My mother was the only person who believed I was more than what the world feared I'd become. When they murdered her, they gave me a reason to prove them right."
"They called me dangerous. Monster. Unfeeling. Inhuman. My mother called me her son.
Cassian pov
The scent of blood never leaves your nose, no matter how many bodies you see.
I take another bite of my croissant, the flaky crust crumbling between my fingers, while the crime scene photos flicker across my monitor. The contrast is stark—gruesome dismemberment alongside buttery pastry—but I've long since learned how to compartmentalize. Pretend enough, and it becomes second nature.
Blood fans across the wall in deliberate strokes. Not a frenzy, not splatter—art. Like the last two victims, it's the same sick red mural, a signature that reeks of control rather than chaos.
"How can you eat while looking at that?" Hailey asks, perching on the corner of my desk. Her face is pale, nose wrinkled with mild disgust.
I don't answer. Instead, I ask, "What do we know about Lewis Adam?"
She exhales sharply. "The M.E. says he was tortured for at least four days. Same as the others. Parts of him were—" she glances down at the report, then winces "—cut off. Including the genitals."
I raise a brow and flick through the images. "That one, I assume?" I nod toward a blurry photo.
"His tongue was also removed. Found halfway down his stomach," she says. "Most likely forced down his throat before death. His chest was... flayed. Skin removed slowly, methodically. The killer cauterized the wounds each time to keep him alive."
"Torture as foreplay," I murmur. "Consistent with sexual sadism."
"Ligature marks. Chains hanging from the basement rafters," Hailey continues. "Same as the last two. Isolated location. No neighbors. No sounds heard. The unsub stayed with the victim. Possibly the full four days."
"Meticulous," I say. "He's not unraveling. He's patient. Focused."
Zane walks up, arms crossed. "All this groin mutilation... are you sure we're not looking for a female? Only a woman would go after a man's junk with this kind of rage."
If only they knew... A smile threatens, but I crush it.
"Women don't typically torture," Lauren cuts in, not looking up from her tablet. "They kill efficiently. Cleanly. This unsub is different. Male. Dominant. Enjoying every minute."
"Maybe he's impotent," Zane shrugs.
"Impotence doesn't equal sadism," Hailey says. "But it might contribute. He's deriving pleasure from the pain. Sexual sadism seems likely."
"No signs of rape?" I ask, sipping cold coffee.
"None," she replies. "But the ritual is intimate enough. The torture is the arousal."
Zane frowns. "So we're looking for an impotent, gay sadist?"
"Possibly," Hailey concedes. "But all three victims were straight. Worked in the same federal agency. No obvious enemies."
Three different states. Three different homes. One connection.
And I know exactly what that connection is.
But I don't say it. Not yet.
"Hailey," I called. "The footprints?"
"Size twelve boot print outside Lewis's home. Solid heel-to-toe compression. Estimated weight: two-fifteen. Very muscular. No signs of forced entry."
"Either he knew the unsub," I say, "or trusted him enough to let him in."
Zane huffs. "He must be charming. Or invisible."
"I vote charming," I murmur.
You'd be surprised what a smile can hide.
"No signs of trophies being taken?" I ask.
He's taking something. All these gaps between kills? He has to be keeping souvenirs."
"We're not sure," Hailey says.
"No missing jewelry. No hair or skin. Bodies left intact—well, mostly. No one close enough to know what's missing. They all lived alone."
But I know what was taken.
I remember the weight of it in my hand"
"The timeline is consistent," Lauren adds. "One kill per month. No acceleration. No mistakes."
He's perfect.
Of course he is.
"Anything else we need to adjust in the profile?" Hailey asks.
I lean back, letting my eyes scan the blood-painted wall one more time. "He's not just a killer. He's sending a message. Each body is a warning. I think this is personal."
"Revenge?" she asks.
"Maybe," I say. "But we're missing the trigger."
Not we. They.
I already know what the trigger was.
Her face flashes in my mind—blood soaked into her dress, her lifeless body crumpled near the wardrobe. I remember her voice, whispering my name, begging me to stay hidden. I remember the sound of the door shattering. The politician's voice. The doctor's. The laughter.
They didn't know I was watching.
They never saw me.
And now, I'm sure they would've start connecting the dots, one by one, from within the system built to catch monsters.
I am the system.
"He's taking something," I insist.
"Something personal. Something they wouldn't notice missing"
"Go home," Hailey says finally, laying a hand on my shoulder. "You've been here since yesterday. Your brain needs sleep."
"I just—something's missing," I mutter. "Something at their workplace. Some incidents. Something small that mattered to him."
"And we'll find it. But not like this." She nods toward the clock.
I want to argue, but she's right. I close the file slowly, pack up the photographs, and sling my coat over my shoulder.
"Get rest," she insists. "I'll handle it."
I nod absently, watching her walk off with Zane. She'll find nothing. Not the truth, anyway. The files have been sanitized. The evidence erased.
I made sure of that.
As I leave the office, my mind drifts to the case again. I don't need the files. I've memorized every detail. Every scream behind stitched lips. Every methodical incision.
No one suspects a thing.
My apartment is exactly as I left it. Clean. Minimalist. Impersonal. A reflection of who I pretend to be.
I check the locks, I scan the room automatically—old habits die hard. No signs of intrusion. No strange creaks. Just the steady hum of silence.
I set my gun on the nightstand, activate the alarm, and fall onto the bed, still in my clothes.
I close my eyes, and wait for the familiar stillness.
Sleep comes easily.
I never dream.
But I remember.
The sound of her scream. The smell of blood in the air. The last thing she said as she shoved me into the wardrobe.
"If things go south, run, Cass."
I didn't run.
I waited.
And I watched.
And now, I'm doing exactly what she would have feared most.
But not for pleasure.
Not for chaos.
For justice.
My justice.
Dead eyes stare back at me behind my lids.
Tongues. Chains. Blood.
I sleep better that way.