The rain had turned to a steady drizzle, smearing the neon lights across the windshield of the unmarked sedan. Killian McMiller sat in the driver's seat, eyes fixed on the blurred cityscape ahead, his mind still replaying the events from the night before. The killer's latest victim had been found hanging upside down in his own apartment, the number 8 carved into the wall in dripping black paint, followed by those three haunting words: NEXT IS YOU.
But what gnawed at Killian wasn't the brutality — it was the precision. The murder wasn't sloppy or impulsive; it was calculated to the second. The clock on the victim's phone had been left running, counting exactly 24 hours from the moment the man was last seen alive to the moment his body was discovered.
Hill McCallister shifted in the passenger seat, sipping coffee that had long since gone cold. "You're thinking too hard again," Hill muttered, glancing at him.
Killian's lips pressed into a thin line. "We're missing something. These victims… they're not random."
Hill snorted. "You don't say. The guy signs his work like it's an art gallery."
"No," Killian said, shaking his head. "It's deeper than that. Each one had a connection — high school, workplace… we've confirmed at least three were linked to a single man's life. But we still don't have a name. He's not killing strangers. He's killing ghosts from his past."
The thought hung in the air like a thick fog.
Their phones buzzed simultaneously. Killian picked his up, scanning the text from dispatch. Anonymous tip. Address attached. Possible next victim.
The address was in an old part of the city, where the streets seemed to fold in on themselves. The houses there were aging husks, their paint peeling and porches sagging like tired shoulders. It was the kind of place people forgot existed — the perfect hunting ground for someone who didn't want to be seen.
When they arrived, the street was silent except for the hiss of rain. A single dim light glowed in the second-story window of a narrow brownstone. Killian and Hill approached the door cautiously, guns drawn.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of mold and stale cigarette smoke. The living room was dimly lit, its furniture coated in a fine layer of dust, like no one had truly lived there in years. But then Killian saw it — a small envelope on the coffee table, positioned perfectly in the center.
Hill glanced at him. "Too easy."
Killian nodded but picked it up anyway, sliding the letter free. The paper was thick, expensive, the kind you'd expect for wedding invitations or funeral announcements.
The message was handwritten in perfect, deliberate strokes:
> "The clock is ticking. You've already failed him."
There was no name. But taped to the bottom was a single photograph — a man in his early thirties, smiling awkwardly at what looked like an office holiday party. Behind him, blurred in the background, was another man. Killian froze when he saw the face.
It was the second victim.
"This was taken before the killings started," Hill said quietly. "He's showing us the connections. Mocking us."
The sound of footsteps upstairs snapped their attention upward. Both detectives moved silently toward the staircase, the old wood groaning under their weight.
They reached the landing, only to find a door at the end of the hall standing half-open. Inside was a bedroom — bare except for a single wooden chair in the center. On it sat a tape recorder, still running.
Killian pressed stop, then play.
A distorted voice filled the room. "You're too slow, detectives. Every day you waste, another one dies. Eight days. Eight ghosts. And then… the final performance."
The recording ended in a burst of static.
Hill looked at Killian. "Eight. We've had three victims so far. That means—"
"Five more," Killian finished grimly.
Then they heard it — a faint tick… tick… tick from somewhere in the house.
Killian's instincts screamed. "Downstairs, now!"
They bolted down the steps, the ticking growing louder until they saw it — a small black box on the coffee table where the envelope had been.
The countdown showed 00:01:27.
Hill's face went pale. "We can't defuse this."
Killian grabbed the box, ran to the front door, and hurled it into the street just as the timer hit zero. The blast was small but deafening, a flash of orange fire lighting up the rain. Shards of metal skittered across the wet pavement.
When the ringing in their ears faded, Killian turned back to the house. "He knew we'd come. He wanted us to find the message. The bomb was just for fun."
Hill's jaw tightened. "This guy's escalating. And if he's counting down eight victims, we're already behind schedule."
Killian looked down at the photograph still in his hand. The man in the picture — the potential next target — had no idea death was already hunting him.
And somewhere in the city, the killer was smiling.