The sirens outside the apartment were still screaming when Marcus pulled out his phone. He dialed his boss. The old man answered quickly, his tone flat, as if he had been expecting the call.
"George was tortured in his apartment," Marcus said, his voice low. "Even his parts was still there. Left in the sink."
The old man didn't sound shocked. "Not surprising. The church was clean. No traces. He wanted us to see only the hanging. The apartment is where the truth is."
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I also found something written. On the wall near the kitchen. 'He is watching.'"
"You mean the killer has been stalking the victim for a long time?"
"There's a possibility," Marcus muttered. "This could be hatred, not just some psycho ritual."
The old man gave a tired sigh through the phone. "The way it was done—skinned, mutilated, displayed—it looks like the work of a psychopath."
Marcus shook his head, staring at the blood-stained floor. "The skinning, yes. But cutting off his private part, leaving it behind—that reeks of hatred. Personal hatred."
There was a pause. Then the old man spoke again, calm but heavy. "What if you come here and see the autopsy report yourself? The body is being examined right now. You need to see it with your own eyes."
Marcus frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Just get here. Now." The line went dead.
Marcus clenched his jaw, grabbed his coat, and stormed down the stairs. The rain had started to fall harder, hammering the streets as he drove. The wipers slapped back and forth, struggling to keep up. He sped through traffic, his mind replaying the crime scene again and again—the hanging body, the symbols carved into the skin, the blood trail in the apartment, the organ-less shell that haunted his imagination.
When he arrived, the forensic building loomed in the rain. Its walls were gray, its windows dim with yellow light. He parked quickly and ran through the downpour. The hallway smelled of disinfectant mixed with old dampness. The flicker of broken lights above added to the weight pressing on his chest.
The old man was waiting near the autopsy room. His face looked worn, his shoulders slouched. He had aged a decade overnight.
"Are you alright?" Marcus asked.
The old man gave a faint smirk. "Have you eaten yet? If not, you should. You'll need it."
Marcus shook his head. "I couldn't even drink coffee after that apartment."
"Then brace yourself." The old man gestured to the steel door. "Go inside."
Marcus pulled a glove from the counter and pushed open the door. The chill of the room hit him immediately. The hum of refrigeration filled the silence. The doctor stood near the table, his mask down around his chin. His eyes looked like he hadn't blinked in hours.
The body lay on the steel table, covered in a white sheet. The face side had already been examined. Now, the corpse was turned onto its stomach, its back covered by the cloth.
"You didn't see this part in the church," the doctor said, his voice flat but carrying an edge of horror. "He was face-front. But it wasn't just blood loss that killed him."
Marcus stepped closer. The doctor's gloved hands gripped the edge of the sheet. He pulled it back slowly.
Marcus's stomach twisted. He slapped his hand over his mouth. "Oh Jesus."
The man's back was no longer human. It was opened cleanly from the neck to the waist, stitched back crudely with dark thread. But the stitching could not hide what was missing. Most of the organs had been removed. The empty cavity gaped like a hollow pit. Only the heart remained intact, sitting inside the chest like some twisted prize.
Marcus staggered a step backward, his breath ragged. "How… how is that possible? He was still breathing when they found him."
The doctor peeled off his gloves and threw them aside. His voice was hard, clinical. "The organs weren't hacked out. They were removed with precision. This wasn't rage. This wasn't random. Whoever did this was a surgeon, or someone with knowledge just as good. Every cut is deliberate. Clean. Controlled."
Marcus swallowed hard. "A surgeon?"
The doctor nodded. "And there's more. He wasn't unconscious during this. He was drugged."
Marcus's eyes widened. "Drugged?"
"A medicine that blocks sleep and prevents fainting. It keeps a man awake even through the worst pain. He couldn't pass out. He couldn't escape. He felt everything until his heart finally failed."
"After it that whoever did it just stich back his back."
The room went silent. The old man leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead.
Marcus's hands were shaking. His voice dropped to a whisper. "That psycho was slowly torturing him."
The doctor's reply was cold, final. "Whoever did this is more than a psycho. He's a genius. A genius doctor."
The sound of rain outside grew louder, hammering against the roof of the building. Marcus felt his chest tighten, as if the whole world had shrunk to this one room, this one body, this one impossible monster they were chasing.
Marcus stepped out of the morgue, his legs feeling heavier than before. The rain outside had worsened, pounding the pavement like it wanted to bury the whole city in water. He pulled out a cigarette with trembling hands, the match barely staying lit in the wind. When it caught, the glow was the only warmth around him. Smoke filled his lungs, but even that couldn't cover the stench of blood that seemed stuck in his throat.
The old man was leaning against the concrete wall, collar raised against the storm. His eyes looked tired, not just from years in the job but from carrying too much horror in his memory. When Marcus joined him, neither spoke at first. The silence between them was louder than the sirens screaming somewhere far off in the city.
"This isn't going to be a simple case," Marcus finally said, his voice low and grim. He exhaled smoke into the rain, watching it disappear instantly. "Whoever did this… tortured him slow. That's not just a psycho it's someone with purpose. But why? Why George?"
The old man didn't answer right away. He pressed his lips together like the words were heavy to carry. His eyes stayed on the wet asphalt where the water gathered into black puddles. "We need to know who George really was. People like that don't get chosen at random. Either he was hiding something, or someone wanted to make an example out of him."
Marcus flicked ash off his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly against the night. "He was watched, boss. The words left on his apartment 'he is watching' it wasn't just a message. That means the killer stalked him. Followed him. Every move, every prayer in that church." He shook his head. "That's not rage. That's obsession."
The old man finally looked at him, his face pale under the dim streetlight. "If this really is a psycho, Marcus, he won't stop. He'll pick another one. And when he does, it'll be worse than George." He shifted his weight against the wall, the rain dripping down his coat. "The letters carved into the flesh… we're still trying to find someone to decipher it. That wasn't random. It's no simple code. Whoever this killer is, he wants us to work for it. He wants us to chase him."
Marcus laughed bitterly under his breath, the sound hollow. "Sometimes I think you're too old for this. Thought you'd be retired by now, sitting somewhere quiet, not dealing with monsters like this."
The old man gave a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If I'd retired, someone else would be here instead. And maybe they'd break. Better me than someone green."
Marcus dragged another smoke, letting the nicotine steady him. His chest felt heavy, but his mind sharper. He looked up at the sky where the rain blurred the glow of the streetlamps. "Then I'll dig into George's background myself. Church, neighbors, workplace. Somewhere in there is the reason why he was chosen."
The old man nodded slowly, almost relieved. "Good. But don't forget this isn't just about George. It's about the man pulling the strings. Don't get lost in the details."
Marcus smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Details are all we have, boss. Without them, we're blind." He dropped the cigarette to the wet ground and crushed it under his boot, watching the ember die out in the puddle.
The storm showed no signs of stopping. The wind howled between buildings, carrying the smell of smoke, gasoline, and rot from the alleys. Somewhere far, dogs barked into the night, sharp and anxious. The city itself seemed restless, like it knew something foul was hiding in its streets.
Marcus slid into his car, his coat dripping water onto the seat. He glanced once more at the morgue, where the old man still stood, a lone figure swallowed by the rain. Then he turned the key. The engine coughed to life, and the headlights cut through the storm.
As he drove back to his apartment, his thoughts circled the puzzle carved into George's flesh. Numbers, letters, symbols whatever it was, it wasn't simple. The killer had crafted it for them. A message. A game. Marcus gripped the wheel tighter.
The rain tapped hard on the windshield, like impatient fingers. Streets blurred past, neon lights smeared into bleeding colors.