Prologue
10 p.m. – L.A. Spencer Club
A long-haired girl in a striking pink outfit burst out of the club doors, her heels clattering against the pavement. Behind her, a bald man clutched a shining axe, his eyes fixed on her like prey.
"Help!" she screamed, but the street was frozen. People stood like mannequins, staring blankly, as if paused under some unseen command. No one moved. No one answered.
Her breath quickened as she sprinted across the road, her chest rising and falling violently. Panic drove her down an undeveloped route—a place without cameras, without security, just shadows. It was almost as if the killer had led her here.
"Help! Help! Please!" her voice echoed into the night, bouncing off the walls, but no answer came. She knew only one thing: the man the city whispered about—the faceless nightmare—had come for her.
She fumbled for her phone with trembling hands. "Mom! Help me, someone's after me! I'm so scared—I don't know where I am—it's dark—" Her voice cracked, breaking under terror.
Then—footsteps.
Dum. Dum. Dum.
The sound of a predator closing in.
"Tik… tik… tik… tik…" a distorted voice seemed to ride in the air, following the steps.
She froze. Silence pressed in. Was he gone?
Her shaking hands pulled out her phone again, but it slipped. The device clattered on the ground—rolling straight toward the darkness. Straight toward him.
Dum. Dum. The footsteps started again, heavier, closer.
"Mom…" she whimpered, curling against the wall, praying he'd pass her by.
Then came the rasp of a voice, laced with mockery:
"Tik. Tik. Tik. Found you."
A bald face leaned into view, his mouth curling into a smile that was more terrifying than the axe he carried.
"No—please! Don't hurt me! Please, I'm begging you, forgive me—I'm wrong, it's my fault, I'll give you anything! Money, a house—my dad has everything! Just don't kill me, please!"
The man's chuckle rolled out, deep and monstrous, echoing through the emptiness.
"Forgive you?" His bass voice was darker than death itself.
She nodded frantically, tears streaming, her body trembling.
Then he laughed—loud, jagged, cruel.
"Hahahahahahahaha…"
The man's laughter echoed into the night, sharp and unending, bouncing off the walls like a curse.
Her voice cracked through her sobs. "Please… don't…"
He leaned closer, his breath hot and foul against her ear. "Too late."
The axe rose slowly, gleaming under the broken streetlight. For a moment, the world went silent—no footsteps, no echoes, just the hammering of her terrified heart.
Then—
SWOOSH. CRACK.
A single scream tore the air.
SLASH!
Blood sprayed across the concrete, dark and glistening.
The sound of the axe striking again and again was sickening—THUD. THUD. SPLASH. Until there was nothing left but silence and the steady drip of blood pooling in the dirt.
The bald man straightened, wiping the axe with his hand. His smile stretched wider, carved with satisfaction.
"Time," he muttered, his voice a promise of more death to come.
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving only blood, silence, and the beginning of a nightmare.
Chapter One
11:43 p.m. – Spencer Backstreet, L.A.
Red and blue lights painted the alley in harsh flashes. The night smelled of iron and rain, though it hadn't rained in days.
Detective Marcus Hale ducked under the yellow tape, his boots crunching against broken glass. The crime scene techs were already at work, their cameras clicking, gloves stained with someone else's nightmare.
A girl's body lay sprawled on the pavement, her pink dress torn and soaked through with blood. Her long hair fanned out across the concrete, shining under the floodlights. Someone had placed a sheet over her, but crimson seeped through anyway, dripping into the gutter.
Hale crouched low, his eyes tracing the brutal axe wounds, the pattern of the strikes. Cold precision. No hesitation. Whoever did this had enjoyed it.
"Same signature, isn't it?" Officer Ruiz muttered, holding a notebook, his face pale under the siren lights.
Hale didn't answer. He didn't need to. The weight in his chest said it all.
The Bald Man.
The city's ghost story. The faceless nightmare whispered about in bars and newsrooms. Now his work was right here, breathing down Hale's neck in a trail of blood.
He stood, his jaw tightening. "Get every camera feed within three blocks. I want witnesses, movement, anything."
Ruiz frowned. "This street doesn't have surveillance. It's a blind spot. No cameras, no patrols. Almost like…"
"…like he chose it." Hale finished for him. His voice was low, controlled. Rage boiling just under the surface.
The night pressed in around them, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the darkness, Hale felt it—eyes watching. Not the girl's, not the crowd's, but his.
The Bald Man was out there. And he wasn't done.
The alley had gone quiet except for the hum of the generators powering the floodlights. Officers moved like shadows, marking evidence with numbered tags.
Hale crouched beside the girl's fallen phone, its cracked screen still glowing faintly. Missed calls. A half-typed text. "Mom, help me…" He clenched his fist. Too late.
"Detective," Ruiz called, waving him over. A young man stood by the tape, shivering in the cold night, his arms wrapped around himself. Club wristband still tight on his hand. Eyes darting, guilty of something—or maybe just scared.
"Name?" Hale asked.
"Eddie Ramirez," Ruiz supplied. "Bouncer says he was outside when it happened."
Hale studied him. Late twenties, nervous energy. Not the killer, but he'd seen something.
"Tell me," Hale said. His voice carried authority without effort.
Eddie swallowed. "I—I saw her run out. Pink dress, yeah. She was screaming for help but… man, it was weird. People on the street just froze. Like they didn't care. Like… like they were watching a show or something."
Hale's eyes narrowed. "And the man chasing her?"
Eddie's voice cracked. "Bald. Big. He had an axe. I swear, Detective, I've never seen anything like it. He didn't run. He just—walked. Like he knew she couldn't escape."
"Did you try to help?" Hale asked.
Eddie flinched. "I—no. I couldn't move. It's like my body wouldn't let me. Everyone was stuck. Just… staring." His breathing hitched, eyes wide. "Like we were being controlled."
Ruiz shifted uncomfortably, muttering, "Sounds like trauma talking."
But Hale wasn't so sure. He'd heard whispers before. Survivors saying they froze, couldn't scream, couldn't breathe, as if the Bald Man carried more than just an axe—something heavier, something unseen.
"Go home," Hale told Eddie finally. "But don't leave the city. We'll need you again."
Eddie nodded quickly and vanished into the crowd.
Hale turned back to Ruiz. "Get me files on every unsolved axe murder in the last ten years. I don't care how far back. We're not looking at random. This is deliberate."
Ruiz raised a brow. "You think she was targeted?"
Hale stared down at the girl's lifeless body, the phone glowing beside her hand. He didn't answer. But inside, the thought rang clear: Yes. Someone wanted her dead. And this was just the beginning.
The sirens faded into the distance, but Hale felt the weight of silence pressing harder than before. Somewhere in the dark, the Bald Man was smiling.
And Hale swore, before this ended, he would wipe that smile from his face—even if it killed him.
(Scene 2 – The Witness Statement)
Hale pulled off his gloves as he approached the tape. The young man waiting there shifted from foot to foot like a caged animal. His hands shook, tugging at the plastic club wristband that still clung to his wrist. Sweat gleamed on his forehead even though the night was cool.
"Eddie Ramirez?" Hale's voice was steady, cutting through the hum of generators.
The man nodded quickly, Adam's apple bobbing. "Y-yeah. That's me. I didn't do anything, man—I was just standing out here, smoking—"
Hale raised a hand, stopping him mid-ramble. "No one said you did. You saw something, didn't you?"
Eddie's eyes darted to the alley where the body still lay under a sheet. His breathing hitched, shallow and sharp. "I saw too much."
"Then start talking."
Eddie rubbed his hands together, glancing nervously at Ruiz, who stood off to the side scribbling in his notebook. "She came running out… the girl. Screaming for help. Loud. Real loud. I thought—hell, I thought someone would help her, you know? People were on the street, right there. But…"
"But what?" Hale pressed.
Eddie's jaw trembled. "They didn't move. Not one of them. Like… like statues. Just staring at her. Staring at him." He shuddered. "It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen, Detective. I tried to move, I swear I did, but it was like my body wasn't mine. My legs… they wouldn't listen."
Ruiz snorted. "Shock. Happens all the time. Body freezes up."
Eddie snapped his head toward him, eyes wild. "No! You don't get it! It wasn't shock. It was like—like something heavy pressed down on me, kept me in place. Like he wanted us frozen, and we were."
Hale narrowed his eyes. "You're saying the man… controlled you?"
Eddie hesitated, then nodded. His lips trembled. "Yeah. Controlled. That's the word."
Hale studied him carefully. The kid wasn't drunk. His pupils weren't blown wide. He was terrified, yes—but the fear looked too real to be faked.
"What about the man?" Hale asked softly. "Tell me what you saw."
Eddie's shoulders hunched, as if even recalling the memory was dangerous. "Bald. Big guy. Wore black. He had an axe—shiny, clean, like it was brand new. But what freaked me out wasn't the weapon. It was the way he walked." Eddie's voice dropped to a whisper. "Slow. Calm. Like he already knew she wouldn't get away."
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the clicking of cameras deeper in the alley. Hale leaned closer, lowering his tone. "Did he say anything?"
Eddie closed his eyes, his hands clamping over his ears. "I don't… I don't wanna think about it."
"Eddie." Hale's voice hardened. "What did you hear?"
The young man's voice cracked when it came out. "He laughed. But it wasn't just… normal laughing. It was in my head. Like he was standing right inside me. And then—" Eddie's voice broke. "And then I heard him say, 'Found you.' Like he was talking to all of us, not just her."
Ruiz muttered something under his breath, but Hale ignored him. His gaze stayed fixed on Eddie, weighing every syllable.
"You did good telling me this," Hale said finally, his tone gentler. "But listen—don't leave the city. We may need to talk again."
Eddie nodded so hard his teeth almost rattled. "Fine. Whatever you need. Just… keep him away from me."
He stumbled back into the waiting crowd, swallowed by the glow of sirens.
Hale turned back toward the alley, the weight in his chest heavier than before. The Bald Man. Always walking. Always watching.
And now, always leaving survivors who swore they couldn't move.
(Scene 3 – The Victim's Identity)
Inside the club, the music had died down, but the air still throbbed with the ghost of bass. Strobe lights flickered weakly over abandoned drinks and half-torn flyers. The party had stopped, but the atmosphere clung stubbornly, like smoke that refused to clear.
Hale stepped through the side entrance, Ruiz at his heels. The manager was waiting near the bar, nervously polishing glasses with a rag that was already clean. His eyes darted toward the door every few seconds, like he expected the bald man to walk in at any moment.
"Detective," he greeted, voice trembling. "I told the uniforms everything already. Horrible thing, truly horrible."
Hale wasn't interested in pleasantries. "The girl. Pink dress. Who was she?"
The manager hesitated. "Allison. Allison O'Connor. Came here sometimes. College kid, I think. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Always with friends but tonight…" He shook his head. "Tonight she came alone."
Ruiz scribbled into his pad. "O'Connor. Common name. You got a number? Address?"
The manager nodded quickly. "Yeah, yeah. We keep records of everyone who books VIP tables.
Allison's father is—uh—someone important. A businessman. Real estate, I think. Owns a few hotels uptown. Big money." His voice dropped. "You'll want to handle this carefully. That family's… well-connected."
Hale filed the information away. Powerful families always complicated cases. Money had a way of warping justice, and this city was no stranger to it.
"Was she in trouble with anyone here?" Hale asked.
The manager hesitated again. His rag twisted tighter in his hands. "Not exactly trouble. But she argued with someone earlier. A man. Not bald, not the one who… you know. This guy was younger. Pushed his way past security. She yelled at him near the bar—sounded like she was telling him to leave her alone."
Hale's eyes sharpened. "Did anyone catch his name?"
"Nick. Nico? Something like that. I didn't hear the last name. He stormed out after she shoved him."
Ruiz leaned in. "So, two men in one night? One harassing her inside, another butchering her outside? Hell of a coincidence."
Hale didn't answer. Coincidence wasn't a word he liked. Not in this city. Not in cases like this.
He turned toward the bartenders still lingering behind the counter. "You." His voice carried the weight of command. A young woman with tattoos on her arms straightened immediately. "You served her tonight?"
The bartender nodded, lips pressed thin. "Yeah. Allison was nervous. Kept checking her phone. She ordered a martini but barely touched it. Honestly, Detective, it felt like she was waiting for something. Or someone."
"Waiting?" Hale repeated.
"Yeah." The bartender shrugged. "She kept glancing at the door like she expected bad news to walk through it."
Hale exchanged a look with Ruiz. Pieces were starting to scatter on the board, but they didn't fit together yet.
"All right," Hale said, pulling a card from his pocket and sliding it across the counter. "If anyone remembers more—names, faces, anything—call me. Day or night."
The bartender nodded solemnly.
As they turned to leave, Ruiz muttered under his breath. "Rich girl with enemies. Always a story behind that."
Hale didn't reply. His mind was already racing ahead. Allison O'Connor wasn't random. The Bald Man never killed random.
And if her father was who the manager claimed, then this murder was only the opening move in a much larger game.
(Scene 4 – Evidence Gathering)
Back outside, the alley felt heavier. The floodlights hummed. Cameras clicked. Latex gloves snapped. The forensic team moved carefully, marking the ground with yellow evidence tags, each one a grim bookmark in a story written in blood.
Hale crouched low, scanning the concrete. The girl's body had been taken away, but the stain she left behind was impossible to ignore. A wide pool of crimson stretched across the pavement, reflecting the flashing sirens in jagged ripples.
"Detective," one of the techs called. A young woman in a white suit, her mask streaked with sweat. She held up a small plastic bag. Inside, shards of glass glinted under the light.
Hale stood. "Where?"
"Near the dumpster. Could be from a bottle, could be from something else. But look—" She tilted the bag, and he saw the edge of a fingerprint smeared in blood. Partial, but clear enough.
"Rush it to the lab," Hale ordered. "I want results tonight, not tomorrow."
She nodded and hurried away.
Another tech flagged him over. This time it was the phone—Allison's cracked screen still faintly glowing, the background light fading in and out like a dying heartbeat. Hale pulled on fresh gloves and crouched.
The last message was still on the screen: Mom, help me someone is after me I'm so scared I don't know where I am it's dark here.
He scrolled further. A voicemail draft blinked at the top of the log, never sent. Hale pressed play.
Static. Heavy breathing. Then footsteps—slow, deliberate.
Dum. Dum. Dum.
And then, faint but unmistakable, a voice that crawled into the ear like a blade.
"Found you."
The file ended in silence.
Hale's stomach tightened. He'd heard survivors mention that phrase before, but never caught it on record. Until now.
"Jesus," Ruiz muttered behind him, rubbing the back of his neck. "Creepy bastard likes to play games."
Hale pocketed the phone, his jaw set. "This isn't a game."
A shout came from the far end of the alley. "Detective! Over here!"
Hale crossed the cracked pavement, stepping around the numbered tags. One of the techs was kneeling by the wall, shining a UV light across the bricks. "Thought you'd want to see this."
At first, Hale saw nothing. Then, under the ultraviolet glow, faint lines emerged—jagged, deliberate strokes carved deep into the wall. A crude symbol.
Two intersecting circles with an hourglass etched in the center.
Hale stared at it, his pulse ticking in his throat.
Ruiz frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"
Hale didn't answer immediately. He'd seen it before—years ago, in case files that still haunted him. Unsolved murders, all carrying the same invisible mark. Always carved where no one would see without looking.
The Bald Man didn't just kill. He left his signature.
And now he was back.
"Bag the wall," Hale said tightly. "Every scrape, every angle, photograph it all."
Ruiz shifted uneasily. "You think he's taunting us?"
Hale's gaze stayed on the symbol, the hourglass glowing faintly under the light. "No," he said finally. His voice was cold, certain. "He's warning us."
For a moment, silence fell over the alley. Only the sound of dripping blood and clicking cameras filled the void.
And beneath it all, Hale could almost swear he heard it—an echo carried on the night air.
A laugh.
Distant. Mocking. Endless.
(Scene 5 – Car Debrief)
The alley was sealed off by the time Hale and Ruiz stepped away. The body was gone, evidence bagged, but the night hadn't loosened its grip. Hale slid into the driver's seat of his black sedan, the leather groaning under his weight.
For a moment, neither spoke. The city beyond the windshield looked almost calm, neon lights washing the street in pinks and blues. But inside the car, the silence pressed in thick and suffocating.
Ruiz finally broke it. "That symbol… you recognized it."
Hale kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, as if expecting something to be there. His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel.
"Five years ago," he said. His voice was low, gravelly. "Three bodies. All women. Each one carved up the same way, each one left with that mark. We chased shadows for months. Witnesses saw nothing, cameras caught nothing. Just… gone. Like he was a ghost."
"And then?"
"Then it stopped. Just ended." Hale's jaw tightened. "We thought he was dead. Or locked up. Or maybe he'd just… moved on."
Ruiz leaned back, exhaling hard. "Guess he's back."
Hale's eyes flicked toward the evidence bagged phone on the seat between them. Found you. The phrase replayed in his head, over and over, like the ticking of a clock.
"He never left," Hale said finally. "He was waiting."
Ruiz studied him. "You talk like you've met him."
Hale didn't answer. The memory surged uninvited—dark corridors, a breath on his neck, a figure slipping into shadow just as his flashlight beam caught the edge of pale skin. The case had been his obsession, his failure. And now, it had come back to him.
Ruiz shifted, sensing the weight in his partner's silence. "So what's next?"
(Scene 6 – Closing Hook)
The city slept as their car pulled away from the alley, sirens fading into the distance. Rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier, washing blood down the gutters and into the dark.
Somewhere far from flashing[1]lights and forensic tape, a man stood in front of a cracked bathroom mirror. His bald head gleamed under the flickering bulb. His reflection was fragmented, split by jagged lines in the glass, but his smile was whole.
He cleaned the axe slowly, humming under his breath. Each stroke of the rag peeled away the last traces of Allison's life. The sound was almost soothing—shh, shh, shh—like a lullaby only he understood.
On the table beside him lay a stack of photographs. Different women. Different places. Some faces already crossed out in red ink. Others still waiting.
He picked up the most recent one—the girl from tonight. He traced her smile with a fingertip, then pressed the photo against the mirror until it stuck to the spiderweb cracks.
The humming stopped. His voice filled the room, low and certain.
"Time runs out for everyone."
The bulb flickered once. Twice. Then the room sank into darkness.
[1] Time is more than numbers on a clock—it’s the measure of our lives, our secrets, and our endings. Every tick brings us closer to truth, every tock closer to silence.I chose to name this story TIME because it is the one thing no one can escape. In these pages, time is both a weapon and a witness—counting down to moments we fear, exposing what we try to hide, and reminding us that every second matters.This book is not just about a killer or a town; it’s about the way fear can stretch a second into forever, and how courage can change the course of an hour.If you listen closely, you’ll hear it too. Tick. Tock. The story has already begun.