They called him a ghost.
A killer without a name. Without a face. Without a trace.
At first, the murders seemed unrelated—random deaths lost in the endless sea of crime the city churned out. But as the bodies began piling up, a pattern emerged. Each victim met the same fate: a single, clean stab wound to the abdomen. No signs of struggle. No evidence left behind. No fingerprints. No DNA. No footprints in the mud or dust on the floors. Just emptiness.
And then, there was the shadow.
It started as whispers. Detectives speaking in hushed voices. Forensics teams glancing at each other uneasily. They would scan the scene, search every inch, and still find nothing—except for the same inexplicable, chilling detail.
A shadow.
A dark, unnatural silhouette stretching across the walls or pooling beneath the crime scene lights, lingering where no person stood. It vanished when they moved closer, dissolving into nothingness like a cruel trick of the mind. But it was real. They all saw it.
The city murmured of a phantom—something inhuman, something that defied explanation. Fear crept into the streets, into the homes of those who read the headlines. People double-checked their locks, avoided dark alleys, cast wary glances over their shoulders. But what use was a locked door against a ghost?
Detective Dray Harkin didn't believe in ghosts.
He had seen the worst humanity had to offer—killers who wore masks of normalcy, who hid their depravity behind charming smiles or quiet lives. He had hunted monsters before. But this one was different.
This wasn't a mindless spree. It wasn't driven by impulse or rage. It was calculated. Controlled. A message written in blood.
And as the bodies kept coming, Dray realized something worse than the killings themselves.
The murderer wasn't hiding.
They were waiting.
For him.