"I always found it amusing how people crave recognition, even when it means bathing in blood."
The interrogation room was cold, metallic. A perfect stage. One single bulb hung above the metal table where a young man—no older than twenty-five—sat, wrists cuffed, eyes red, lips trembling between awe and defiance.
Tim leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Carol sat across from the boy, shuffling a folder filled with gruesome photos. Daniel stood behind the mirrored glass, unseen. He didn't need to be inside just yet.
Not when he already knew everything.
The bodies left behind by the copycat were crude imitations. Rushed. Lacking elegance. Lacking… care.
"He tried to fold a crane," I whispered to myself. "But he creased the wings unevenly. The paper tore at the edges. Sloppy."
Carol slid one photo forward.
"This one. You slit the victim's throat, posed them with lilies… but the lilies were plastic. Why?"
The boy smiled. A twitch, a crack in his skin.
"It's what he would've done," he said. "It's what you—he—does, right? The Paper Crane. I wanted to show I understood. I respected the work."
Outside, I chuckled. Respect? No. You wanted to be noticed. You screamed into the void, hoping someone like me would hear it.
Tim's voice cut in, harsh: "Three murders in five days. Why escalate now?"
Silence.
Then, a whisper from the boy: "I wanted him to see me. I thought he'd be proud."
Carol raised a brow. "You thought a serial killer would admire your work?"
I stepped in.
I pushed the door open slowly, heels echoing against the tiles. The boy looked up, startled, recognition flashing in his eyes.
"You're the profiler, right?" he said.
I smiled. "And you're the fan."
I pulled out a chair, sat beside Carol. "Tell me, what was your favorite of his… pieces?"
He swallowed. "The woman in the bathtub. The flowers in her mouth. So… poetic."
I leaned closer, voice smooth as silk. "That wasn't poetry. That was grief. Do you even understand the message he left?"
The boy blinked. "Message?"
"Exactly," I said. "You imitated the form, but never the meaning."
He shifted uncomfortably. I watched the tremble in his fingers. A child pretending to be a god.
"You don't get to wear someone else's skin and claim it as your own," I whispered. "You're not an artist. You're a smudge."
"I—!" he started, but I didn't let him finish.
"I came here expecting a challenge. A conversation between equals. But you're just noise. Noisy little flies, buzzing around a corpse you didn't kill."
The boy's lips curled in frustration. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," I said, leaning forward, lowering my voice. "I know I am."
His breathing quickened. Rage flushed his cheeks.
"I could kill him. The Paper Crane. I'll prove it. I'll be better than him!"
There it was. The truth.
Tim stiffened, and Carol glanced my way, confused by the strange glint in my eyes.
But I smiled.
"Let's say you could," I whispered. "Would you be remembered?"
His breath hitched.
"Because no one remembers who killed Mozart. Or Da Vinci. They only remember the art."
The boy went silent. Defeated. Unraveled. Just the way I wanted.
Carol stood, nodding. "That's enough."
I turned, but not before sliding a small, hand-folded paper crane across the table toward the boy.
He looked at it, wide-eyed.
And I said, "Consider this… your last lesson in craftsmanship."