The kid was fucking quiet.
Too quiet for someone who used to brag about which jawbone cracked the loudest. Elijah Wren had this twitch in his left eye, the kind that screamed "I'm unstable, but make it charming." Kid was seventeen and already a walking obituary.
But when they found him?
Face down in a drainage ditch, skin cold, lips blue, fingers bent like he tried to claw his way out of hell.
No prints. No trail. No sign of forced anything.
Just a crane folded from flesh jammed into his mouth.
Tim was the first to recognize it.
⸻
"You sure it's a Paper Crane kill?" Carol asked, crouched beside the body, gloved hand hovering over the origami monstrosity.
Tim didn't answer immediately. His brow was tense, mouth set in a line.
"That's the third in two months."
"And Elijah was supposed to be under surveillance," she added, eyes narrowing.
He was. Until he wasn't. Until someone decided to erase him.
⸻
Daniel showed up that morning.
Shirt wrinkled. Hoodie damp. Hair slightly messier than usual. He had the nerve to yawn when Carol called his name.
"Rough night?" she asked.
"Rough fucking week" he muttered, dropping into his desk like gravity owed him a favor.
I knew they were watching me.
Tim kept glancing over his shoulder. Carol pretended not to, but she tapped her pen one too many times. I could feel it, the crack forming between their logic and their trust.
I didn't mind.
Suspicion is safer than certainty.
⸻
They tried to play it cool. Tried to act like we were still the Three Musketeers solving the worst humanity had to offer. But they forgot something:
I am the worst humanity has to offer.
⸻
"So, where were you Tuesday night?" Tim asked later, casually, coffee in hand but voice a little too neutral.
"Home" I lied.
"Whole night?"
I stared at him. "Why, you miss me or something?"
He didn't laugh. Neither did I.
⸻
They brought up Elijah later. Like it was a passing thought.
"Funny, isn't it?" Carol mused.
"We were chasing him for weeks, then bam! He turns up dead. And you just got back in town."
I shrugged. "Coincidence is a bitch."
"Is it?"
That was Tim again. Eyes locked with mine.
His stare wasn't friendly anymore. It was surgical.
⸻
That night, I sat in my apartment, lights off, thinking.
They're getting too close.
Too many dots are connecting.
I need them off my scent.
Or dead.
No. Not dead.
Not yet.
⸻
I pulled out a burner phone.
Texted a number I hadn't touched in months:
"Need a new body to drop. One that screams Paper Crane, but isn't mine."
⸻
In the background, my voicemail blinked red. A new message.
It was Carol's voice.
"Hey… we need to talk. It's about you, Danny."
"There's a file you need to see."
"Call me back."
I didn't.
⸻
I folded another crane.
This one wasn't for show.
It was a message.
Next time they ask questions..
They'll get answers.
And they won't fucking like them.