1
The screams erupted from her like howls from a cornered animal. They weren't cries for help, but primitive, visceral sounds that scraped her already injured throat. There was no fear in them, but rage and frustration. The sound reverberated between the storage room walls, coming back to her like an echo of agony.
Her hands found a soft pile of bags—maybe flour, maybe sugar, it didn't matter—and she began striking them hard. One, two, three punches. With each impact, she felt her knuckles burn, but the pain was almost a relief. A simple, direct pain. A pain that served as propulsion.
She staggered between the piles, stumbling over bundles that tore under her feet. The space was too small for a soul in such combustion. Every new package she found became a target, a release valve for the blind rage consuming her from within.
She'd fled one prison only to run straight into another, even colder, more threatening. She'd left a known hell for one that had no name. The irony of it hurt as much as her bleeding knuckles.
Finally, she stopped.
Her chest rose and fell in irregular waves, sweat running down her temples. She wasn't solving anything. She was just wearing herself down, reducing her chances of getting out of there even further.
She needed to think. She needed focus.
She leaned on the stacks of products and walked to the door, guiding herself with outstretched arms.
She pressed her forehead against the cold wood and tried to listen.
Nothing. No sound, not even breathing.
And that silence, that absolute silence... It was even more terrifying than captivity itself.
2
The target had disappeared. No sound, no trace. But Daros didn't hurry. He remained motionless for a few moments, standing like a statue, his eyes scanning the scene with the lethal calm of a trained hunter.
The board was simple. And, like a good player, he analyzed the pieces in silence. The surrounding woods were too sparse to hide a human figure: the green of the uniform would stand out there like a lamp lit in the depths of a cave. The store was out of the deck: he'd just come from there himself, and there wasn't enough time for the man to circle the entire building without being seen.
Back to the car? Unlikely. That would be suicide. A desperate move. And although the guy seemed close to collapse, he wasn't stupid. Not entirely, at least.
Two options remained. The dumpster—dirty, exposed, but plausible. Or the abandoned car with the rusty "general mechanics" inscription on the body. An improvised hideout, but effective.
Daros didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just walked.
Decisive, silent steps. Every inch of his body trained to advance without announcing presence. The decision was already made before his feet even moved. It wasn't intuition. It was mathematics. It was instinct. It was logic sharp as a razor.
As always, it was simply a matter of elimination.
And Daros... Well, Daros was very good at eliminating things.
3
Groping the wall behind her, Greta found the light switch. The fluorescent light flickered once, twice, three times, casting oscillating shadows through the room before turning on for good. The cold, harsh brightness offered no comfort.
Now she saw what she'd only felt before: metal shelves crammed full, food bags stacked like barricades, and cardboard boxes marked by dust and disuse. All ordinary. All banal. Except for the fact that it was a prison. Her prison.
She raised her eyes. High on the wall opposite the door, a single window broke the monotony—but it was too high. Too narrow. A rectangle of denied world.
She needed a weapon.
Anything.
Her eyes scanned the shelves. Cans, plastic bottles, cleaning supplies. Nothing promising. She circled the narrow space like a caged animal, until her leg bumped into a pile of newspapers.
They were tied with thick twine, in good condition. And they were recent. The date marked the previous week. The header was from a nearby town—the one where she would have spent the night, if fate hadn't crossed her path with the stranger's.
It was a headline that made her stop leafing through. A punch to the stomach. A lethal threat.
"Police Still Without Leads on Serial Killer Active in Region."
Her blood froze in her veins.
She read the line again. Then again.
Five bodies in the last month. All victims found in establishments along the roadside. One in a fruit stand, another in a food trailer. She vaguely remembered hearing something like that on the radio when she was changing stations. She hadn't paid attention. It didn't seem real. Now, it felt palpable.
Her hand went to her forehead, trembling. The sweat that ran down was ice-cold.
The puzzle piece fit with sickening perfection.
And what emerged was the image of a trap. An ingenious trap. And deadly.
4
The uniformed man controlled his breathing like a diver in apnea.
He inhaled slowly, silently, and held the air until his chest began to burn. He couldn't make noise. Couldn't draw attention. Somewhere at the station, there was an armed guy—the same one who'd knocked him out without even blinking.
Where would he have gone? And the woman? Would she be alive?
The car was still there, motionless. But without the key. That was the first thing he checked when he regained consciousness.
Normally he liked the quiet. It indicated freedom of action. Now, however, the absence of sounds brought a bad omen.
Sitting in the dark, his head throbbing, his eyes swept the empty road with feverish hope. Soon the first trucks of the early morning would appear. He just had to wait. Survive for just a few minutes. And then maybe...
The pain exploded before the thought was completed.
A quick, sharp crack on the side of his neck. As if an invisible blade had cut the thread of his consciousness.
He didn't feel the ground. He didn't hear his own body fall either. He was dead before he could wonder if he was still breathing, and whether he was making noise in the process or not.
Daros watched the target collapse like a sack of dirty laundry. With agile movements, he grabbed the man by the ankles and dragged the body to the dumpster, where it would stay for now.
After crossing the yard, he released the human cargo and opened the trash lid. Inside the metal structure, among torn bags and rotten remains, he found his backpack—camouflaged inside a thick plastic bag. The smell coming from the pile was repulsive: expired mayonnaise, fermented meat, old garbage.
Wrinkling his nose, he discarded the package wrapping and kept what mattered. Then, with an almost careless gesture, he lifted the corpse by the limbs—one leg, one arm—and threw it into the bin like someone discarding an old mattress. A dull thud echoed inside the can.
Usually, he liked to savor the process. But that night was far from normal.
With the backpack slung over his shoulder, he entered the store. He served himself coffee without sugar, tore open the wrapper of a pound cake from the display and took a bite, chewing while his eyes assessed the environment with indifference.
Among the items stored in the backpack was everything he needed to deal with the woman. And this time he would act more calmly.