His eyes were fixed on the rain-slicked street, the pavement reflecting fractured city lights like ghosts flickering in and out of existence. Between his fingers, his grip on the police walkie talkie slackened—then tightened again. His voice cut through the static, sharp and urgent:
"Son, where are you?"
Son's reply came tired, breathy, but alert:
"We're searching William's house. Why the rush?"
Jim didn't blink. His gaze never left the road ahead; it was as if he was speaking to something inside him, not to his partner.
"I know where the next murder will happen. Bring backup to the Daily Telegram factory. Now."
He ended the call before Son could ask another word. Shoving the device back into his coat, he slammed his foot on the accelerator like a man chasing his own runaway soul.
The car lunged forward, slicing through traffic, defying logic, rules, even physics if it had to. Jim wasn't driving—Jim was fleeing from something.
Or rushing toward something far worse.
He was racing the killer's shadow, trying to place a single step—just one—between death and its prey.
Minutes later, he parked in the shadows behind the abandoned factory. Rain whispered around him as he crossed the slick ground, moving toward the lifeless facade. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, searching for movement—any sign of breath.
Then he saw it: a thin strip of light leaking from a small side room.
He climbed over a stack of discarded crates and peered through the grimy window. Inside, the night guard was asleep in his chair, body sagging, mouth wide open, snoring like an animal left behind by the world.
Jim's voice cracked through the glass:
"Sir… wake up!"
The guard jolted, grabbing his security baton, eyes darting like a man stumbling back into reality.
"Who are you?!"
Jim pressed his badge against the glass.
"Open. Now."
The guard unlocked the small door, muttering:
"What do you want, Detective? I told you I've changed. I've got a proper job now. I take it seriously."
But Jim was already somewhere else, mind racing too fast to hear him.
"I'm not here for you. Just give me the keys to the factory. I need to look around."
The guard hesitated.
"Sorry, sir… but my job doesn't allow—"
Jim flashed the badge again. This time his eyes carried steel.
The kind that makes men forget their morals.
"I don't think you understand who you're talking to."
The guard swallowed hard.
"Not… not that again. Fine, fine…"
He handed him the keys with trembling fingers.
"Whatever you're looking for, I'm coming with you. If I don't, I'll be fired by tomorrow."
Jim didn't argue—just snatched the keys and rushed toward the workers' entrance. The guard followed, complaining, huffing.
"What are you even after? A story? If that's it, you've come at the wrong time, Detective. Come back in the morning."
Jim turned the keys in his hand, voice low and urgent:
"I'm looking for something new. Something that hasn't made the papers yet."
The guard blinked.
"Detective… are you drunk?"
Jim motioned for silence.
There was a sound.
Soft.
A faint clicking or rustling.
He quickened his pace beneath the massive dormant machines, peering through the shadows between them—nothing. Then he stopped at a door in the far back. A door separate from the rest.
"Give me the key to that one."
The guard fumbled, hands shaking, until he found the right key. But as he raised it to the lock—he froze.
His eyes widened.
His skin turned to ash.
"What the—?!"
Jim spun toward him.
"What?!"
The guard pointed down.
"Blood… it's leaking from under the door!"
Jim tore the key away and flung the door open.
It was an emergency exit.
But inside—A body.
A girl.
Stabbed again and again.
Not much blood, but enough to crawl out from beneath the door like it was trying to escape the crime scene itself.
Jim's fist tightened until his knuckles turned white. Then he slammed it into the wall, leaving a smear of his own blood across the plaster as a muffled scream tore out of him.
The guard, shaking, murmured over and over:
"I'm done… I'm so done… they're firing me for sure…"
Jim stared at him with a hatred colder than the rain outside. A girl lay butchered before them, and this man grieved over a paycheck.
Humanity truly had its priorities broken.
Jim forced his focus back to the corpse, digging into his pocket for his notebook. He scanned the list of seven missing individuals until he found her name:
Ellie.
He scratched a line through it—one more life erased.
But then—A sound.
The faint screech of metal hinges.
Another door.
The one leading outside.
Jim looked up.
A silhouette stood there in the darkness.
Black.
Still.
Faceless.
The figure adjusted his hat with deliberate calm.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Backup had arrived.
Jim ran.
And the figure ran too.
They tore through the night, their footsteps hammering the pavement for five relentless minutes—until, almost bored of the chase, the killer simply stopped.
He raised his hands.
As if surrendering not to Jim, but to fate itself.
Jim approached slowly, gun ready, cuffs in hand.
"Get on your knees. Hands behind your back."
The man obeyed.
Jim cuffed him and dragged him back toward the factory, where flashing lights painted the night in urgent blues and reds. Crowds gathered like flies around a carcass.
He shoved the suspect toward Sun.
"I got him." Jim's voice trembled—relief, triumph, desperation all tangled.
Son stared at him.
Cold. Detached.
"Who are you talking about, Jim?"
"The killer. I caught him trying to escape."
Son pointed toward a police car.
"We already caught the killers. Plural. Look—three of them. Handcuffed. Right there."
He eyed Jim's suspect.
"And this one… was he also at the scene?"
"Yes." Jim insisted.
"I was the first to arrive. He was standing over the body like he knew everything. When I chased him, he ran, then gave up. This is organized, Sun. There's more than one."
Son nodded slightly.
"Seems you might be right. He's even wearing the same clothes as the others. Bring him in—we'll interrogate all of them at the station."
Jim shoved him into the back of a police car beside the others. Their eyes were empty. Drained. Void of anything human.
Sun turned to Jim:
"We searched the crime scene. It was empty—as usual. But we did find blood on the wall… not belonging to the victim."
Jim exhaled.
"It's mine. I lost it for a second and punched the wall. The guard saw me."
Son nodded slowly… too slowly.
Then he looked Jim dead in the eyes.
His voice a needle.
"Tell me, Jim… how did you know the murder location before it happened?"
Jim froze.
The question hung in the air like a curse.
Son continued, voice sharpening:
"In the first case, you acted strange.
In the second, you appeared at the crime scene before anyone told you where it was.
In the third and fourth, you were gone all day.
In the fifth, you brought the victim to the station—only for her to end up dead.
And tonight… your blood is at the scene, you knew the location before the murder, and now you tell me you know who the killer is.
That's not normal, Jim.
Not for a detective.
Not for anyone."
Jim swallowed, searching for time.
"Fine… I didn't want to tell you.that, The killer leaves me messages. He's targeting my family. That's why I asked for guards at my home. Remember?"
Son shook his head.
" whatever, now we have suspects.If things were any different, Jim…you'd be suspect number one."
Jim barked a bitter laugh.
"So you think I'm the killer? Hiding bodies, moving them around, then calling you to the scene? Congratulations, Detective Sun, you've become clever. If you're really that smart, maybe find the victims instead of spitting out paranoid theories."
Son said nothing more. He returned to his car, face carved in stone.
Jim followed him back to the station.
Another night of noise. Shadows. Truths twisting in the darkness.
Inside the interrogation room, Son and Jim stood before the first suspect:
A 31-year-old Indian man named Aaryan.
Illegal immigrant.
Fluent English.
Silent.
An hour passed.
Aaryan spoke only his name and age.
As he was escorted out, he whispered:
"You're asking the wrong question. detective,There is no single killer.
We're all responsible.Even the victims."
Jim froze.
But the man said nothing more.
Next came a 19-year-old Egyptian named Mohammed.
Same silence.
Same void in his eyes.
When asked, "Who is the killer?"
he chuckled:
"The killer is here. Watching.He hides well… but shows himself when no one is looking.Or when the one watching knows who he truly is…so he stops pretending."
Then came the third:
A 21-year-old Moroccan. Calm. Too calm.
He entered the room and said, without waiting:
"The killer… is the devil.and the devil is our favorite friend."
And that was that.
Son left the room expressionless.
Jim asked about William.
A young officer answered:
"He's been released. No evidence. The order came from the chief."
"When?"
"Right after the search."
And now—now Jim stood in the neon-lit hallway, surrounded by ghosts.
• William—released in suspicious timing.
• Aaryan—preaching collective guilt.
• Mohammed—claiming the killer hides in plain sight.
• The Moroccan—calling the killer the devil himself.
And in the interrogation room's reflection—a fifth shadow lingered.
Jim.