The ticking was maddening. Even in the cramped precinct evidence room, with phones ringing and keyboards clattering outside, Killian could still hear it. Every mechanical click felt like a heartbeat closing in on whoever the next victim was.
Hill leaned over the timer, his hands on his knees. "We can't just wait to see where it runs out. We've got to figure out who's next—fast."
Killian was already ahead of him. He had the two victims' files open side by side, his pen tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the paper. Two different professions. Two different social circles. But both had been accused—quietly, unofficially—of crushing the people beneath them.
The killer's target wasn't random. He wasn't hunting for money or revenge over one slight. This was a purge.
"Pull up that harassment complaint database," Killian ordered. "Filter for anyone who's had more than three filed against them in the last five years."
Hill started typing, muttering under his breath as the list populated. "Alright… we've got twenty-seven names in the city. That's still too many."
Killian stared at the timer, then something clicked in his mind. "The number on the wall. Eight. He's already crossed off six names before we ever caught wind of this. That means…"
Hill froze. "That means this is number seven."
Exactly. Which also meant they were closing in on the end of the list—and possibly the killer's last act.
The database search narrowed further as they cross-referenced the last known locations of the surviving "targets." Two were out of town. Three were in high-security corporate offices. That left just one name lighting up on the screen: Dr. Elias Corven, chief surgeon at Brookhaven Medical Center.
Killian's jaw tightened. Corven was infamous in quiet corners of the medical community for his brutal, ego-driven leadership style. Residents either quit or broke under him.
They had four hours to get to him.
---
Brookhaven loomed like a fortress of glass and steel when they arrived. The sterile air inside smelled faintly of bleach, but Killian still caught a whiff of something else—fear.
They met Corven in his office, surrounded by framed diplomas and the faint hum of a desk clock. He was tall, graying at the temples, with the confident smile of someone who didn't believe danger could touch him.
"I've got surgeries scheduled," Corven said impatiently. "I don't have time for—"
Killian dropped the timer on his desk. The doctor's smile faltered.
"That was delivered to the neighbor of your last victim," Killian said, his voice hard. "We think you're next."
For the first time, Corven's eyes flickered—not with gratitude, but with something else. "Then you should know… I got a letter this morning too. But I burned it."
Hill took a step forward. "What did it say?"
Corven hesitated. "It said my turn was coming. That when the clock struck zero, my sins would be balanced."
The hairs on Killian's neck rose. This killer wasn't bluffing.
And somewhere in this hospital—among hundreds of staff, patients, and hidden corners—he was already waiting.
The clock on Corven's desk read 11:12 a.m. The timer still ticked.
Four hours was now three.