The room smelled of old paper and stale coffee, a scent Davies had come to know like his own skin. Weeks had melted into each other, each day a blur of frantic searching. His eyes, now bloodshot and heavy-lidded, traced lines of text in dusty journals, hunting for the chink in the Hunter's armor. He had to find it, not just for the lost, but for the nagging ghost of his own failure.
He mumbled to himself, "There has to be something, a pattern, a flicker in their nightmares."
A jolt went through him. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the page. "Wait. This is odd." His finger jabbed at a name, then another, then another. "These victims they're different."
Mina , cautiously approached. "Different how, Davies?"
Davies looked up, a wild glint in his eyes. "Tero feasts on fear, right? Twists dreams into pure terror. But these people. They're autistic. Their dreams are vivid, yes, but not twisted like the others. Not consumed by that same gnawing dread."
Mina frowned, "Autistic? What does that mean?"
"It means," Davies whispered, leaning forward, "their minds work differently. They process the world in unique ways. And their fear centers. they're not wired like ours."
He stood up, pacing the cramped room. "What if the Hunter's power isn't universal? What if it needs a specific door in the mind, a particular pathway of fear, to enter? And what if, in autistic individuals, that door is shut, or just shaped differently?"
Mina's eyes widened. "So you're saying they're immune?"
"Not immune, not exactly," Davies said, his voice gaining a frantic energy. "But perhaps a shield. A buffer. Imagine a dreamscape, right? The Hunter prowls, looking for open wounds, for weaknesses. But if the mind it's trying to enter doesn't have that weakness, if the circuitry is different then the Hunter can't get in. Or, at least, not fully."
He stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on Mina. "We need to test it. We need to find someone, someone with autism, someone brave enough to step into the dreamscape. Someone who can be our shield, our way to fight back."
Mina's voice was barely a whisper. "That's a massive risk, Davies. Putting someone in the Hunter's path, even if they're different…"
Davies' jaw tightened. "It's a gamble, yes. A terrifying one. But what other choice do we have? The Hunter won't stop. He'll keep devouring dreams, leaving shattered lives in his wake. Thi is our only shot, Mina. Our only hope to turn his own game against him." He looked around the messy room, his eyes burning with a desperate resolve. "We have to find them."
The stale scent of old paper still clung to Davies, but a new, sharper smell now filled his nostrils: fear. Not the distant echo of nightmares, but the raw, metallic tang of fresh dread. Just as his theory about Tero's weakness began to take shape, a chilling whisper slithered across the dreamscape, pulling him back to his own city.
"Davies! Have you heard?" Mina's voice crackled through the ethereal connection, strained and urgent. "It's… it's bad."
He gritted his teeth. "What's happened, Mina?"
"Murders. Gruesome ones," she choked out. "Bodies torn apart, precisely. And the victims, Davies… every single one was autistic."
A cold dread seeped into his bones, colder than any nightmare Tero had ever conjured. "No," he breathed, the word a ragged whisper. "It can't be."
"It is," she insisted, her voice trembling. "Three parts, Davies. Every body. Like a twisted puzzle."
His mind reeled. Had Tero heard his thoughts? Was this a message, a brutal display of power? "I'm coming back," he said, the words a low growl. "Now."
The dreamscape felt different on the return journey, heavy with a new kind of terror. When he emerged, the city was a grim silhouette against the bruised sky. The usual hum of urban life was replaced by a hollow silence, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens. This wasn't the subtle creep of Tero's usual influence; this was the blunt force of a physical killer.
He pushed through the hushed crowds, the air thick with whispered rumors and unspoken fear. At the first crime scene, the scent of antiseptic struggled to mask the coppery smell of blood. A weary detective, Miller, met him with grim eyes.
"Davies," Miller rasped, running a hand over his tired face. "This is a nightmare. Unlike anything we've seen."
Davies's gaze swept over the sterile scene, picturing the horror that had unfolded. "The victims. All autistic?"
Miller nodded slowly. "Every single one. It's too specific to be random. And the dismemberment… it's surgical. Clean. Like someone knew exactly what they were doing."
Davies's blood ran colder still. "Tero," he muttered, almost to himself. "He knows. He knows what I'm looking for."
Miller looked puzzled. "Tero? Who's Tero?"
Davies ignored the question, his mind racing. "Why, Miller? Why target them? Are they a threat to him? Or is this something more… sinister?"
Miller shrugged, his voice heavy. "We don't know, Davies. We're chasing ghosts. This killer… he leaves no trace, except for this chilling pattern."
Davies stared at the ground, a chilling theory forming. Was Tero just eliminating a potential weakness, destroying the very people who might hold the key to his defeat? Or was this a twisted, calculated move, a horrific message meant solely for Davies? The air grew heavy with unspoken questions, each one colder than the last. He knew one thing for certain: the hunt for Tero had just become horrifyingly personal.
The clock on the wall seemed to mock Davies, its steady tick-tock a relentless countdown. The air in his small office grew heavy, thick with the scent of old coffee and a new, acrid tang of fear. He hunched over a city map, his fingers tracing the cold lines of streets where innocence had been brutally shattered. Each red mark on the map was a life extinguished, a silent scream in the heart of his city. The weight of it pressed down on him, a physical ache in his chest.
"There has to be a pattern," he mumbled to himself, his voice raw. "Something connects them. Why now? Why them?"
He knew, with a chilling certainty, that Tero was involved. The precision of the killings, the specific targeting of autistic individuals—it all reeked of the nightmare predator. But the motive remained a dark, elusive whisper.
Just then, the office door slammed open, making Davies jump. Detective Miller burst in, his face ghostly pale, his eyes wide with a horror that mirrored Davies's own. Miller's chest heaved, as if he'd run a marathon through a landscape of dread.
"Davies," Miller gasped, his voice a strained whisper, "we've got another one."
Davies's head snapped up, a cold dread seizing him. "Another? Where?"
Miller struggled for breath, his hand clutching at his chest. "No not just one. Eight more."
The words hit Davies like a physical blow. The room spun, the map blurring into a smear of red. "Eight?" he croaked, the sound alien even to his own ears. "What happened?"
Miller's eyes were fixed on some unseen horror. "They were all… like the others. Dismembered. And they were all autistic."
A wave of nausea washed over Davies, chilling him to the bone. Eight more lives, snuffed out with a brutal, calculating precision. This wasn't just a message from Tero; it was a declaration of war. The air crackled with a new, terrifying energy, the city's fear now a palpable thing, a beast stirring in the shadows. Davies knew then, with grim certainty, that the true nightmare had only just begun.