The next body wasn't hidden.
It was staged.
A crowded subway platform.Morning rush hour. Hundreds of commuters.
At exactly 8:03 AM, the train rolled into Downtown South, and every person waiting on the platform saw it:
A man, tied standing between two steel beams, his arms stretched out wide — body stiff, mouth carved open into a wicked grin, eyes covered with bandages painted like cartoon spirals.He was already dead.But they didn't realize until the train had stopped and the blood began leaking from his sleeves, soaking the yellow safety line.
The screaming started less than a minute later.
Mara arrived thirteen minutes after the call.
The platform was chaos — phones out, media already circling like sharks. A blood-slick commuter rail, red footprints scattered like signatures.
But it wasn't the body that made her freeze.
It was the victim's face.
Dr. Kellen Moore.
Psychiatrist.Director of adolescent trauma rehabilitation.One of the senior staff at Institution #8.
Mara had last seen him when she was seventeen.The man who had told her:
"Smiles show stability, Mara. Smiling means you're healing."
He was smiling now.Forever.
And worse—his cell phone was tucked neatly into his shirt pocket.
Unbroken.Still on.And unlocked.
The screen displayed a single message, saved in the Notes app:
"Ask Detective Vex who taught me to smile first."
Back in his den, the Smile Architect watched it unfold in real time.
News helicopters circled the station. Commentators debated ethics.Talk shows showed the message again.People weren't just scared of him now.
They were looking at her.
And that was the plan.
"The institution didn't kill us," he whispered to no one."It taught us how to wear masks."
He picked up the photo again — the therapy group, their frozen grins, their fragile postures.He traced Mara's circled face with his fingertip.
She wasn't just part of the past.She was proof that his design made sense.That society raised wolves and called them guardians.
He turned toward the table, where the next file waited.
A woman named Dr. Leslie Orn.Another therapist.Another memory sealed in dust.
He flipped to the final page of her records.Disciplinary notice: Unethical use of restraints. Suppression of testimony. Medication overdose allegations: inconclusive.
He smiled.
"She'll scream," he said softly. "She always screamed when we didn't smile."
Later that night, Mara sat in her apartment in silence, staring at the photo again.
The media had officially turned.She was no longer the detective chasing the killer.She was the connection.The one with a "past."The one they whispered about.
And worse…
She was beginning to remember.Not just him.Not just the institution.
But what she'd done to survive it.
And maybe…what she'd ignored to keep smiling.