Aleksander, Oz, Adam Kerdac, Wednesday, Sofia, and Enid stood in the backyard of George Marks's childhood home, the air cold and still. Forensics techs moved methodically through the dirt, kneeling beside shallow depressions where the earth had been turned. Cameras flashed as they photographed the scene, the soft clicks echoing in the quiet.
One by one, they lifted the skulls from the soil, each one carefully placed in a labeled evidence bag. The black marbles in the eye sockets glinted dully under the flash, a grotesque, almost ceremonial touch.
Wednesday stood close to Aleksander, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the skulls as they were cataloged. "Because of the trauma caused by the rape and the betrayal of his mother," she said, her voice low and even, "he completely went psycho. But maybe he was already psychotic to begin with. He just got worse."
Sofia, standing on Aleksander's other side, nodded slowly, her expression grim. "Even if he was traumatized," she said, "he's still a real bastard. Trauma doesn't excuse what he did."
Aleksander glanced at the skulls, then back at the house, the attic window dark and empty. He nodded once, his jaw set. "Agreed."
Enid, standing a few steps behind them, shifted her weight, her eyes scanning the scene with a mix of disgust and satisfaction. "We've got what we need here," she said. "We have to get back to Nevermore. There's still work to do."
Aleksander turned to her, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah," he said. "We've got enough to close this case. But there's more to it than just the evidence."
Oz stepped closer, his voice low. "We'll wrap up here, then head back. The team at CBI can start processing everything. We've got the skulls, the boots, the reports. It's over."
Karadac nodded, his stony expression softening just a fraction. "It's over for him. For the victims, it's just the beginning of closure."
Aleksander watched the forensics team carefully pack the skulls into evidence bags, the black marbles catching the light one last time before being sealed away.
Aleksander stepped away from the group near the edge of the backyard, phone already in hand. He dialed a number he rarely used, one that connected him to a world he kept carefully walled off from the rest of his life. The line picked up after two rings.
"Charles," Aleksander said, voice low and even. "It's Aleksander."
On the other end, Charles Sun was not just a killer—he was a tier above. A high‑level operator in the Jade Dragon, the criminal empire built by his father and mother in Taipei. The name alone carried weight in certain circles: smuggling routes, offshore holdings, assassinations that never made the news. Charles had grown up inside that world, trained from childhood in discipline, tradecraft, and the kind of violence that leaves no trace.
He moved like someone who had been carved for combat—tall, athletic, with a solid, muscular build and an upright, controlled posture. His short black hair and dark, unreadable eyes gave him a quiet, intimidating presence. He didn't talk much, and when he did, every word was deliberate. He wasn't a thug or a street enforcer; he was the kind of man people called when they needed something done cleanly, quietly, and without witnesses.
Charles Sun's voice came through calm and measured, the tone of someone who didn't waste words. "Aleksander. Long time. What do you need?"
Aleksander glanced back at the house, the attic window dark and silent. "I need you to get someone out of prison. George Marks. Philadelphia. He's a serial killer we captured today. I'm pretty sure he won't be sentenced to death—his lawyer will probably use his mental trauma to get it reduced. He's still locked up, but he still needs to be punished. I'll handle the paperwork, the fake transfer, the cover. You just need to bring him to a location I'll send you."
Charles's voice didn't change, steady and unreadable. "You want him alive?"
"Yes," Aleksander said. "Alive. And unharmed until he reaches me."
There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of silence that meant Charles was weighing the risk. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure," Aleksander replied. "He's not going to see a courtroom again. Not after this."
Charles exhaled, a soft sound that carried the weight of years of calculated decisions. "Alright. Send me the details. I'll handle it."
Aleksander ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. He rejoined the group.
Two months later, George Marks sat in a dimly lit room, the air thick with tension. His death sentence had been removed, his lawyer arguing that his mental trauma—his childhood, the rape, the betrayal—had left him mentally ill. The court had bought it, or at least enough of it to keep him alive.
George had been smug about it, a faint smile playing on his lips as he imagined the irony: the system that had failed him now protecting him.
But in prison, the smugness had faded. He'd been taken out of his cell by men he didn't recognize, their faces covered, their movements precise and efficient.
They'd knocked him out with a quick, practiced strike, the world going dark in an instant. When he woke up, he was in the back of a van, the engine humming beneath him, the air cold and stale.
Charles Sun sat across from him, his tall, athletic frame filling the space with a quiet, intimidating presence. His dark eyes were steady, unreadable, his face angular and controlled. He didn't say a word, just watched George with a calm, almost bored expression.
George tried to speak, to demand answers, but Charles's gaze silenced him. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation. Just control.
The van drove for hours, the city lights blurring past the windows. When they finally stopped, Charles hauled George out, his grip firm and unyielding.
They were in a secluded area, the trees thick and dark, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. Aleksander stood waiting, his expression calm, almost serene. Behind him, a group of people stood in a loose circle, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes burning with a mixture of grief and rage.
George's eyes widened as he recognized them—relatives of the victims. Janet's daughter Susan, Tina's father Mark James, Latrice's sister, DeeDee. They'd been brought here, told that this was their chance for closure.
That this was their chance to make George pay in a way the system never could.