The storm broke the silence first.
Thunder rolled over Raventon City like a warning, deep and guttural. Rain fell in silver knives, slicing through the dark, soaking the alleys and washing old sins down cracked pavement. The night smelled like copper and smoke. The city had long since learned to ignore the cries echoing through its bones.
A body lay beneath a broken neon sign that buzzed the word "Open" though the shop behind it had been abandoned for months. She was young—barely twenty, maybe. Her dress was silk, tight, clinging to her curves like it had been chosen for the occasion. Crimson. Always crimson. The color of passion. The color of death.
Eira Vale crouched beside the corpse, her breath slow and even despite the chill seeping into her black coat. Her eyes, slate-gray and unreadable, scanned the scene with surgical precision.
The girl's face was still warm. Her lips had been carved into a smile—not just cut. Crafted. The killer had a sick sense of artistry.
"Same as the others," Eira murmured, brushing rain-damp hair from the girl's cheek. "Ribbon tied like a bow. Carved lips. He even painted her nails this time."
Detective Harrow, wide-shouldered and worn down by years in homicide, stood back with his hands shoved into his pockets. "Fifth one in six weeks. And still no damn prints."
"He doesn't leave evidence. He leaves messages."
Harrow grunted. "You're sure it's a 'he'?"
Eira rose to her feet, brushing off the rain like it insulted her. "Oh, it's a man. A narcissist. Probably intelligent. Someone who studies his victims. He wants us to admire his work."
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the alley in a ghost-white flash. Eira turned, scanning the mouth of the alley—and froze.
Someone was watching.
He leaned against a lamppost like he belonged there, cigarette glowing between two fingers. His coat was black, his hair darker, slick with rain. He looked like a devil who read poetry for fun. Tall, lean, dangerous. The type of man people warned you about too late.
"You're in my crime scene," Eira called, her tone flat and cold.
The man flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath a boot. "Just out for a walk," he said casually. "But funny thing… that girl was in my bar tonight."
Harrow's eyes narrowed. "And who the hell are you?"
"Riven Cain," he said, stepping forward without fear. "Owner of Club Obsidian. She left around ten. Alone. I watched her go."
Eira stepped closer, studying him.
Riven didn't flinch. His eyes—icy blue, unnervingly calm—met hers with deliberate interest. "You must be the profiler," he said. "They said you were good."
She said nothing.
"But you're not sure you trust me," he added, tilting his head. "Good instinct."
"I don't trust anyone," she replied coolly.
Riven smiled, but there was something wrong with it—something calculated. "Then maybe we'll get along just fine."
The rain grew heavier. Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
Eira didn't know yet that this man would unravel everything. That every step closer to the truth would blur the lines between hunter and hunted.
All she knew was this:
Riven Cain was hiding something.
And she was going to find out what.