Driving from district to district was starting to feel like a punishment. Adrian's eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his body running on caffeine and adrenaline. The city blurred past his window, a patchwork of neighborhoods and neon, each one a reminder of how little time he had left. He checked the timer: 7:30:50. The numbers glowed in the corner of his vision, a silent threat. Time was running out.
He pulled up in front of Jade Photography, a squat building wedged between a bakery and a pawn shop. The sign above the door was faded, the glass streaked with fingerprints. Adrian killed the engine, took a breath, and stepped out into the muggy afternoon. He could feel the pressure mounting, the sense that every second wasted was another step closer to failure.
Inside, the shop was cool and smelled faintly of chemicals and old paper. A woman sat behind the counter, tapping at a keyboard. She looked up as Adrian entered, her eyes flicking to the badge he flashed.
"Detective," she said, her voice cautious but polite. "Can I help you?"
Adrian nodded, pulling the magazine from his jacket. He slid it across the counter, open to the cover photo of Thomas Swiss. "I need to know who took this picture."
The woman studied the image, then smiled faintly. "That would be Paul. Paul Albates. He's our lead photographer." She turned her monitor so Adrian could see. "He keeps digital copies of all his work. Let me pull up his files."
Adrian leaned in, watching as she navigated through folders. Names scrolled past—clients, events, portraits. She clicked on a folder labeled "Employee Features." Thumbnails appeared: Samantha Cortez, Andrew Smith, Thomas Swiss. Adrian's pulse quickened. There were two more names: Dave Caldwell and—his own name, Adrian Cross.
He stared at the screen, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. His name. The last in the sequence. The system's timer ticked down, indifferent to his shock.
System: Searching for Dave Caldwell. Occupation: Security consultant. Last known address: District 9. No criminal record. No known associates linked to previous victims.
Adrian's mind raced. If the pattern held, Dave Caldwell was next. And after him—Adrian himself. The case had become personal in the worst possible way.
He was so focused on the screen, on the implications, that he barely noticed the silence stretching between him and the woman at the counter. She cleared her throat, snapping him back to the present.
"Is something wrong, Detective?" she asked, concern flickering in her eyes. "Do you need something from Paul?"
Adrian straightened, forcing his voice steady. "Paul Albates is a prime suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. I need to speak with him immediately."
The woman—her nametag read Robin Marin—nodded, her face paling. "That explains the call I got from him earlier. He said he wouldn't be coming in today. He told me he was at the police station."
Adrian's heart skipped. "Which station?"
"Precinct 7," Robin replied. "He said he was there for questioning."
Precinct 7. That was only an hour away. Adrian checked the timer again: 7:28:12. He thanked Robin, grabbed the magazine, and hurried out the door.
The drive to Precinct 7 was a blur. Adrian's thoughts churned, the system feeding him updates and possibilities. He replayed the sequence of names, the pattern of the photos, the chilling realization that he was now a target. He wondered if the killer knew about the system, if this was all some elaborate game.
System: Probability of next target—Dave Caldwell: 87%. Probability of subsequent target—Adrian Cross: 99%.
He gripped the wheel tighter, pushing the car faster. The city blurred past, sirens wailing in the distance. He couldn't afford to lose focus now.
He arrived at Precinct 7 with 6:18:37 left on the timer. The building was a squat, utilitarian structure, its windows barred and its lobby echoing with the sounds of ringing phones and hurried footsteps. Adrian strode inside, flashing his badge at the desk sergeant.
"I'm looking for Paul Albates," he said. "Is he being held here?"
The sergeant nodded, pointing down a corridor. "Last room on the right."
Adrian didn't wait for further instructions. He moved quickly, boots thudding against the linoleum. As he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with Officer Lin Reyes.
"Adrian, you're here," Lin said, surprise flickering across her face. "I was just about to call you. Where have you been?"
Adrian frowned. "I thought you were at the main station."
Lin shrugged, a sheepish smile on her lips. "I didn't clarify which station, did I? My bad. Anyway, the witness is waiting for you."
Adrian's mind raced. "Wait—the witness you mentioned on the phone earlier. That's Paul Albates?"
Lin nodded. "Yeah. How do you know him?"
Adrian's frustration boiled over. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the wall. The plaster cracked, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from the point of impact. Lin's eyes widened, but she said nothing.
System: Strength stat at maximum. Damage to wall: superficial.
Lin stepped closer, her voice gentle. "Adrian, what's going on?"
He took a shaky breath, then told her everything—about the photos, the pattern, the names, the chilling realization that he was next. He left out the system, of course. That was his secret, his burden to bear.
Lin listened in silence, her expression growing more serious with every word. When he finished, she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"It's possible Paul knows more than he's letting on," she said. "He's been reluctant to talk, but maybe you can get through to him."
Adrian nodded, steeling himself. He walked to the interrogation room, pausing at the door. The timer hovered in his vision: 6:15:02.
He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.