[Forensic Department - 1:12 PM, same day]
They still think they're chasing a ghost.
But ghosts don't bleed.
And I… I wear gloves.
I slice clean through the trachea of the latest corpse on my table — not one of mine, sadly. Just a poor man who drank too much and drove too fast.
No art. Just mess.
"Dr. Daniel?"
Officer Lane peeks in, young, too young to be in homicide.
"Yes?"
I don't stop sawing. I want her to flinch. She doesn't.
"The Chief wants you in the briefing room. We've got another body."
I smile.
Another? No. That's not possible.
I only left one… unless someone's trying to play in my gallery.
⸻
[Conference Room – 1:32 PM]
Photos. Blood. Guts displayed on a projector.
But something's… wrong.
Murray points. "Same technique. Opened from the thoracic cavity, lungs spread like wings, intestines positioned deliberately."
I lean in.
But the handwork… it's sloppy.
The symmetry is off. The folding is forced. There's no rhythm in these cuts.
It's a copycat. A student.
Or a challenge.
"Dr. Daniel?"
Murray's voice cuts through. "What do you make of it?"
I straighten up, brushing imaginary dust off my coat.
"This," I begin, "is not the same artist. It's… mimicked. The hands that made this didn't understand the language of the body. This is noise trying to become music."
A pause.
"Could be a fan," Officer Lane mumbles.
Or a message.
I don't like being imitated. I am not inspiration. I am precision.
⸻
[Daniel's apartment – Midnight]
Books. Clean knives. A heart in formaldehyde.
I sit at my desk, staring at the photo of the second body.
Sloppy fingers dared to touch my medium.
That can't go unpunished.
They want to speak in flesh? Fine.
I'll answer. Loud and clear.
I pick up a small scalpel, the one I always use for detailing.
"Let's begin again," I whisper.
This time, it won't be a statement.
It will be a lesson.
And every piece of their body will learn it.