The countdown glowed on Killian's phone like a brand.
11:50:22. 11:50:21.
It didn't just measure time. It measured the killer's confidence — how much rope they were being given before the noose pulled tight.
Hill's hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the dim dash light. Outside, the city drowned in rain. Streetlamps glistened on wet asphalt, and the sound of tires cutting through puddles was a constant hiss beneath the growl of the engine.
"You need to talk to me, partner," Hill said finally. "What does 'McMiller – 12' mean to you? Twelve hours, sure — but why your name?"
Killian didn't answer right away. The reflections of the neon signs slid across his face like passing thoughts, none of them settling.
"I've put people away who'd love to see me gone," he said at last. "Some of them would take their sweet time with it. Some would want to make it a… show."
"This doesn't feel like a grudge," Hill said. "It feels like a game."
Killian turned his head, meeting Hill's eyes. "It's both. Trust me, Hill. Whoever this is, they're playing for keeps, but they also want to prove they're smarter than us."
"Great," Hill muttered. "So we're up against a narcissistic psychopath. My favorite."
---
11:45:07.
The radio crackled, dispatch cutting through the sound of rain.
"Unit 2-14, possible domestic disturbance, Third and Haven. Female screaming reported, then line went dead. No further details."
Anonymous tip. No caller ID.
"Close enough," Hill said, spinning the wheel hard and taking a side street.
The building was a squat brick block with peeling green paint and a narrow metal door. Dim light leaked from behind the curtains on the third floor.
By the time they reached the hallway, the world had gone unnervingly still. The faint hum of a TV drifted from somewhere, but otherwise… nothing. No voices. No movement.
Hill knocked. "Police."
Silence.
Killian's instincts told him the air felt wrong. Thick, expectant, like the moment before lightning struck.
He tried the doorknob. Unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender… and cigarette smoke. The living room was neat. Too neat.
On the couch sat a porcelain doll. Dressed in a miniature police uniform, badge included. Its glass eyes reflected the dull ceiling light.
In its lap, an envelope with KILLIAN printed neatly in block letters.
Hill grimaced. "If that thing starts talking, I'm shooting it."
Killian didn't respond. He tore open the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph — an old crime scene. The second he saw it, he felt the cold in his chest.
The "Red Door" case.
A warehouse down at the docks. Four years ago. It had gone wrong — not fatally wrong, but wrong enough that the suspect slipped away. Killian had always suspected the guy wasn't working alone.
He flipped the photograph over.
On the back, in thick black marker:
"Let's see if you've learned from your mistakes."
---
11:39:48.
The docks lay under the kind of rain that didn't just soak you — it seemed to weigh you down, slow you, make every step heavy.
The "Red Door" was still there, peeling paint and rusted hinges, like the memory of a wound that never healed.
Hill swept his flashlight in slow arcs. "Looks clear—"
A loud metallic clang echoed from somewhere deep inside.
Both men drew their weapons.
The interior was a maze of crates and machinery, smelling of oil, saltwater, and damp wood. Shadows shifted with every flicker of the faulty overhead lights.
They followed the sound deeper until it became clear — it wasn't a random noise. It was bait.
And there it was: a chair in the middle of the floor, a figure slumped in it.
A man. Tied, head hooded, body trembling.
Killian rushed forward, yanking the hood away. The man's mouth was sealed with duct tape, his eyes wide and wet with terror.
Hill was already cutting the ropes.
But Killian's instincts screamed too easy.
That's when he saw it — the blinking red light strapped to the chair leg.
"Bomb!"
They dove, dragging the man with them. The blast was small, but in a closed space, it was enough to slam them against a stack of crates, raining splinters and metal shards around them.
Smoke filled the air. The man coughed violently, but he was alive.
On the wall behind where the chair had been, fresh black spray paint dripped down the corrugated metal:
10:58:12.
Hill groaned, wiping soot from his face. "He's burning your clock, Killian."
Killian's jaw tightened, a vein throbbing at his temple. "No," he said. "He's trying to. But from here on out, we hunt him on our terms."