear, but adrenaline. The act had been careful, practiced. He'd watched the man drink his usual post-rage bottle, the one Damien had poisoned. When the poison slowed his heartbeat, Damien used the blade. It was clean. Efficient.
He rinsed the knife under running water and placed it back in the drawer. It looked just like any other utensil.
No one would ask questions. A drunk with enemies, a history of violence. The police wouldn't care.
He stared at the lifeless form of the man who had broken his childhood. There was no grief. Only peace.
And from that peace, a purpose began to bloom.
[Present Day]
Cole stood by the window of the station's break room, watching the rain trail down the glass. His hoodie was still damp, clinging to his arms. He knew they'd bring him in for questioning soon. Not as a suspect—but because he was one of the last people who had seen the victim alive.
He didn't care. He could handle that. What he couldn't handle was the look in his father's eyes last night—the silent nod of approval.
That kind of validation was worse than any punishment.
Back at the crime scene, the forensic team began lifting the body. Jonas stepped back, watching them with a practiced eye.
"I'll need to speak with the dock security. Maybe someone saw something," he muttered.
Damien didn't move. "They won't find anything."
Jonas turned, arching a brow. "You sound sure."
Damien finally blinked. "Killer's smart. Organized. That kind doesn't leave trails."
Jonas studied him for a moment. "You say that like you admire him."
Damien smiled faintly. "I admire the challenge."
[Past – Weeks Later]
Damien had visited his father's grave only once. Not out of guilt, but curiosity. He wanted to see the way people grieved. No one came. The grave was lonely, the grass growing unevenly over the disturbed earth.
At school, things felt different. He felt...lighter. More focused. And he started noticing things—patterns in people. Their tells. Their weaknesses. It was like he had been seeing the world through a fog and now it had cleared.
He began journaling. Not emotions—he didn't care for those—but tactics. Observations. Reactions. He watched bullies push loners and imagined how quickly they'd fall with just the right nudge. He watched teachers praise liars and punish truth-speakers, and cataloged their hypocrisy.
He began forming rules. Not moral ones. Strategic ones.
Rule #1: Blend in.
Rule #2: Never kill without purpose.
Rule #3: Teach only those who can carry the legacy.
[Present Day]
Jonas and Damien sat across from the coroner in a stark white office. "Same M.O.," the coroner confirmed. "Poison administered via injection, followed by a clean blade across the neck. Toxin is synthetic. Homemade."
"Which means our killer is experimenting," Jonas added.
"Or perfecting," Damien said softly.
Jonas looked at him again. "You keep saying that. Like you know where this is going."
Damien gave a faint shrug. "I've seen patterns like this before."
Jonas nodded slowly. "Then maybe we need to dig deeper into those old files. I'll pull everything we have on the killings from twenty years ago. Maybe there's a link."
Damien looked away. "Maybe."
[Past – One Year Later]
Damien watched the news. A man in another town found dead—heart stopped, no signs of trauma. He smiled. Someone else had copied his method. Not exactly, but enough.
He began preparing again. A second target. This one, more intentional. A teacher who preyed on girls but was loved by parents. Damien had watched him, studied him.
The second kill was even smoother. More satisfying.
He realized then that death wasn't the reward.
Control was.
[Present Day]
Damien stood in the evidence room after hours, alone. He looked down at the photos pinned to the board. Three victims, same methods.
He traced his fingers along the map, the pattern of the kills. Cole had chosen well. Too well.
He was learning.
Damien whispered, "Rule #4: Never get caught."
He turned off the light.