Morning crept into Ashtletown like a thief. Snow blanketed the town square, muffling every sound except the hollow toll of church bells. Posters of the missing clung to walls like ghosts refusing to leave. The candles left from last night's vigil still flickered, wax pooling like silent tears.
A boy on a rusted bicycle coasted down Mill Street. His small gloved hand reached into his jacket and slipped a red envelope into Detective Jason Jules' black iron mailbox. No one saw. No one asked questions. In Ashtletown, no one ever did.
Inside his apartment, Jules sat at the table, coffee steaming beside him. He heard the metallic click of the mailbox. Calmly, he rose, his polished shoes tapping softly on the wooden floor. He opened the door, plucked the envelope, and closed it again with deliberate care.
No name. No stamp. Just crimson ink bleeding faintly at the edges.
Jules peeled it open. The message inside, handwritten in deep red:
"T is trembling. H shall follow."
For a moment, Jules allowed himself a smile. Precise. Clean. Exactly as planned.
But then… his hand shook. Not from fear. Not from guilt. From excitement—something even he couldn't control.
He folded the letter neatly and slid it into his journal alongside the others.
Six down. Sixteen to go.
---
That evening, the mayor's hall swelled with frightened townsfolk. The wooden floors groaned under the weight of panic and desperation.
Jason Jules stood at the front like a savior, dressed sharply in his long black coat and brimmed hat. The crowd hushed when he spoke.
"We are not dealing with a common criminal," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "This… is someone intelligent. Calculated. But no matter how clever they believe themselves to be—" he paused, letting every ear lean closer, "—minds can be outsmarted. Trust me."
A ripple of hope washed over the crowd. Mothers clutched their children. Old men nodded solemnly. They wanted to believe. Needed to believe.
And as Sheriff Doolin shook Jules' hand in thanks, he didn't notice the small envelope Jules slipped into his coat pocket. Another breadcrumb. Another false lead. Another piece of the game.
---
Night fell. Jules descended the narrow wooden steps into his hidden basement. Lanterns burned dimly, illuminating walls covered in red string and photographs of the victims. Serena, Oliver, Ulyssa, Thomas, Hannah… each face crossed out in crimson ink.
On the desk, a drawer full of unused envelopes, a bottle of red ink, and pages of letters in his sharp handwriting.
He whispered to himself, fingers brushing over a map of Ashtletown marked with twenty-two X's:
"Six down… sixteen to go… and yet they still adore me."
But tonight felt different.
A creak upstairs. A shadow flickered by the window. Jules snapped his head toward the sound, eyes narrowing.
Then—another letter slid under his basement door.
Jules froze. He hadn't sent this one.
He approached carefully, boots crunching against the dusty floor. Picked it up. Opened it.
One line:
"The hunter is being hunted."
For the first time in months, Detective Jason Jules felt something other than a thrill.
He felt exposed.
---
The next morning, Sheriff Doolin knocked on Jules' door, face pale and anxious.
"Detective… we've got a lead," the sheriff said, voice trembling. "And it points to someone close to you."
Jules calmly hid a bloodstained glove under his desk before opening the door fully.
"Close to me?" Jules asked, his voice smooth as honey. "Impossible."
The door slammed.
Cut to black.