A few days later…
The morning was gray, the air heavy with the smell of rain-soaked earth.
An old woman walked slowly down Street 54, her cane tapping softly against the cracked pavement.
As she passed Emma's house, she stopped.
Something felt… wrong.
The air around the gate carried a strange, metallic stench — sharp, iron-like. Blood.
Her wrinkled hand trembled on the handle as she noticed the front door standing wide open, swaying slightly with the breeze.
"Emma…?" she whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Silence.
The woman hesitated, then pushed the door and stepped inside.
Her scream shattered the stillness.
Blood. Everywhere. Splattered against the walls, smeared across the floorboards, dripping from the furniture like paint from a mad artist's brush.
Hands shaking, she fumbled for her phone.
"Hello?! Police! Please come quickly! Street 54 — there's been a murder!"
Minutes later
Flashing red and blue lights washed over the quiet neighborhood.
Officer Jack Hale ducked under the police tape, his coat already damp from the drizzle.
He found the old woman shivering on the porch, her eyes wide with terror.
Jack crouched beside her. "Ma'am, do you know whose house this is?"
Her lips trembled. "Yes… this is Emma's house. She's been missing for days. Such a sweet girl…"
Before Jack could respond, a uniformed officer ran toward him, panic in his eyes.
"Sir! Officer Hale! There's a body here!"
Jack hurried inside.
The sight stopped him cold.
A woman's body lay sprawled on the blood-soaked floor. Her face was unrecognizable, swollen and mangled beyond recognition. Both hands had been pierced through with long nails, pinned grotesquely to the wooden boards. And on her back… stab wounds. Too many to count.
Jack's throat tightened. He forced himself to speak, though his voice was barely a whisper.
"…Fifty-four. She was stabbed fifty-four times."
Later – Forensics Lab
The results came in.
Victim identified: Emma.
The old woman collapsed into sobs. "She had no parents… we were her family. She didn't deserve this… she didn't…"
Jack stood over the evidence table, fists clenched. This wasn't just another killing.
It was the fiftieth murder this year.
Every victim had been marked the same way:
A number carved into their hand.
Jack stared at Emma's lifeless palm, the photo in front of him.
Carved deep into the flesh: 50.
Jack felt the weight of it settle on him like a storm cloud.
"This isn't random. This isn't rage. It's ritual," he muttered. "One killer. One plan. One message."
But as he turned Emma's photo over in his hands, his breath caught.
Jack's eyes widened. His voice was a whisper, cold with shock.
"It can't be…"