Detective Rowan looked worse every time I saw him, but today he didn't even pretend to hide it. He stood outside my building with his hands on his knees, breathing like he'd run the whole way. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie missing, and the veins around his temples pulsed like tiny electric wires.
When he noticed me, he straightened up too quickly and nearly stumbled.
"Hey," he said. "Got a minute?"
His voice cracked. Just a little. But enough to make me tilt my head and study him.
"You look terrible," I said.
He huffed out a humorless laugh. "I'll take that as honesty."
We walked inside the lobby. He didn't ask permission this time. He moved like a man who had used up his last reserve of patience and wasn't going to pretend anymore.
He went straight to the stairs, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. "We missed something," he muttered. "Something big."
I followed him, keeping a safe distance. His shoulders slumped. His steps dragged. He didn't look like a detective today. He looked like someone hanging on by a thread.
"Rowan," I said carefully, "when was the last time you slept?"
"Two days ago," he said. "Maybe three. Doesn't matter."
"It does."
"No. What matters is—" He cut himself off. He reached the landing and leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We're close. I know it."
The way he said it… almost pleading… almost desperate…
It made something warm flicker in my chest.
He believed he was closing in.
He truly believed he was inches from the truth.
I wondered what it felt like — chasing something you didn't understand, something right in front of you, something touching your life without you realizing it.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Every map… every timeline… every camera… they all point to one center."
My pulse stayed steady. Calm. Controlled.
"And the center is who?" I asked.
He looked up at me. His eyes were red and wet, not from sadness but from exhaustion. He looked like someone who had broken open and didn't realize he'd spilled everywhere.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know, and it's driving me insane."
A strange softness filled me. Almost pity. Almost affection.
I stepped closer. "You'll figure it out."
"Will I?" His voice shook. "Every time I think I've got it, something slips. Something doesn't match. Something goes missing. Evidence disappears. Witnesses forget. Cameras malfunction. It's like someone's playing with me."
My lips twitched.
Playing.
Interesting choice of word.
Rowan dragged a hand through his hair. "I keep thinking about that sketch. And the way the attacks are spaced. And how the killer seems to know when we're watching. No mistakes. Not a single one."
He looked straight into my eyes.
"That kind of precision isn't luck."
I didn't blink.
He stared a second too long, then dropped his gaze, ashamed of whatever suspicion had flickered across his expression. "Sorry. I'm a mess."
"You are," I said gently. "But keep going."
He laughed once — broken, tired, defeated — and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.
I crouched beside him.
"Rowan," I said softly, "why are you telling me all this?"
"I don't know." He stared at his trembling hands. "Maybe because you actually listen. Everyone else just wants answers. You… let me think."
I did. And he didn't even realize how much I enjoyed watching him crumble.
His breathing steadied after a while. His shoulders dropped. He looked like a man who'd finally let go of whatever held him upright.
"We'll get him," he whispered.
I smiled — small, polite, hidden.
"Of course," I said. "You're close."
Closer than he ever understood.
Rowan left an hour later, leaving a faint scent of sweat and frustration behind him. He didn't notice the small smear of dirt he left on my doorframe. He didn't notice how I watched him from the window as he walked down the street with a heavy, defeated limp.
He didn't notice anything important.
But I did.
His unraveling made everything easier. Softer. Quieter.
He had no idea how close he truly was.
Close enough to touch the truth.
Close enough to smell it.
Close enough to be the final person to ever get this close.
That night, the air outside felt like a secret. Thick, warm, humming with energy. I walked through the alley behind the old factory, the one nobody used anymore. The shadows stretched long, swaying like they were greeting me.
I told myself it was just a walk. Just clearing my mind.
But I already knew where my steps were taking me.
The last victim had waited three nights for this moment. Not consciously — no one waits consciously. But something in people always senses danger a few seconds too late. That tiny flicker of dread. That shift in breath. That instinct that whispers, Turn around.
She was standing under the broken lamp near the chain-link fence, talking to someone on the phone. Laughing softly. Hair tied back. Hands moving as she spoke.
I watched from the corner of the alley.
For a long time.
Long enough to memorize the shape of her movements. Long enough to hear the rhythm of her voice. Long enough to feel that familiar thrum in my chest — the one that only appeared when the world quieted around a single person.
I told myself I was only imagining it.
Only visualizing what the real killer would do.
Only studying the hypothetical.
But imagination is a thin layer of cloth.
One tug, and you see what's underneath.
She ended the call and slipped her phone into her pocket. She didn't notice the way the street had gone silent. No cars. No footsteps. No wind.
People always assume danger comes with noise.
They never consider how loud silence can be.
She turned around just as I stepped forward.
Her eyes widened — the kind of widening that isn't shock yet, but the beginning of it. The breath before the scream. The swallow before the realization.
I moved quickly. Calmly. And cleanly.
The details of what happened next are… clear in my mind, but impossible to put into words without sounding like I'm bragging. I'm not bragging. I'm not proud. I'm simply honest.
Honest in a way I've never allowed myself to be.
Her hands reached for me first — not to fight, but to steady herself, as though she couldn't understand why her knees gave out. She made a small sound, almost like a question. She didn't get to finish it.
Everything after that happened in the kind of quiet that feels unreal, like the world steps aside and lets you move without consequence.
And when it was over, the air felt cleaner.
Lighter.
I stood there for several minutes, staring at what I had done — what the "imagined killer" had done — and felt nothing. Not guilt. Not fear. Just a stillness that felt almost peaceful.
When I finally walked away, something small and shiny glinted near her hand.
A ring.
Silver.
Thin.
Delicate.
My fingers moved without hesitation.
I picked it up.
It felt cold at first, then warm — as if it recognized me.
I slipped it into my pocket.
A souvenir. Not the first. Not the last.
Back home, I placed the ring on my dresser. The lamp light made it glow like a small trapped moon. I couldn't stop staring at it. Even when I tried to lie down, my eyes kept drifting toward it. Watching it. Admiring it.
It was beautiful.
Perfect.
Significant.
And I couldn't pretend anymore.
Not to myself.
Not to Rowan.
Not to anyone reading this.
Everything I've told you so far — every worry, every fear, every doubt — was never about innocence.
It was about being seen.
Rowan was close, but not close enough to stop me.
And now?
Now there was only one thing left for me to do.