Present Day — Hamilton County Morgue, 9:12 AM
The morgue was too quiet — the kind of quiet that didn't bring peace. It crept into your skin and curled around your bones.
Dr. Max Hamilton stared at the corpse before him — the sixth in twelve days. Her skin, pale and stiff, bore the now-familiar marks: precision cuts, deliberate positioning, and a scar under the clavicle shaped like a crescent moon.
The same crescent.
Again.
The same signature he thought he buried with Elise Montgomery thirteen years ago.
He reached for the recorder with gloved hands, clicked it on, and spoke — voice steady, but mind racing.
"Subject: Female. Age range, late twenties. Approximate time of death — twelve to sixteen hours. Primary incision along the abdominal cavity — surgical accuracy. No jagged tearing. This was controlled. Intentional."
Max's fingers trembled slightly as he turned the body.
"Repeat signature mark present below the clavicle. Scar not related to current trauma. Matches previous victims."
He killed the recorder.
This was no longer just a case file.
This was a message.
9:47 AM – Morgue Observation Room
Detective Lena Monroe stood behind the glass, arms folded, coffee in hand. Her eyes never left Max.
He moved like a man possessed. Calm. Focused. But there was something in the way his jaw clenched when he saw the scar — like he wasn't surprised. Like he'd seen it before.
She entered the autopsy room, the door hissing shut behind her.
"You're not saying everything you know," she said flatly.
"I never do," Max replied without looking up.
"Don't play cryptic. Not today. That's the same mark we found on the last two."
"And the three before that," he added. "All cut the same way. Same position. Same surgical technique."
She paused. "You think this is a doctor?"
Max finally looked at her — his gaze like cold glass. "No," he said. "I think this is someone who wants me to think it is."
12:30 PM – Max's Office
The blinds were shut. The only light came from the computer screen as Max flipped through archived files, fingers twitching across keys.
He pulled up Elise Montgomery's file.
Restricted. Sealed by court order.
He bypassed it with an old password he shouldn't still remember — but did.
There she was.
Her file. Her face. Her death.
It hadn't been ruled a homicide. But Max had always known it was.
And the scar on her body? Identical.
He opened a drawer. Beneath layers of sanitized reports and peer-reviewed journals was a single photo, curled at the edges. Two young men in lab coats, arms slung over each other.
Max Hamilton and Julian West.
He stared at Julian's face — smug, brilliant, and quietly unhinged.
Max had testified against him once.
But the university had buried it.
Julian disappeared.
And now…
He was back.
8:31 PM – Dockside District, Warehouse 14
The wind off the water reeked of salt and diesel. Sirens wailed in the distance, but here, in the dark between warehouses, time moved differently.
Max stepped under the police tape and into the crime scene. Lena was already there, crouched over the body like a hawk.
"She's posed," she muttered. "Hands folded. Hair brushed back. Like she was laid to rest."
"No," Max said. "Like she was presented."
Lena glanced up. "He's not just killing them. He's… displaying them?"
Max knelt down, his gloved fingers tracing the air above the victim's throat. The incision was surgical, the edges flawless.
"Not just displayed. Exhibited." His voice dropped. "He's turning them into autopsies. Performed in public."
"Jesus Christ."
"No hesitation. No mess. This is someone with a background in anatomy. But it's not about the body anymore."
"Then what is it about?"
Max pulled a small envelope from under the corpse's arm.
Inside: a single strip of paper.
Typed.
"The living conceal. The dead confess."
Max's stomach tightened.
He had heard that line before.
In a whisper behind closed doors.
In Elise's voice.
And in Julian's journal.
This wasn't a copycat.
This was personal.
10:22 PM – Max's Apartment
The rain fell hard against the windows. Thunder rumbled like distant drums.
Max sat at his desk, the surgical notebook spread open. His hands hovered over pages stained with time and regret.
He turned to the final page.
Julian's signature.
And a set of handwritten notes:
"Conceal in plain sight. Display what they cannot see. Cut with meaning. Carve the truth."
Max's pulse pounded.
This wasn't just obsession. This was ritual.
And Max wasn't the hunter.
He was the audience.
11:00 PM – Flashback: Cambridge Institute, Thirteen Years Ago
Blood on the tiles. Her eyes wide open.
Elise.
He had walked into the lab late, expecting silence. Instead, he found her on the table — chest open, organs methodically arranged.
Julian stood behind her, holding the scalpel.
Max froze.
Julian looked up, calm as ice.
"You're early," he said.
Max's voice had cracked. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Teaching," Julian smiled. "She wanted to learn."
Then came the lie. The cover-up. The sealed case.
Max had kept the secret. He had buried it.
But secrets rot.
And rot always rises.
Midnight – Unknown Location
Sterile light buzzed.
Surgical instruments gleamed on a tray.
A body lay still on the table — fresh, preserved, reverent.
A man in gray gloves leaned over, humming softly.
He made the first incision — slow, gentle, loving.
Above the table, photographs lined the wall. Victims. Newspaper clippings. And two young men in lab coats.
The scalpel paused.
He whispered:
"Come find me, Max. You owe me that much."
Then he smiled.
And kept cutting.
End of Chapter 2