The clock on the wall ticked. 5:00 PM.
Arvin didn't move immediately. He waited until the herd of sales staff thundered toward the elevators, laughing about weekend plans and happy hours. He waited until the office settled into the uncomfortable silence of the cleaners vacuuming the hallways.
Only then did he pack his bag.
He walked to the elevators, keeping his head down. As the doors opened on the ground floor, he saw Brad.
Brad wasn't laughing. He was standing by the security desk, holding a cardboard box filled with desk toys and a stapler. His face was grey.
"Suspended pending investigation," Brad was whispering into his phone, his voice cracking. "Yeah, because of the car. They think I'm involved. It's insane."
Arvin walked past him. He felt a sharp pang in his chest—guilt. Brad was a jerk, a bully, and a waste of space, but he wasn't a killer. Now his life was being dismantled because he parked in the wrong spot.
Collateral damage, Dante murmured. He'll live. Unlike the man in the morgue.
Arvin pushed through the revolving doors and into the humid evening air. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still steaming.
He needed to get home. He needed to lock his door, crawl under the covers, and pretend the world didn't exist.
"Arvin."
The voice stopped him dead.
He looked toward the street. Leaning against the brick wall of the Fourth Precinct was Detective Thorne. She was trying to light a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand.
She finally got it lit, took a long drag, and exhaled a plume of blue smoke. She looked exhausted.
"Detective," Arvin said, gripping the strap of his bag until his knuckles turned white. "I thought you quit."
"I did," Erin said, staring at the glowing cherry of the cigarette. "I quit three times this week. Then I saw the coroner's report for the John Doe in your alley."
She pushed off the wall and walked over to him. She didn't look like a cop right now. She looked like a woman who had seen too much red.
"You heading to the subway?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Walk with me. I need to clear my head."
She didn't wait for an answer. She started walking. Arvin fell in step beside her, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his bruised ribs. This was it. She was going to arrest him. She was walking him into an ambush.
"We got the dashcam footage from your coworker's car," Erin said casually, kicking a soda can into the gutter.
Arvin stopped breathing.
"And?" he squeaked.
"Useless," Erin spat. "Rain on the lens. Bad lighting. The whole thing looks like a Rorschach test."
Arvin let out a breath. The relief was dizzying.
"But," Erin continued, stopping at the crosswalk. She pulled her phone out. "We got one frame. Just one. Where the lightning flashed."
She tapped the screen and held it out to him.
"You work in the building, Arvin. You see people coming and going. Ever see a guy built like this?"
Arvin looked at the screen.
It was a black-and-white still image, grainy and pixelated. It showed the alley. In the center, standing over a blurred shape on the ground, was a figure.
The figure wasn't hunched. It wasn't cowering. It stood with perfect, terrifying posture. The coat was flared out slightly. The face was a smudge of shadow, but the eyes...
The camera had caught the reflection of the lightning in the eyes. Two bright, white points in the darkness.
It didn't look human. It looked like a demon wearing a suit.
Arvin stared at himself. He stared at the monster that lived inside his skin.
"No," Arvin whispered. The lie came easy because, in a way, it was true. He didn't know that man. That wasn't him. "I've never seen him."
Erin pulled the phone back and stared at the photo.
"The ME said the victim's windpipe was crushed with one hand," she said quietly. "Do you know how much force that takes? To crush cartilage like it's dry pasta?"
She looked at Arvin. She looked at his slumped shoulders, his terrified eyes, his soft hands clutching his bag.
"Whoever this is," Erin tapped the screen, "he isn't like us. He enjoys it. Look at the stance. He's not fighting. He's posing."
She dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it under her heel.
"Go home, Arvin. Lock your doors. There's a predator in the neighborhood."
She turned and walked back toward the precinct, disappearing into the gloom.
Arvin stood on the corner for a long time. The traffic roared past him.
She's good, Dante said. The voice sounded impressed. She saw the posture. Most cops just look for the weapon.
Arvin started walking. Fast.
She called you a predator, Arvin thought.
I am, Dante replied. And you should be grateful. Sheep get eaten, Arvin. Wolves get to eat.
I don't want to be a wolf.
Then be the cage, Dante hissed. Keep it together. Because if you crack, and you let the Other One out... the Detective won't be looking at a blurry photo next time. She'll be looking at a pile of bodies high enough to climb to God.
Arvin reached his apartment building. He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so hard he dropped them twice. He finally got inside, slammed the door, and threw the deadbolt.
He slid down the door until he hit the floor.
Safe.
For now.
He looked at his hand—the hand that had crushed a man's throat. It looked so normal. So weak.
He made a fist.
The knuckles were still pink.