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Chapter 3 - CHAPTER 3: CLOCKWORK

Rain sheeted down in cold, unrelenting waves, drumming against the squad car roof like an impatient metronome. The city's lights blurred into streaks of neon and shadow through the windshield as Killian McMiller and Hill McCallister pulled up to the coroner's building. The time on the dashboard glared: 9:17 PM — barely twenty-three hours since the first body was found, and the killer's timer was already ticking again.

Inside, the coroner's lab smelled of steel, antiseptic, and the faint copper tang of blood. Dr. Elise Norwood, white hair pulled into a severe bun, stood over the body of Henry Crowe.

"Cause of death is exactly what you expected," she said without looking up. "Deep, controlled laceration across the throat. No hesitation marks. Whoever did this is either a seasoned killer… or they've killed enough times to be steady."

She slid a folder across the table. "And then there's this."

Killian opened it. A clear plastic evidence bag held a single strip of paper, torn from a school notebook. Block letters, written with surgical precision:

'NEXT IS YOU – 7'

The number had changed. The countdown was real.

Hill exhaled slowly. "Seven days until the next one?"

Killian shook his head. "No. Seven days the victim had been targeted in the past." His eyes narrowed. "This isn't about opportunity. It's about a ledger."

Elise frowned. "There's something else. The handwriting—exact same pressure, spacing, and curve as the note at the first scene. But under UV light, this one had faint smudges of red ink. Blood mixed with it. Whoever wrote this dipped the pen in it."

The rain grew heavier, hammering against the window, as the implications settled over the room. The killer wasn't just leaving clues—he was signing them in his victims' blood.

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The detectives drove in silence. Each passing block seemed to draw them closer to something rotten beneath the city's surface.

"This guy is building up to something," Hill finally said.

"Not something," Killian corrected, eyes fixed on the wet road ahead. "Someone."

The GPS beeped softly — they were approaching Henry Crowe's old address. The street was lined with cracked sidewalks and dim porch lights, the kind of place where people drew their curtains early.

Crowe's house was a time capsule. Dust layered the furniture, stacks of unpaid bills fanned across the counter, and a corkboard in the hallway displayed photos — not of family, but of a high school football team.

Hill leaned in. "That's him." He pointed at the back row. Henry Crowe, seventeen, broad-shouldered, smirking in a letterman jacket. On the far edge of the photo stood a thinner boy, arms crossed, gaze locked on the camera with quiet resentment.

Killian felt a cold thread wind through his gut. "Same kid from the background of the first victim's yearbook photo."

They weren't chasing a random murderer. They were chasing a ghost from two decades ago—one who had been waiting for this moment.

From the corner of the room, a faint creak echoed. Both detectives froze.

Hill motioned toward the sound, gun drawn, as Killian stepped forward. The hallway was narrow, shadows stretching long.

Another creak. Then, from behind the half-open bathroom door, something swung gently.

It was a length of rope — tied into a noose, dangling over the sink. And above the porcelain, taped to the mirror, was another note.

'McMiller – 12'

Killian's jaw tightened. The killer had just moved him from the hunter to the ledger.

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