The third call didn't come.
The third victim did.
It was 5:22 a.m. when Pocho's phone rang again.
He was already awake.
"Yeah."
"Teen male. Behind the public library. Still alive."
He was dressed in less than a minute.
---
Marcus Wilson was seventeen.
He delivered newspapers before school.
His bike was bent in half.
Both arms were broken. One clean snap. One crushed near the elbow. Bruising along the ribs. Swelling around the eye.
He was conscious when Pocho arrived.
Paramedics were stabilizing him.
Marcus's breathing was uneven but steady.
Pocho crouched near him.
"Marcus," he said. "I need you to focus. Look at me."
Marcus blinked slowly.
"He grabbed me," the kid said.
"From where?"
"Behind."
"Did you see his face?"
"No. It was dark."
"Did he say anything?"
Marcus swallowed.
"He asked if I thought someone was coming."
Same line.
Pocho didn't react.
"What else?"
"He told me to stop crying."
"Did he laugh?"
Marcus hesitated.
"Yes."
Same pattern.
Same tone described.
Not wild.
Not yelling.
Enjoying.
"What did he hit you with?" Pocho asked.
"My bike."
That was new.
Pocho looked at the twisted metal frame.
The killer adapted.
Improvised.
He didn't need a specific weapon.
He needed force.
"Did he smell like anything?"
"Grease. And cigarettes."
Pocho stood up.
Harris stepped beside him.
"Three," Harris said quietly.
"Yes."
Marcus was loaded into the ambulance.
Pocho watched it leave.
He didn't feel panic.
He didn't feel shock.
He felt confirmation.
---
Back at the station, the board changed.
Rick Tomlin
Sarah Chen
Marcus Wilson
Three in four days.
Morrison stood in front of the board with his arms crossed.
"This is now official," he said. "We're looking at a serial offender."
No one argued.
"We need a profile," Morrison continued. "FBI's getting looped in."
Pocho nodded.
"What are we thinking?" Morrison asked him directly.
"Male," Pocho said. "Over six feet. Strong. Used to handling heavy tools."
"Occupation?"
"Construction. Mechanic. Factory. Something physical."
"Why the bones?" Harris asked.
Pocho didn't answer immediately.
"He wants control," he said finally. "Breaking bones takes time. It keeps the victim alive."
The room went quiet for a second.
"He's not rushed," Pocho added. "He's careful. He watches."
"And now he's calling," Morrison said.
"Yes."
Morrison looked at him closely.
"What did he say?"
"He wanted to talk."
"That's it?"
"He said I don't quit."
Morrison frowned. "You think he's escalating?"
"He already has."
---
That evening, Pocho went home on time.
His wife was in the kitchen.
"You're early," she said.
"Three victims."
She stopped moving.
"Three?"
"Yes."
She didn't ask details.
She didn't need them.
"You're not sleeping," she said instead.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
He didn't argue.
They ate quietly.
After dinner, she spoke again.
"You can't carry all of this."
"I'm not carrying it."
"Yes, you are."
He looked at her.
"If I don't stay on this, someone else gets hurt."
She held his gaze.
"And if you do?"
He didn't answer that.
---
At 11:40 p.m., his phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
He stepped outside before answering.
"Pocho."
Silence.
Then breathing.
Not rushed.
Measured.
"You're moving faster," the voice said.
"You're getting sloppy," Pocho replied.
A small pause.
"No," the killer said calmly. "You're just starting to see."
"What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Then stop calling."
"I don't call often."
"That's true."
Another short pause.
"I don't need to," the killer added.
Pocho didn't respond.
"I wanted you to know something," the man continued.
"What?"
"I didn't choose them randomly."
Pocho felt his jaw tighten slightly.
"Then how?"
"They're quiet people. People no one notices."
"And?"
"You notice them."
Click.
The line went dead.
Pocho stared at the dark street for a few seconds.
He replayed the sentence.
They're quiet people. People no one notices.
You notice them.
That wasn't bragging.
That was positioning.
The killer wasn't just attacking victims.
He was framing Pocho as the only one who cared.
As the only one who could stop him.
It was manipulation.
He knew that.
But the effect was still there.
Back inside, his wife was watching him.
"Was that him?" she asked.
"Yes."
She didn't say anything for a long time.
Then:
"Be careful."
He nodded once.
He would be.
He always was.
But something had shifted.
Before, this was work.
Now it was personal.
Not anger.
Not revenge.
Just focus.
And that focus was getting tighter.