The street was cordoned off by yellow tape, its fluttering edges catching the morning breeze like desperate flags of warning. Onlookers had started to gather on the sidewalks, murmuring among themselves, their curiosity piqued by the swarm of flashing red-and-blue lights. Damien adjusted his coat collar and ducked under the tape. He didn't flinch when the chill nipped his fingers. He preferred the cold—it gave him clarity.
Detective Jonas was already crouched beside the body, his brow furrowed in that familiar mix of confusion and concern. Damien joined him silently, eyes scanning the scene with a predator's precision masked beneath the practiced gaze of a detective. The victim was a young woman in her early twenties, laid out on the cold asphalt as though someone had placed her there with care. Her throat was slit, but the forensics team had already picked up on the faint scent of bitter almonds—cyanide.
Jonas glanced up. "Second one in three weeks. Same method. Poison, then a clean slit. No fingerprints, no signs of a struggle. It's like she just… accepted it."
Damien crouched beside him, voice low. "He's getting confident."
"Yeah," Jonas muttered. "Or reckless."
But Damien knew better. Reckless wasn't the word. It was calculated. A message. And it wasn't just any killer. This was someone copying his own methods from the past. The clean execution. The symbolic silence. Damien felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Was it Cole? Was he escalating? Or had someone new entered the game?
He straightened up and moved to the perimeter, watching as the forensics team zipped the body bag. His mind wasn't on this scene anymore. It was in the past.
Years Ago
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Damien tiptoed through the corridor, his teenage heart hammering in his chest. The flickering hallway bulb cast shadows on the peeling walls. He could still hear the echo of his father's laughter from earlier, slurred and full of venom.
He had spent weeks perfecting the dosage, making sure it would be enough. His father's snores echoed from the living room couch, his usual bottle of whiskey tipped over on the floor.
Damien stood over him for a full minute. The man who had belittled, beaten, and broken him. The man who had made sure Damien never knew what safety felt like. He'd poured the poison into the bottle earlier that evening. Cyanide. Odorless to most, but Damien had learned that a trace of bitter almonds might linger—if one knew what to look for.
When the wheezing started, Damien pulled out the knife. He watched his father's eyes flutter open, confusion swirling in the fading light behind them. Then he drew the blade across the throat—precise, clean.
It was over.
But something had begun.
Present
"We're compiling footage from nearby traffic cams," Jonas was saying as Damien returned to the present. "And doorbell cameras from the residents. Might catch a glimpse."
Damien nodded. "Let me know if we get any hits."
Jonas hesitated. "You think it's the same guy? Or someone new?"
Damien considered the question. The murders were too precise. Too personal. The new killer had mimicked his old work so accurately, it felt like a signature only he would recognize. If it wasn't Cole, then someone else had been watching. Studying. Maybe even idolizing.
And Damien didn't like that one bit.
Back at the precinct, Damien stood before the whiteboard, where photos of victims, timelines, and threads were pinned in a spiderweb of chaos. Jonas entered with a new file.
"This is from the lab," Jonas said, handing it over. "The same toxin—cyanide. Delivered through liquid, likely ingested with a drink. The slit came post-mortem."
Damien scanned the autopsy report. Clean. Too clean. The killer was sending a message. And whoever it was… was careful. Methodical.
"There's something else," Jonas added. "The cuts? They're surgically precise. Same angle, same depth, same hand. We're dealing with someone trained—or someone who's done this before."
Damien nodded, his mind already elsewhere.
That evening, Damien returned home to find Cole in the kitchen, leaning over a cup of tea. The boy's hair was damp, as though he'd just showered. Damien watched him quietly for a moment.
"What're you drinking?" he asked.
Cole blinked. "Just chamomile. Couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
Cole hesitated. "Something like that."
Damien stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "You've been quiet lately."
"School's been heavy," Cole replied, avoiding eye contact. "I've just got a lot on my plate."
Damien nodded slowly. "You'd tell me if something was wrong?"
Cole finally looked up. "Of course."
Damien smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He turned and left, but his mind didn't settle. The last two victims had something in common—both had gone to the same university Cole was now attending. Was that a coincidence?
Or a trail?
Elsewhere That Night
A dimly lit apartment. Curtains drawn. A laptop open with news clippings displayed across the screen. Articles about Damien. About Jonas. About the recent murders. The person behind the screen leaned back, revealing a wall behind them plastered with photos.
Damien's photo sat in the center.
Beside it: Cole's.
Below them: a newspaper article about the murder of Damien's father, declared an "unresolved break-in."
A pair of gloved hands adjusted one of the push pins.
Then, slowly, precisely, they circled Damien's face in red ink.
Back at the Precinct
Jonas tapped his pen against the desk. "You ever get the feeling the killer's… close?"
Damien looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Jonas said. "Something about the way this guy moves. He's not just mimicking. He's challenging. Like he's daring us to catch him. Or maybe he's trying to send a message."
Damien swallowed that thought carefully. He couldn't afford for Jonas to start asking the right questions. Not now.
"He'll slip up," Damien said, turning away. "They always do."
Jonas watched him go, the unease still on his face. Behind Damien's retreating form, the whiteboard sat like a silent witness, the photos of the victims smiling out from a timeline that was rapidly shortening.
And somewhere across town, the next victim was already marked.