The conference room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and dust. Files lay spread across the long table, crime scene photos pinned to the corkboard at the far end. Tyler sat with his notes clutched in his hands, fingers digging into the paper hard enough to crease it.
Across from him, Jackson's eyes tracked every movement.
"Tyler," Jackson said slowly, "walk me through this again. Victim was last seen alive at three. Found dead at six. No blood left in her body. No trauma. No poison. No sign of transport. Nothing."
Tyler swallowed hard. He could feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck. His mouth was dry. "Yes, sir. That's right."
Jackson leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "So how do you think someone pulls that off in three hours?"
"I don't know," Tyler said, too quickly.
The silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. Jackson's gaze never wavered.
"Because here's what I think," Jackson continued, voice calm but firm. "Whoever's doing this knows the city inside and out. They know how to move fast. They know how to stay invisible. And…" He tapped a finger against the table. "They know how to pick their targets."
Tyler's stomach twisted. He kept his eyes fixed on his notebook, on the faint indentations left by words he didn't remember writing.
Jackson's tone softened. "Tyler… you look like hell. You're not sleeping. You're distracted. I've seen good men burn out, but this—" He shook his head. "This is something else. If you're hiding something from me—"
The words slipped out before Tyler could stop them. "I'm not hiding anything." His voice cracked.
Jackson studied him for another long moment, then leaned forward. "Then prove it. I want you on this next interview. No excuses. I need to see you work, Tyler. I need to know you're still here."
Tyler nodded mutely, throat tight.
The interview was a disaster.
The suspect — a jittery man caught loitering near the scene — barely sat down before Tyler felt the pressure start. The pounding in his head. The heat crawling up his neck. His vision swam.
He blinked.
And then the man was on the floor.
He blinked again.
The suspect cowered against the wall, eyes wide with terror. Jackson was between them, one arm outstretched, holding Tyler back.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jackson barked.
Tyler froze, confusion crashing through him. His fists were raised, knuckles aching, blood dripping from his split skin. His chest heaved like he'd been mid-fight.
"I—I don't—"
"You don't what?" Jackson snapped. "You don't remember?"
Tyler's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Jackson's expression shifted then — not anger, but something colder. Suspicion.
The suspect whimpered in the corner, muttering, "He went crazy… eyes went black… I swear to God…"
Tyler staggered back, palms slick with sweat, heart jackhammering against his ribs.
Inside his skull, the voice purred.
"You see? They're all afraid of you now. Even him. Especially him."
Tyler's throat tightened. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to steady, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Jackson dismissed the suspect, then turned to Tyler. His words were measured, deliberate.
"You and I are going to talk," Jackson said. "And you're going to tell me what the hell is going on with you. Do you understand?"
Tyler nodded, but his mind was already spiraling.
Because the voice wasn't whispering anymore.
It was laughing.