The alley was darker than Damien remembered.
The crime scene tape fluttered weakly in the cold night breeze, and the flashing blue and red lights of squad cars painted the walls in rhythm. Officers moved with caution, their voices low, their movements precise. It was the kind of atmosphere that demanded silence. Respect. Fear.
Damien ducked under the tape, his badge glinting faintly under the harsh white lights cast by the forensic team's mobile units. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he walked slowly toward the body, his boots echoing softly on the damp pavement.
The victim was a man in his late thirties, neatly dressed, but the tie had been cut—slashed, just like the throat. But it wasn't the clean slice that Damien had once perfected. This was rushed. Angry. Raw.
And there, on the chest, carved deep into the skin, was a letter.
D
Damien froze.
His stomach coiled like a fist, tightening until he could barely breathe. A quiet pressure crept up his spine. He felt it again—that chill of something personal. This was no longer just a copycat. This was a message. A declaration.
"Detective," one of the forensic officers said, stepping up beside him with gloved hands, "you're going to want to see this."
Damien followed the man to a black evidence case where a small blood-stained envelope rested under plastic. On the front, in scribbled ink, was a name written in capital letters:
COLE.
Damien's breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to remain composed as the officer opened the envelope with a pair of tweezers. Inside, a torn piece of paper with bold, erratic handwriting:
"The apprentice should know what the master forgot. The game isn't over. It never was."
Damien stared at it, his thoughts spiraling. The apprentice. Cole. Someone knew. Someone knew about his manipulations, his intentions. Someone was watching—closely.
"You know what it means?" the officer asked, but Damien shook his head.
"Just the usual lunatic cryptics," he said with a dismissive grunt. "Get that to evidence. I'll talk to Cole myself."
And with that, Damien turned and left the alley. He needed answers—and Cole was the only place to start.
Cole was in his apartment when Damien arrived, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes flicked toward the door as Damien entered.
"I saw the news," Cole said. "Same killer?"
Damien didn't answer right away. He studied Cole—his clenched jaw, his unsteady breathing. This wasn't just nerves. This was fear.
"You've been quiet lately," Damien said, stepping further in. "You stopped checking in."
Cole shrugged. "You said I needed space to think."
"And have you?"
Cole looked away. "I'm not like you, Damien. I don't want to be."
Damien's voice dropped an octave. "That's not what your hands said last time."
Cole stiffened, his back straightening. "I did what you told me. Once. That doesn't make me like you."
Damien stepped closer. "You were precise. You were clean. You felt it—that rush, that silence. You didn't sleep for two days afterward, not because of guilt… but because your body was high on it. Don't lie to me."
Cole's voice cracked. "I'm not lying. I don't want this."
Damien reached into his coat and tossed the envelope onto the table. "Then explain this. The killer left it for you."
Cole's eyes widened as he read the note. "What the hell…?"
"You have a fan, or a stalker. Either way, someone knows what you did. What we did."
Cole's hands trembled slightly. "What does this mean? 'The apprentice should know what the master forgot'?"
"It means," Damien said, voice sharp, "that someone is playing us both."
He turned away from Cole, pacing now. The alley, the letter, the carving on the victim's chest—it was all deliberate. A breadcrumb trail leading to something bigger. But Damien couldn't let anyone else connect the dots.
"You have to stay out of this," Damien said finally. "No more wandering around crime scenes. No more trying to 'find yourself.' Let me clean this up before it spirals out of control."
Cole's voice was barely a whisper. "What if it already has?"
Back at the precinct, Jonas was waiting for Damien.
He had a folder in his hand, and his expression was unreadable. Damien braced himself.
"Got something," Jonas said, holding up the file. "The victims—every single one of them—have ties to something we missed."
Damien raised a brow. "Which is?"
"An old rehab program. Midwestern facility. Shut down over a decade ago. But here's the twist—every staff member there is dead. Every single one, including the founder. All except one."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Jonas handed over a photo. A man with tired eyes and a long scar across his jawline. "Name's Howard Flint. Used to be the psychological director. Vanished after the center closed. Guess what else? The man had a son—killed in a suspicious accident five years ago. You think maybe… this killer has a personal agenda?"
Damien kept his expression neutral. "It's possible. Revenge motives, maybe. But that's your theory?"
Jonas shrugged. "It's one of them."
Damien handed back the photo. "Then find Howard Flint. Start there."
Jonas nodded and left.
As Damien returned to his office, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing deep. The name Howard Flint was unfamiliar. But the way this killer worked—the messages, the ritual, the methodical pacing—it felt deeply intimate.
Someone had studied Damien. Someone knew his rhythm, his art. This wasn't random.
Damien sat down, opened his drawer, and pulled out the old notebook he hadn't touched in years. Inside were scribbled memories of every person he'd ever killed. And there, right near the back, was an unfinished name. A kill he'd planned once. Someone he'd never reached.
Howard Flint.
It wasn't coincidence. It was unfinished business.
The past wasn't just catching up—it was knocking on the front door.