The cab door swung open. Ryan and Evelyn stepped out into the sun-drenched street, heading straight toward the yellow police tape outside an abandoned building. Ben and Scott were already waiting.
"Brother," Ben said, stepping forward with urgency, then pausing as his eyes landed on Evelyn's black crop tank-top. "What are you wearing, Detective Quinn?"
Evelyn chuckled. "We were in a rush. You're lucky I didn't show up in pajamas."
"It suits you," Ben muttered, looking away. "But whatever—this isn't about fashion. You guys need to see what's inside. It's bad. Real bad. Half the officers who went in threw up."
Scott grimly waved them forward. "Come on."
They ducked under the tape and entered the abandoned building. It smelled of mold, rot, and something worse. The air inside was thick, heavy—and then they saw it.
Ten eyeballs.
Strung across the ceiling on thin wires like grotesque Christmas lights. Below them, written in blood on the cracked concrete wall, were the chilling words:
I remove their eyes and seal their silent witness.
Click. Flash. Another photo was taken by forensics. One officer stood doubled over near the doorway, dry heaving. Another just stood frozen, staring with pale fascination.
"What the fuck did we just witness…" Ryan muttered, his face pale with horror.
Evelyn shook her head. "This is getting worse. These victims—they aren't just bodies anymore. They're paint."
Scott crossed his arms. "And we still don't even know who the hell they were."
Ben took a breath, fists clenched. "This killer doesn't have a heart. Their mother gave birth to a child she probably cherished—and this is what they became. A monster painting with flesh."
They stepped out of the building, shaken. The sunlight outside felt wrong now. Like it didn't belong in the same world anymore.
Scott's phone rang. "Detective Richards." A pause. His expression changed. "What? Are you serious?" Another pause. "Shit. We're on our way."
He hung up. "Captain Russo. There's been another murder. Different location. We're heading there now."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't it be cooler if I drove for once?"
"Shut up, Ben. You'll crash it just for fun."
They loaded into Scott's car and drove. They arrived, a new scene unfolded: a decapitated man's head was impaled on a spike jutting from the side of a building. His limbs were gone. So were his eyes.
Ben nearly recoiled. "What the actual fuck."
Ryan swallowed hard. "How is this even possible? There was a murder just minutes ago—and now this? Are we sure it's even the same killer?"
Scott rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense."
Captain Russo approached. "Detectives."
"There's something wrong, Captain," Ryan said, glancing back at the scene. "The timing. The placement. These murders aren't just gruesome. They're logistically impossible if it's one person."
Ben knelt down, noticing a small folded paper at the edge of the sidewalk—soaked in dried blood, but still legible.
He picked it up.
The handwriting was uneven. Red and crude.
Oops, now you're it.
No signature. No symbol. Just that.
The group stood there in silence. The phrase hung in the air like a curse.
Ryan stepped beside Ben. "That's new."
"What kind of killer leaves a note like that?" Evelyn asked. "Like it's a game."
Ben stared at the message. His voice low. "Maybe it is a game... for the Mural Killer."
Scott raised a brow. "What did you just say?"
Ben looked up. "Mural Killer."
No one responded right away.
But in Ben's mind, something had clicked.
The murals, the symmetry, the sudden escalation—
like someone was competing. Or copying.
But he didn't say it. Not yet.
Midnight.
Television danced in the silence, casting restless shadows across the room like a ghost trying to be seen.
LIVE BROADCAST – MURDER & MURALS: CAPTAIN RUSSO SPEAKS
The camera cut to a news studio. Sleek. Modern. Designed for damage control.
Captain Russo sat across the anchor—mid-fifties, grizzled, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. The knot in his tie was crooked. The expression on his face was carved from stone.
The anchor leaned in with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Captain Russo, thank you for joining us this night. The city's been rattled. Six deaths so far. Murals painted in blood. Eyeballs displayed like... ornaments. Some are calling this killer 'The Artist.' Others say they're making a statement. Internally—what are you calling them?"
Russo didn't blink.
"We're calling them what they are. A serial killer," he said coldly. "Not a painter. Not a performer. Just another coward dressing up death as something meaningful."
The anchor nodded slowly, sensing the tension. "There's been talk online—forums, social media, even street murals—praising the killer's… 'vision.' Some call it provocative. Even poetic. What would you say to those who believe there's some form of message in all this?"
Russo snorted. "Let me make something clear for the people watching this at home. There's nothing poetic about stringing human eyes from a ceiling. That's not art. That's not symbolism. That's psychopathy. I can't believe someone would take pride in work like this."
"But Captain," the anchor pressed gently, "they—have left quotes. Messages. Scripture. Do you believe there's a deeper ideology at play? A worldview?"
Russo leaned forward.
"No. I believe they want there to be one. That's what separates a philosopher from a manipulator. This person wants us to believe they're some kind of tortured genius. A visionary. But that's just the mask. Underneath it? They're nothing but a sadist. An egotist who paints in red because he thinks it makes him profound."
"You don't believe in any of the themes? The references to religious texts? The composition of the bodies—many have called them ritualistic."
"Ritualistic?" Russo narrowed his eyes. "I've seen ritualistic. This is performance. A tantrum with a paintbrush. You quote a few verses and hang someone upside down, and suddenly people think you've got something important to say. You don't. You're just louder than the rest of us because your canvas bleeds."
The anchor swallowed her discomfort and tried again. "Some people are beginning to... admire them. Not openly. But the fascination is growing."
"And that's what worries me," Russo said. His voice was low now. Controlled. "You give monsters names, and they become myths. You let them speak, and they become prophets. I'm not here to romanticize a killer. I'm here to remind people he's flesh and blood. And flesh can bleed. Flesh can fall."
The anchor sat back slightly. "One final question. Critics have said your department is too reactive. Too slow. The killer remains at large. What do you say to the people who have lost faith in your ability to stop this?"
Russo turned to the camera. His voice hardened.
"To the citizens watching this—we're not stopping. Not until we find them. I don't care if it takes days or months or years. This 'artist' wants an audience. Fine. But the curtain's coming down. And when it does, we'll be there."
A beat of silence.
Then the anchor smiled, like she hadn't been sitting across from a man boiling just beneath the surface.
"Captain Russo, thank you for your time."
The screen faded to commercial.
Late night.
The roads were mostly empty. Illuminated by radiant. Inside the car, Ryan gripped the wheel, eyes locked ahead. Ben sat in the front passenger seat, arms crossed.
Ryan broke the silence.
"Ben," he said, voice low. "Do you ever think there's something... off about this case?"
Ben turned his head, brow slightly furrowed. "What do you mean by 'off'?"
"The Mural Killer," Ryan muttered. "The way the murders are escalating. The way the scenes are set up..."
Ben nodded slowly. "I've been thinking the same as you. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Ryan exhaled through his nose. "I'm thinking what you're thinking, Ben. And you're right, something just doesn't add up."
Streetlights slicing shadows across their faces.
Ben leaned back with a groan. "Can we speed this up? I'd kill for some ramen."
Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "We're almost there."
He pressed the pedal a little harder. The engine growled as they disappeared down the midnight road.
The sky stretched out above the deserted rest area. Scott and Evelyn leaned against the car, grilled cheese sandwiches in hand, steam curling up into the cool afternoon air.
"You know we're supposed to be out here looking for clues on that damn Mural Killer right?" Scott said, glancing sideways at her.
Evelyn took a slow bite. "Of course. Just eat the damn sandwich, Richards. You earned it after, what, eight hours of running around?"
Scott raised his own eyebrow, then bit into his sandwich. He chewed thoughtfully. Then widened his eyes.
"Oh my god," he said, mouth half-full. "This is actually delicious."
He kept going—another bite, then another. And within seconds his sandwich was reduced into atoms and grease-stained paper.
"You finished? Greedy bastard."
Scott wiped his mouth. "You still not gonna change? Still rocking that crop tank-top?"
"I'm comfortable. You got a problem with that?"
"No, I'm just saying. A pretty girl like you, some guys out here might get... weird."
She paused mid-bite, then raised a brow. "Wait… did you just call me pretty?"
"Not in a flirty way. I'm just speaking facts."
Evelyn smiled—more amused than flattered. "If any guy pulls that shit on me, I'll break his arm. Hell, I already beat both Summers brothers."
"You what?" Scott blinked. "I thought you only fought Ben."
"This morning. Ryan walked into the gym. I challenged him. Tapped him out a few times."
Scott laughed. "You think you can beat me?"
Evelyn leaned in with a smirk. "We'll see tomorrow, Richards. But first—" she took another bite of her sandwich, "—we find Mural. Then I'll kick your ass."
"Or you can eat in the car."
She rolled her eyes, grabbed the rest of her sandwich, and followed him.
Inside the car, Scott reached into her paper bag. "You still got more of those?"
"I bought ten grilled cheese sandwiches, Richards. Be grateful."
"Of course you did. Where to?"
"That abandoned building," Evelyn said, licking crumbs off her fingers. "Mural might've left something behind. A trail. Maybe even another masterpiece."
"Yeah," Scott muttered. "Maybe we'll find some more corpses."
She didn't laugh. Neither did he.
As the engine rumbled to life, Evelyn asked, "Should we call the Summers?"
"Nah," Scott replied. "We got this. Just you and me."
At a small Japanese restaurant across town, Ben slurped loudly on his ramen.
"There's something not right about this," Ryan said.
"What do you mean, brother?"
"Scott and Evelyn—I bet they're out there digging. And we're just sitting here slacking off."
Ben pointed at his bowl. "Bro, just enjoy your ramen. I guarantee you Scott doesn't want our help. He wants alone time with that hot, pretty lady detective. Trust me."
He slurped again, louder this time.
"How old's Detective Quinn again?"
"Twenty-three," Ryan said without missing a beat.
"Two years younger than us. Damn. Got my ass beat by a girl younger than me."
Ryan cracked a smile. "Yeah. She beat mine too. Multiple times. Unlike you."
"You still got any of those grilled cheese left?" he asked.
Evelyn handed him one without looking. "Here. Don't eat like a savage this time."
He took a bite. "Why wouldn't I be happy eating this? This shit's heaven."
"You said shit."
"Not literally. You know what I mean."
She grinned, shaking her head. "So, we're driving there, right?"
"Yup. You told me to go there. That place might hold a clue. If the Mural Killer left even a smear of blood, I'll find it."
A beat passed before he glanced sideways.
"You had a partner before me, right? What was her name again?"
"Emma. Emma Jones."
"How was she?"
Evelyn hesitated. "Strong. Smart. My best friend since childhood. One of our first cases… she nearly killed a suspect. He was begging for mercy."
Scott whistled. "Damn."
"She died two years ago. During a robbery investigation. Got separated from me, went in alone."
"That's rough. Losing someone you've known that long…"
She nodded, quiet. "Some days, I can't even remember her voice."
Scott's grip tightened on the wheel. "You did good surviving that."
"What about you?" Evelyn asked. "Any partners before me?"
"Nope. Fourteen years, always worked alone. Summers brothers are just friends I team up with for the big stuff. That's about it."
"How old are you now?"
"Thirty-eight."
"You don't seem like the retiring type."
He snorted. "Not anytime soon."
"What kind of cases do you usually work?"
"Anything. Stolen cars, missing people, murder. You name it. Even the White Meth Empire."
"You really calling them an empire?"
"What else would you call it? A-small-time-wannabe-drug-lord-kingpin?"
"That's more accurate."
"White was a joke. Big talk, but a tiger with no teeth. Remember when he hired that pizza delivery guy as a hitman?"
"God, yeah," Evelyn said. "Why hire someone off the street without screening them? You hear the news about White's death?"
"No. What happened?"
"Presumed dead. Gang war fallout."
"What about his right-hand man?"
"Probably took over. Honestly, he's smarter than White ever was."
"No argument there."
A pause.
"You ever watch a Bong Joon-ho movie?" Evelyn asked.
Scott perked up. "What Parasite?"
"No, Memories of Murder."
"Oh. The one based on that Korean serial killer, right?"
"Yeah. A masterpiece. Up there with Oldboy. Korean cinema's top tier."
Scott chuckled. "Can't deny that. I liked Snowpiercer, too."
They both fell silent again.
Scott's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"Hey, Richards."
"What is it, Quinn?"
"You never told me much about your life. About your family. Were you close with them?"
Scott hesitated, then shook his head slowly.
"Only with my sisters. My parents? Not really. My father... especially my father... but he taught me something I'll never forget."
"What was that?"
"He used to say that You don't cry. You fix it. Or you break trying. I've lived by that ever since."
Quinn gave a small, dry smile.
"Seems your father was a great guy."
Scott scoffed under his breath. "He taught me discipline. Not kindness."
Across the street, the Summers brothers sat on a rusted bench, unwrapping steaming hot dogs under the glow of a flickering streetlamp.
"Look. Here's the thing," Ryan said, biting into his food. "I know eating is great and all."
Ben nodded with his mouth full. "Yeah."
"But shouldn't we be helping Scott and Evelyn?"
Ben sighed, leaning back against the bench. "No. Trust me, Scott doesn't want us helping. Just trust me on this one."
"What?"
"Look," Ben gestured with his hot dog like a professor with a pointer, "I know you always assume I'm just some idiot—and maybe that's true. But Scott? He always works alone. At least until that hot lady came in."
"Yeah. That lady."
Ben smirked. "Wait. You like her?"
Ryan scoffed. "No. Of course not."
"Come on. I know you do."
"I'm not."
"Are you?"
Ryan hesitated.
Ben grinned. "Yeah, you won't admit it even if I pressure you into it. Would you admit it if Mural came to you and started sucking your blood?"
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Well... I'd suck him instead."
Ben choked on his hot dog. "Wait—what?"
Ryan grinned. "What?"
They both broke into laughter. The sound echoing between the buildings, momentarily cutting through the suffocating tension of the city.
Scott and Evelyn remained in front of the structure. Moonlight streamed through the fractured windows like jagged teeth. "So," Scott remarked, watching the doorway. "What should we do, Quinn?"
Evelyn crossed her arms, pondering. "You go inside. I'll remain out here, examine the boundary. Perhaps we'll find something the others overlooked."
Scott lifted his eyebrow. "Are you sure you'll be fine right here?"
"It's none of your concern, Richards."
Scott briefly nodded and entered the building, fading into gloom.
Evelyn remained outdoor, observing the surroundings. Shrubs, pavement fractures, the stones beside the pathway.
Every detail mattered now. Then, from the corner of her sight, a man came closer.
"Hello, lovely lady," he remarked, his voice saturated with a slick undertone. "What's a cute girl like you doing out here by herself?"
Evelyn squinted her eyes. "Employed. You?"
"Simply... 'joying this night."
He scanned her from head to toe, smile growing broader.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three," she stated, her tone emotionless.
"Excellent," he whispered. "Twenty-four years old. We're compatible to each other."
She stepped back slightly.
"It's time for you to go." They remained in front of the structure. Moonlight streamed through the fractured windows like jagged teeth. "So," Scott remarked, watching the doorway. "What should we do, Quinn?"
Evelyn crossed her arms, pondering. "You go inside. I'll remain out here, examine the boundary. Perhaps we'll find something the others overlooked."
Scott lifted his eyebrow. "Are you sure you'll be fine right here?"
"It's none of your concern, Richards."
Scott briefly nodded and entered the building, fading into gloom.
Evelyn remained outdoor, observing the surroundings. Shrubs, pavement fractures, the stones beside the pathway.
Every detail mattered now. Then, from the corner of her sight, a man came closer.
"Hello, lovely lady," he remarked, his voice saturated with a slick undertone. "What's a cute girl like you doing out here by herself?"
Evelyn squinted her eyes. "Employed. You?"
"Simply... 'joying this night."
He scanned her from head to toe, smile growing broader.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three," she stated, her tone emotionless.
"Excellent," he whispered. "Twenty-four years old. We're compatible to each other."
She stepped back slightly.
"It's time for you to go."
At this moment. He did not. Instead, he moved ahead.
"Why are you so tense, babe? Perhaps I'll stay with you for a while..."
He then charged forward. Evelyn remained unperturbed. She dodged, seized his arm, turned, and slammed him onto the pavement.
He fought back—she secured an arm triangle choke. His objections quickly diminished.
He fell like lifeless cargo.
She hovered above him, breathing evenly. "You chose the incorrect attractive girl."
She cast him one final glance before disappearing into the shadows, continuing her hunt for clues.
At this moment. He did not. Instead, he moved ahead.
"Why are you so tense, babe? Perhaps I'll stay with you for a while..."
He then charged forward. Evelyn remained unperturbed. She dodged, seized his arm, turned, and slammed him onto the pavement.
She secured an arm triangle choke. His objections quickly diminished.
He fell like lifeless cargo.
She hovered above him, breathing evenly. "You chose the incorrect attractive girl."
She cast him one final glance before disappearing into the shadows, continuing her hunt for clues.
Inside the building, Scott moved carefully through the gloom. The only light came from gap of boarded windows, letting in soft moon rays.
"It seems there's nothing here," he muttered. "Suspicious. I'll tell Quinn. Maybe she found something that I didn't."
He stepped outside, only to stop mid-step.
A man lying on the pavement—unconscious.
Scott knelt and checked his pulse.
"He's alive. Barely," he said to himself. "I'll leave him for the medics."
No sign of Evelyn.
"Quinn?" he called. "Where the hell did you go?"
He followed instinct into the night, vanishing down the alleyway.
Evelyn traced the edges of the lot, eyes sharp in the dim light. That's when she saw it—a thin streak of crimson, barely visible on the pavement.
"A blood trail..."
Then a voice behind her: "Oh, there you are."
Scott appeared from the dark, slightly out of breath.
"I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell's going on?"
Evelyn gestured to the blood. "It's a trail. Might've been left by one of the victims. Did you find anything inside?"
"Not a damn thing. Place is emptier than a cave."
She nodded. "Then we follow this. Might lead us to the Mural."
Scott grinned. "Lead the way, hunter."
They followed the trail like predators stalking something far worse than prey.
The blood led them across a stretch of road, deeper into the trees. Scott spotted something.
"An arrow. Marked in blood. Pointing straight ahead."
"Looks like we're still walking," Evelyn said.
They moved forward under the stars, the city lights fading behind them.
The trail ended at a pool. Not water. But blood.
Five bodies floated inside, their heads crushed. Each one positioned as if in silent, holy prayer.
On the wall, painted in red:
The people of New York, stand ready for the arrival of an artist.
Scott was panting.
"Shit." He muttered under his shallow breath.
Evelyn clenched her fists. "They're still out there. And they're just getting started."