The city lights bled into a bruised, purple pre-dawn sky as Detective Alex Mercer steered toward the crime scene. A phantom ache gnawed at his hands—cold leather, warm blood. It had haunted him since he woke, a nauseating echo of a night he couldn't remember.
The last memory was simple: leaving the precinct after a late file review. After that—nothing. A void. It wasn't the first time. The blackouts were a cruel rhythm of his life, a secret he guarded with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
He parked behind a row of patrol cars, red and blue lights strobing across the brownstone's façade. His partner, Detective Mason, waited by the tape, broad-shouldered and hunched against the bite of morning air. Mason's face was a roadmap of old cases—creased eyes, tired smile, the uncanny knack of seeing what others missed.
"Morning, hotshot." Mason's gaze flicked over Alex. "You look like you wrestled a ghost and lost. Rough night?"
Alex forced a smile. "Something like that. Coffee's not cutting it."
"Try a body," Mason muttered, nodding toward the brownstone. "This one's a masterpiece. Killer's a perfectionist."
Inside, the penthouse gleamed—minimalist design, meticulous taste. The victim, Julian Thorne, a wealthy tech mogul, sat upright in a leather armchair, a first edition of The Odyssey open in his lap. His face bore a faint, unsettling smile. No signs of struggle. No break-in. Too perfect.
"Single puncture at the base of the skull," Mason said, lowering his voice. "Needle, maybe. Poison. Quick. Quiet."
Alex crouched near the body. The phantom ache in his hands sharpened—smooth metal, something long, sharp. He shoved the thought away. Cop first. Killer never.
On the open page of The Odyssey lay a black feather. Out of place. Too deliberate. A signature.
"What's that?" Mason asked.
"Just a detail," Alex murmured, photographing it without touching.
He drifted toward the glass windows. A faint smear shimmered under the rising light. He touched it. Slick. Cold. The scent of ozone. A cleaner used to erase prints. He knew it. The memory wasn't his—yet it felt lived.
As dawn spilled gold into the room, the scene stopped looking like a murder and more like an exhibit. A flawless tableau. The Ghost, the media would call him. Not a killer—an artist.
Back at the precinct, Alex sat alone, the phantom ache unrelenting. He unlocked a journal hidden in his desk. The handwriting inside wasn't his. Sharper. Angrier.
The work is getting sloppy. The last one was too loud. The whisper must be silent. The compass will guide me. The next target will be a lesson in discipline.
Alex's chest tightened. The broken compass. The same symbol whispered about in the alleyways. The same symbol he'd seen scrawled on a map he didn't remember drawing.
The truth settled like ice in his veins.
The Ghost wasn't an elusive criminal. The Ghost was him.
And the whispers in the dark weren't fading.
They were growing louder.