The sun rose reluctantly over the city, its pale light leaking through the mist that clung to the streets. It was the kind of morning that carried silence like a shroud, the kind that made even the pigeons seem hesitant to stir. Detective Killian McMiller's boots crunched against the gravel as he stepped under the yellow tape, the metallic tang of blood still hanging faintly in the damp air.
The alley had been scrubbed in the night — at least, that's what the clean streaks on the cobblestones suggested. But no amount of bleach could erase the outline of violence. A shadow of red lingered in the cracks, whispering what had happened here only hours ago.
Hill McCallister was already crouched near the wall where the victim had been found, his gloves snapping tight as he pointed to a faint smear.
"Not all of it's the victim's blood," Hill said without looking up. "Lab says there's another DNA profile mixed in. Could be from the killer."
"Could be," Killian echoed, though he doubted it. If this killer was methodical enough to leave a signature, they wouldn't be careless enough to leave their own blood behind — unless they wanted it found.
The crime scene photographer finished her last shot, muttering about the poor light, and stepped away. Killian crouched where she had been, his eyes sweeping the wall. Among the faded graffiti, one piece of writing stood out — fresh white paint, crisp and deliberate:
NEXT IS YOU.
But below those words, in smaller, almost imperceptible script, was the number 8. The paint was still tacky. Whoever had written it had done so after the body was removed.
Hill joined him, frowning. "So he came back after the scene was cleared?"
"Or," Killian said, "he was here the whole time. Watching."
The thought settled between them like a stone dropped in water. They both scanned the alley instinctively, though they knew the killer was long gone.
---
At the precinct, the fluorescent lights felt too harsh after the dim alley. Killian spread the case file open on the conference table while Hill sifted through the early autopsy notes.
"Cause of death," Hill read aloud, "blunt force trauma to the skull. But here's the twist — the blow wasn't fatal immediately. The victim was alive for at least two minutes afterward. There's bruising on the wrists from restraints."
"Why keep them alive?" Killian murmured.
Hill's expression hardened. "To make them read the message."
Killian leaned back in his chair, the edges of the crime scene photos catching the light. The victim — Thomas Greer — had been a mid-level project manager in a tech company. Divorced. No criminal record. A handful of parking tickets. Ordinary, on the surface. But then there was the other file — the one marked with the school emblem.
Greer's name appeared more than once in old disciplinary records from a local high school. Not as a troublemaker, but as a complainant — or rather, against him. Witness statements suggested he had been part of a group of boys who harassed a fellow student relentlessly. No charges. Just teenage cruelty swept under the rug.
Killian tapped the file. "The past is catching up to our victim."
"You think this is revenge?" Hill asked.
"I think," Killian said slowly, "someone's working from a list."
---
The lab tech burst into the conference room, a sheet of paper in hand. "You'll want to see this. We found something in the victim's coat lining."
It was a small piece of card stock, folded twice. Inside was a single Polaroid photo — blurry, as if taken in haste. It showed a man sitting at an outdoor café, unaware he was being photographed. The timestamp printed in the corner was today's date.
On the back, in that same neat handwriting: 8 hours left.
Hill's stomach dropped. "This isn't about the murder we just had. This is about the next one."
Killian was already reaching for his coat. "Get the photo to Facial Rec. We've got less than a workday to stop whoever's on that picture from ending up like Greer."
---
Outside, the day had turned brighter, but Killian barely noticed. The city hummed around them, oblivious to the ticking clock. Somewhere, the killer was moving toward their next target, confident enough to taunt the police with a deadline.
And somewhere else, another unsuspecting life was already in their sights.
---