SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER…
I am restless. I've been played by this fucker for too long. Eleven bodies I couldn't save. Eleven families who will spend the rest of their lives grieving because of me. Twenty two parents who will never get to say goodbye to their own children.
The bastard has a pattern, young people, always. Not one victim older than their twenties. Eleven dead so far. He had already killed five people before I was even assigned this case, six after. Five males. Six females. And I couldn't stop a single one of them.
Every night I replay the files, the photos, the reports. Every night I swear I'll see what I missed. And every morning there's another name in the obituaries.
"Honey, come to bed…" Elena's voice drifts from our room. We've been together three years. She's wonderful, smart, funny, patient. But she doesn't get it. She thinks this is just a job. She doesn't understand that if I leave my office, it'll only be because I've cracked the code, because I've finally figured out who the hell this monster is.
I push up from my desk, cross the room, and turn the lock.
The handle rattles almost immediately. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" Her voice is sharp, hurt, tired.
Then, my phone rings. One shrill note.
I don't hesitate. I answer on the first vibration, already knowing what I'll hear.
Another body.
…
I get there in under an hour, driving like hell to the docks. The body isn't hidden—no, it's been placed. Propped where anyone could find it. A message, loud and clear.
One of the officers flags me down, his face pale under the floodlights. "Detective… you need to see this."
He hands me an A4 sheet. My stomach twists the second I see it. A crow, thick black ink scrawled in the center of the page. Always the crow.
But this time, there's more. I flip it over and my blood runs cold.
A message.
For me.
The letters are jagged, uneven, like a child trying to write with their off-hand. Sloppy, deliberate. And worse, personal.
"Try harder, Mr. Tomozaki."
He knows me. He knows I'm hunting him.
And he's not running. He's laughing.
He's fucking taunting me.
The words echo in my head as I force myself to move, scanning every inch of the scene like I always do. Normally, it's second nature, patterns pop out at me, connections form, the smallest details scream. But not with him. Not with this psychopath. He's too careful. Too precise. Every crime scene is clean, empty, mocking me with its silence.
I crouch near the body, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. Nothing. Just like the last time. Rage starts to blur my focus, and for a second I want to punch the concrete, break my hand just to feel something other than this fucking helplessness.
But then… something sticks. Not the obvious. The clothes.
I study them again, really study them. Fancy enough for a night out, but not that fancy. Not for a gala, not for a wedding, not for any event worth remembering. Just… casual nightlife. The bars, the clubs, the kind of places you go when you're chasing a good time.
And then the memory clicks, the other victims. All of them. The same. Flashy but not polished. Attractive but not formal. It's too consistent to be a coincidence.
"Wait," I mutter, grabbing the wrist of the corpse. Cold, stiff. But there, faint, pressed into the skin. A mark. Like something had been there. A stamp? A band? And it's gone now, removed on purpose.
My pulse spikes. He doesn't want me to see it. Which means it mattered.
I stand up fast, snapping my fingers at the nearest officer. "Tell them I said to run the damn tests faster!"
The guy blinks at me. "Why? Did you find something?"
"Maybe." My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don't care. "I want a full toxicology report on every single victim. Alcohol. Drugs. Anything they put in their system that night. All twelve of them. I want it all, and I want it tonight."
I pace, restless, my mind racing. If I'm right, if they were all out drinking, partying, marked in some way, then I finally have a thread to pull.
…
I was fucking right.
Two hours later, and five furious calls to the lab, each one nastier than the last, I finally got what I needed. Nine of them had alcohol in their system. One of them was high. Not a coincidence. Not random. A goddamn pattern.
And I hadn't wasted those two hours either. I'd spread a map of the city across my desk, pinned every spot where a body had been found. My gut told me there'd be a link. And there it was: a cluster. A handful of places that lined up almost too perfectly.
My pulse hammered. If I was right about this, I could finally get ahead of him.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to a name I hadn't used in months. College friend. Still a party animal. Still plugged into the nightlife in ways I never could be.
He picked up on the third ring. "Heeey, what's up, ma guy?" His voice was slurred, music blaring in the background. Perfect.
"Hey, I know it's late, but I need a favor."
A laugh. "Right. You only call when it's beneficial for you."
"It's not like you've been dialing me either," I snapped, pacing the office. "Listen, what I need is—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Sherlock. Who said I was gonna help?"
I stopped in place, jaw tightening. He was drunk, cocky, and in the way, but he was also the fastest way to get the answers I needed.
I took a breath through my nose, forcing my voice lower, steadier. "You will. Because I'm not asking you for bullshit. This is life or death, and you own me one favor, remember?"
"Shit." His voice shifts, sobering up just enough. The music on his end muffles, like he's stepped outside. "Alright, man. What do you need?"
"Tell me about the parties. The clubs, bars, any place that uses wristbands, stamps, marks on the skin to show who's allowed in and who's not."
"Uh, that's… a lot of places," he mutters. "But lemme think… fancy enough for a night out, but not black-tie stuff? That sound right?"
I glance at the victim's clothes in my notes. "Exactly that."
"Okay… so not high-end events, not cheap dives either. Mid-range. Places that like to feel exclusive but still wanna pull college kids in." He clicks his tongue, thinking. "Ahh… there are like three in the city. They're popular 'cause you can party all night without cops sniffing around."
"Perfect, tell me."
"One is called Nightmare. Other one is The Warehouse. And the last… fuck, I don't remember… no—wait. Valhalla. Yeah, that's it."
"Thanks. Bye." I hang up before he can add another word.
I spread the map wider across my desk, tracing with my finger as I check the addresses of all three. Then I start plotting, one by one, where each body was found. Eleven points of grief, marked with red ink. My chest feels tight as I connect them with a ruler, circling back over the lines, darker and darker.
Oh my god.
The Warehouse sits almost dead-center.
I sit back, exhaling hard, heart hammering. That's why we never found alibis. That's why it felt random. They weren't going home from work, they weren't wandering alone. They were clubbing. And now I know where he'll be.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER…
I still remember the first time I thought I had him. That surge of certainty, that rush in my veins, I thought the hunt was over. I didn't realize then that he wanted me to know. That he was playing me.
Even now, I carry the reminder.
Cold water hammers against my skin, running in harsh rivulets down my chest. I press a hand against the scar, feeling its jagged edges beneath my fingertips. The flesh still feels foreign, like it doesn't belong to me, like it's borrowed from the night he nearly carved me open.
A sharp knock rattles through the apartment. I kill the shower, drag a towel around my waist, and rush to the door.
When I open it, Maya.
Her eyes flick over me before she can stop herself, quick and instinctive, but they don't stay on my face. They drop. Land right where the scar cuts across me.
A tiny shift in her expression, like a question she doesn't know how to ask.
"Do you need anything?" My voice comes out lower than I meant, rough from not talking for a long while.
She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she steps closer, her eyes fixed not on my face but on the mark carved into me. Her hand lifts, hesitant at first, then sure, her fingers brushing the jagged line across my chest.
The touch makes me flinch, not because it hurts, but because no one touches that scar. No one.
"Where did you get this?" she asks quietly, her voice stripped of its usual sharpness.
For a second, I forget to breathe. The shower still drips behind me, each drop echoing in the quiet.
"I… I'm not sure that's any of your business," I say, my voice tighter than I intended.
Her hand jerks back, and she bites her lip, clearly realizing she crossed a line. "Right," she mutters, shuffling a little on her feet. "That… that was rude of me to ask."
She glances away, then back, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Her words tumble out before she can stop them. "I… um… I actually came to ask if, maybe, you'd like to go out with me? I mean… me and Mia, I mean, you know, as a thank you… for helping us. You've, uh… helped us a lot."
Her voice cracks just slightly, the confidence she tried to muster crumbling into nervous energy. She's not like this. I immediately realize I was too harsh before.
"You don't need to thank me," I say softly, trying to ease the tension. "Seriously. Don't worry about it."
Her expression shifts, the flustered, shy look giving way to embarrassment. She bites her lip, eyes flicking away from mine for just a moment.
I step a little closer, trying to keep my own awkwardness at bay. "But… I'd like to go out with you," I add, flashing her a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "And don't worry, I'm paying."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Me and Mia, right? Like going to dinner, right?"
"Of course," I reply, leaning casually against the doorframe. "What did you think I meant?"
She groans softly, shaking her head with a small smile. "You are actually so annoying."
I grin. "Yeah, i know."
She rolls her eyes, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrays her amusement.