"She's hot on his trail. But I'm hot on hers."
The closer Rachel gets to Adrian, the more I realize—this isn't just a manhunt.
It's a collision course between love, guilt, and blood.
---
It was always the throat.
That was Adrian's obsession.
Victim Six was found near the edge of an abandoned train yard, folded into herself like discarded laundry. But when they peeled back her scarf, what lay beneath wasn't human anymore. It was a message. An anatomy lesson in horror.
Three layers of flesh, expertly carved away—trachea and oesophagus exposed like red lace. She hadn't screamed. Couldn't. Adrian had removed her vocal cords cleanly, like a butcher with pride in his precision.
Rachel leaned in over the corpse, her breath barely audible.
"God… he's getting faster. Cleaner."
I stood behind her, pretending not to notice the tremor in her hand. Pretending I didn't see the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, as if she could feel the ghost of the blade tracing her skin.
"Do you think he practiced on animals first?" she asked.
"No," I answered, too quickly.
Rachel glanced at me. "How would you know?"
I looked down at the victim's face—still twisted in a silent scream, eyes glassy with terror—and said quietly, "Because he's not practicing anymore."
---
We were alone later that night in the evidence room—just the two of us, the stench of latex gloves and old files between us.
"You're holding something back," Rachel said, folding her arms across her chest.
She was too close. Not in distance, but in insight. The way her eyes scanned my face, reading every twitch, every deflection—I'd seen that look before. The last time, it was aimed at Adrian in a family photo. The resemblance was unmistakable.
"What makes you think that?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"Because you don't flinch," she replied. "Everyone else who sees his work—his art—gags or looks away. You… you just go quiet."
I met her eyes. "Maybe I've seen worse."
She stepped forward. "Or maybe you've seen him do it."
The tension hung between us like a razor wire.
I should've denied it. Walked away. Instead, I reached into my coat and pulled out the envelope—another letter. Found tucked inside the sixth victim's shoe. Marked again:
"To him."
Rachel opened it carefully.
Inside, in that precise, looping script only I could decipher, were the words:
> "You always loved her throat. Do you still think about it when she speaks?"
—A.
Her eyes darted to mine.
"What does that mean?" she asked, voice thin.
I didn't answer.
How could I tell her that in college—years ago—I once traced my fingers down her neck and whispered how perfect her voice was? How I'd dreamed of that sound even after we drifted apart?
How Adrian knew.
How Adrian always knew.
---
Hours passed. Rachel and I stared at photos, videos, files that led nowhere. The room grew darker as the sun dipped below the horizon, but we didn't move. It felt safer in the quiet—until it wasn't.
Her voice broke the silence.
"You ever wonder what kind of monster creates another monster?"
I looked up from the forensics report. "You think he was made?"
"I think someone broke him," she whispered.
Then, after a beat:
"I think it's you."
The accusation stung. Because it was partly true. Not because I hurt Adrian… but because I left him behind.
He was the quiet one. I was the golden child. And when our mother died, he was the one who saw her body first—neck slashed, throat exposed, just like his victims now.
That was the day something inside him split.
And I never stayed to pick up the pieces.
---
Later that night, I found myself standing outside Rachel's apartment. I had no reason to be there. Except maybe I did.
She opened the door in a tank top and loose joggers, her hair down, her voice tired. "You tracked me here?"
"I never stopped," I said. "Not with you. Not with him."
A pause. The kind that tightens your chest.
"You're still in love with your brother's shadow," I said.
She studied me for a long time, then whispered, "No. I'm in love with the man who's trying to stop him."
Then she stepped aside and let me in.
---
Across town, Adrian watched the security feed from a hidden camera.
He smiled.
"Just like I planned."
Then he picked up his scalpel.
And his next victim's photo.
---
Whispers in the Dark
> "You're still in love with your brother's shadow."
I didn't expect to see that shadow take human form.
Especially not in a club full of neon lies and whispered sins.
---
The bass thumped like a heartbeat.
Low. Dangerous. Irregular.
Rachel wasn't the kind of woman to lose control—but tonight, she'd had just enough bourbon and buried grief to pretend she wasn't hunting a killer. Her hair was down, framing her sharp eyes and kiss-bruised lips. She was laughing with a girlfriend from the force—something about needing a "non-corpse Friday."
She didn't see the man watching her.
He was standing near the back, in a black button-up and tailored slacks, nursing a drink he didn't sip. He didn't need to. His intoxication came from the hunt.
Adrian.
My brother.
But she didn't know that. Not yet.
He watched her dance—swaying just enough to seem carefree, but her eyes were always scanning. Habit. Training. Trauma.
He moved through the crowd like smoke—parting it without resistance. By the time Rachel felt the heat of his presence, he was already behind her.
"Mind if I cut in?" he asked, voice low, voice velvet.
She turned, eyebrows raised. "You're not really dressed for dancing."
He smiled. "Maybe I'm dressed for what happens after."
She should've walked away.
But the alcohol hummed through her blood, and she was tired of the dead. Tired of peeling back flesh. Tired of seeing his signature in every nightmare.
So she stayed.
---
Their dance wasn't innocent. Not with Adrian. He moved like a man who'd memorized her—hands close enough to tease, but distant enough to respect a boundary he planned to break later.
"You look like you've had a long week," he murmured.
She gave a short laugh. "You have no idea."
"Work?" he asked.
She nodded. "Some psycho carving women up like roast pigs. Throats. Always the throat."
Adrian's smile didn't waver.
"You seem… familiar," Rachel said suddenly, narrowing her eyes. "Have we met?"
"In another life, maybe," he replied.
You have, I wanted to scream through the phone as I tracked them from the GPS she didn't know I'd slipped into her watch.
You met him when his hands were red and your lungs were screaming.
But Adrian was slick. Clean-shaven. Hair slicked back. No gloves. No trace.
Just eyes. His eyes.
Mine—but colder.
---
The music shifted, darker now.
Rachel stepped back. "I should go. Early shift."
Adrian's gaze flicked to his watch. 11:49 PM.
"Heading home?" he asked.
"Alone," she said firmly.
He smiled. "That's a shame."
Rachel turned—and for a moment, her hand brushed his chest.
She froze.
Under his shirt was something hard, metallic.
A blade.
Her body tensed.
But Adrian played it off smoothly, smiling. "Wallet clip. Heavy steel."
She didn't fully believe him.
But the music, the drinks, and her own doubt pushed her toward the exit.
---
Adrian didn't follow.
He had work to do.
Victim Seven was waiting.
But before he left the club, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a napkin—the one Rachel used to wipe the condensation from her glass. Her lip print stained the edge.
He held it up to his nose, breathing her in.
Then he tucked it into his coat, next to the photo of his next kill.
And whispered:
> "Soon, Rachel. Soon, you'll see me. And then you'll never forget."