The Past – After the Kill
The boy washed his hands slowly, methodically, scrubbing the creases between his fingers until the water ran clear. The bathroom was silent except for the soft hum of the flickering bulb above.
His shirt was gone—buried in a dumpster three blocks away. His shoes had been rinsed in a puddle behind the alley, then again in the stream behind the churchyard. He'd walked home barefoot.
He looked at his reflection. A bruise from days ago still bloomed purple on his cheekbone, courtesy of his father.
"You're nothing like me!"
The voice echoed in his head, that drunken roar laced with spit and spite.
He blinked once. Then opened the cupboard below the sink. Hidden behind a row of old shampoo bottles was a small, rusted metal box. He pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were tokens—the buttons, the shoelace, the matchbook, the lock of hair. Each one from the three men he'd killed.
He picked up the most recent addition: a silver ring he had slipped off the man's pinky finger. It still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat. He held it up to the light, watching it glint.
He didn't feel guilt. Guilt was for the weak. He felt... progress.
Each kill was cleaner. Smarter.
He placed the ring beside the others and closed the box.
In the mirror, he didn't look away from his own eyes.
"Not like you," he whispered. "Better."
The Present – A Message in the Pose
The call came at 5:34 AM.
Jonas picked up on the second ring.
"We've got another one," the voice on the other end said. "Same signature. You're going to want to see this."
Jonas groaned and sat up in bed. By the time Damien arrived at the scene, Jonas was already pacing beside the body.
It was an alley near the river, not far from where the first body had been discovered.
The victim, a man in his late forties, was posed with his hands clasped over his chest, legs straight, face turned slightly to the side.
There was something eerily serene about the way he lay—like a painting.
Damien's eyes froze. His throat tightened.
He'd seen this before.
Not in a file. Not in a book.
He had done this.
Years ago. His third kill. The same alley. The same pose.
Jonas looked over. "Creepy, right? He posed him. Like he's trying to mimic a funeral."
Damien forced a nod. "Could be symbolic."
"Symbolic of what?" Jonas asked.
Damien didn't answer.
His gaze drifted to the victim's neck. There was something glinting in the faint morning light.
He crouched, careful not to touch anything, and leaned in.
A chain. Silver. Worn. Old.
His breath caught.
He knew that chain.
He used to wear it when he was fifteen. Took it off after his father's death. It had been buried with his personal belongings—long forgotten.
But not forgotten by Cole.
The Present – The Lab Findings
Back at the station, Jonas dropped a manila file onto the desk between them.
"Preliminary forensic results." He flipped it open. "No signs of struggle. Same type of garrote used. Clean kill. But this time, he left... this."
He pulled out an evidence bag. Inside was the chain.
"We checked—victim didn't own it. It's not recent. Old clasp, worn links. The killer left it on purpose."
Damien looked at the bag without blinking.
Jonas narrowed his eyes. "It look familiar to you?"
Damien hesitated just long enough. "No," he said. "Should it?"
"Maybe not. But this guy—he's sending us messages now. First a card, now this. He wants attention."
Or control, Damien thought.
Control over the narrative. Over Jonas. Over me.
He excused himself soon after. Said he needed air. But the truth was, he couldn't sit there any longer with that chain staring back at him like a mirror.
Cole was digging into his past. Finding things he shouldn't know.
Worse, he was using them. Weaponizing them.
The Present – Father and Son, Again
Cole sat on the back porch, his hoodie pulled up, smoking a cigarette with practiced ease.
Damien stepped outside, the door creaking behind him.
Cole didn't turn.
"Want one?" he asked, holding out the pack.
"I quit," Damien said.
Cole chuckled. "No you didn't."
They sat in silence for a while, the distant hum of traffic filling the gaps.
Then Damien spoke. "You staged the body like mine."
Cole exhaled a stream of smoke. "Did I?"
"You know you did."
Cole didn't deny it. "Maybe I wanted to see how it felt."
"You left the chain," Damien said.
A long pause. Then Cole smiled, not at him, but at the horizon.
"I found it in that old box under the floorboard," he said. "You remember that box?"
Damien didn't respond.
"I used to look through it when you weren't home. I didn't understand it at first. But then I did."
"You went too far."
Cole turned to him, eyes sharp. "Did I? Or did I go exactly where you wanted me to?"
Damien's hand clenched at his side.
"I taught you control," he said quietly. "Not provocation."
Cole stood up, flicked the cigarette into the grass.
"No," he said. "You taught me how to lie. Everything else, I figured out myself."
Damien watched him walk back into the house, the door slamming behind him.
He stood there for a long time, letting the wind bite at his skin.
The chain was tightening.
And for the first time in years, Damien wasn't sure who was at the other end.