The darkness.
Not the sleep kind, but something cold and heavy. The air carried the scent of rusted metal, and old blood—just like a hospital long forgotten.
Ryan opened his eyes.
He blinked through the blur. His arms refused to move. A sharp metal sound met his ears. Handcuffs. His wrists strapped to the side of a steel bed. His throat dry.
Then he saw him.
The figure stepped out from the shadows, silent as breath. The pale white mask caught the light—smooth, blank, featureless save for two hollow eyes. A loose green jacket hung from narrow shoulders, smeared with red in places the dim light couldn't fully reveal.
Ryan exhaled through his nose, forcing calm.
"This is your lair?" he said, voice steady.
The masked man tilted his head like a curious animal. "Your intellect has interfered," he said, voice even, almost warm. "But not your wisdom. You came here alone. No backup. No team."
He gestured lazily to the room, to the chains, the bloodstained walls, the faint outlines of murals—human remains arranged in impossible, horrific shapes.
"You shouldn't have interrupted my gallery. This place isn't meant for visitors."
"Gallery," Ryan scoffed. "That's what you call this shithole? Gallery?"
The man reached for a tray beside him, metal tools laid out like brushes on a palette—bone saws, scalpels, syringes, tubes.
"A gallery," he repeated, serene. "A space for beauty."
"This 'gallery' is an abomination," Ryan snapped. "You carved them and called it art?"
The Mural paused, hand hovering above a scalpel. Then, slowly, he turned.
"You call them abominations." His voice was soft, almost hurt. "But they are truth. They are expression. You see mutilation. I see color, shape, form. I see freedom."
"Don't give me that," Ryan said. "You're no artist. You're a delusional butcher. A deranged killer."
A quiet breath escaped beneath the mask. "There is beauty in what others refuse to understand. Fear," he said, "reveals what's pure. And blood... is the most honest medium there is."
The Mural lifted a long needle tool, fitted with clear tubing.
Ryan stared at it, then gave a bitter laugh. "So I'm your next piece."
"One of my last," the Mural said. "A martyr. A message. Your brother will understand."
"My brother," Ryan said, "how could I forget him?"
The Mural moved to the side of the bed, the tool humming faintly. His gloved hand found a vein.
"What drives you to this?" the captive asked, voice raw.
The Mural paused, his hand firm.
"Simple. I love art," he said gently.
A soft click. The tool pierced skin. Ryan bit down on his lip. Red flooded the clear tube. He didn't scream.
He only looked at the face beneath the mask, breathing heavily. The mask didn't blink. It simply watched, like a statue made flesh.
The Mural only watched the color drain from his canvas.
The blood flowed. The room fell silent. Ryan's breath slowed.
And the masterpiece was born.
The clear tube is now filled with blood. Like a vein torn open.
The Mural watches Ryan's body.
Drained. Pale like wax under dim light.
The room hums.
Concrete walls. Metal table. Blood smeared like red vines.
A place not meant to be found.
"Your instinct," he says.
A pause.
"Your humbleness."
Another pause. Longer.
"That's what made you different from Morgan."
He kneels. Dips his brush into the pool.
Thick. Warm. Still fresh.
The canvas waits.
One stroke. Two.
A shape starts to form. Wings. Bloody.
A bleeding angel.
He doesn't look up. Not yet.
"Detective Summers," the Mural says.
Soft. Almost human.
"In all honesty, I respected you."
He stands. Turns.
His eyes meet Ryan's once more.
Silent. Still.
"You are my masterpiece."
Morning.
A dingy motel room.
Ben lay on the bed, tangled in sheets. The hum of the old AC unit filled the silence.
His hand blindly searched for his phone on the nightstand.
10:02 AM.
He squinted at the light, groaned, then sat up with a stretch and a mutter.
"I need a shower."
Cut to the bathroom.
Water splashes. Steam fogs the mirror.
Ben's eyes stay distant. Still thinking. Still trying not to think.
Minutes later, he's behind the wheel. The engine roars to life as his foot hits the pedal.
He drives—still damp hair, still blank thoughts.
"What was Ryan telling me about?"
A pause.
Nothing comes to mind. Just fragments. Warnings. Curiosity.
"You know... maybe I could just ask him what's up."
Ben pulls into the Phoenix Force Investigation Department.
The building looms. Waiting.
Outside, Evelyn and Scott are already there.
Scott sees him first.
"You prick," Scott snaps, stepping forward. "We've been waiting half an hour! Where the hell is Ryan?"
Ben slams the door shut. "I don't know. I thought he came here by himself."
Concern creeping into Evelyn's face.
"I don't think he's here, yet. Maybe he's running late?"
Scott scoffs. "Late? Ryan? That's bullshit. He's never late."
He starts toward the door.
"Let's get in, lady and gentleman."
They stepped into the department together. The air felt heavier.
Scott walked ahead. Then, quietly, he said, "That old man told us to get here. Said he's got news."
Ben, a few steps behind, raised a brow. "Good news or bad?"
"We don't know yet," Scott replied. "Me and Evelyn got the call without much explanation."
"I thought we were off today," Ben said. "Weren't we supposed to investigate the Mural Killer?"
"We were," Evelyn answered, arms folded across her chest. "But Russo called us in. Said he had something for us."
None of them said much else as they walked the familiar hallways. The station was quiet. A few murmurs, some paperwork rustling, the usual hum of a department never truly at rest.
When they reached Russo's office, the door was already open.
He was sitting at his desk, shoulders heavy, gaze locked on a stack of papers. He didn't look up.
Scott knocked once on the frame. "Morning, Captain. How's the family?"
"They're fine," Russo muttered. "Why do you care, Richards?"
Scott shrugged, taking a step in. "Just asking."
Ben scanned the room. No sign of Ryan.
"Where's my brother?" he asked. "I thought he was always early."
Russo finally looked up. His expression was unreadable—tired, maybe. Worn in a way Ben hadn't seen before.
"Just sit down," Russo said.
Scott and Evelyn found their seats without a word.
Ben glanced around. "No chair left."
"Then stand," Russo said. "It won't kill you."
Ben said nothing. Just stayed where he was.
Russo rested his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together.
"This one's not easy," he began. "Didn't think I'd have to say it like this."
Scott leaned forward. "What is it? Did you find Mural's identity?"
Russo shook his head slowly.
"No. This is about Ryan Summers."
The words hung there, unspoken and too heavy to pull free.
Ben's jaw tightened. Evelyn's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion—just trying to understand.
Russo looked at each of them. Then, finally, at Ben.
"He's gone."
Everything stopped.
Ben stared, like he hadn't heard it right. "What?"
Russo didn't repeat himself.
"We don't know exactly how it happened yet," Russo continued. "But his body was found."
Ben didn't move. Didn't blink. It hit him slower than it should have.
Evelyn sat still, her hands clenched in her lap.
Scott leaned back in his chair. Quiet, unreadable.
Ben stumbled back, his voice breaking. "No. No, no, no. It's not him."
Captain Russo lowered his gaze, grief etched into his features. "I wish that were true, Detective Summers. But I'll show you myself."
He pulled his laptop onto the desk and opened a news broadcast. Evelyn and Scott leaned in, silent.
The screen lit up with a glaring headline:
BREAKING NEWS — DETECTIVE OF THE ARTIST CASE FOUND DEAD IN COFFIN
A shaky reporter stood on a street corner in New York, camera lights flickering behind her.
"Someone discovered a man placed inside a coffin on the sidewalk. He was found lifeless, face pale, no visible wounds. Authorities have identified him as Ryan Summers, one of the lead detectives in the Mural Killer case. Unlike the killer's previous victims, Summers wasn't turned into any form of 'art.'"
Captain Russo paused the video.
Ben gritted his teeth, rage barely contained.
"Where can I see him... one last time?"
Captain Russo nodded solemnly and gave him the address.
Without another word, Ben stormed out of the department.
The car screeched to a halt.
He parked.
Across the street, beneath the gray sky, a white coffin rested on the sidewalk, guarded by yellow tape. A news crew was still broadcasting live.
Ben stepped out.
His face hollow.
His walk slow. Heavy. Numb.
He crossed the line. The reporter turned, startled.
"Hey—sir, you can't just—"
Ben's voice cracked.
"I'm his brother. And a detective."
The reporter went silent.
Ben dropped to his knees beside the coffin.
His hand touched the cold wood.
His memories flooded back—
Laughter. Late-night debates about comic books. Fighting side by side on their first case. Promises. Home.
Footsteps behind him.
Scott and Evelyn.
No words—just arms wrapped around him.
Ben finally broke. The tears came like waves.
Unstoppable.
The only family he had left—Gone.
Ben, whispering through sobs.
"If only I had made it back home… if only..."
Scott stared ahead, jaw clenched.
In his eyes, the loss of a brother-in-arms.
Evelyn held Ben tighter.
In her eyes, the loss of someone who believed in her.
And in Ben's eyes—
He didn't just lose his brother.
He lost himself.