The air inside the conference room was heavy with the stench of burnt coffee and sweat. Files littered the long wooden table, photographs pinned to the walls with red string crisscrossing between them. Two faces stared back at the detectives from the glossy prints—two victims, both men, both young, both dead within the last month.
Chief Hart slammed his palm on the table. His bald head glistened under the fluorescent lights as he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the stagnant silence.
"Two bodies in thirty days. Both with the same precision. Same… ritual."
He tapped the autopsy photos. Deep incisions across the chest, clean as though carved by a surgeon. The blood drained in a pattern no one could yet explain.
Detective Rowan adjusted his tie, voice low but grim. "This isn't random. Whoever did this knows exactly what he's doing. Cold. Methodical. No hesitation."
Another officer shifted uneasily in his seat. "You think he's just starting? Like the first two are… practice runs?"
The chief's jaw flexed. "That's what I'm afraid of." He glanced around the table, his tired eyes blazing. "We can't afford a third. The press is already calling him the Phantom Butcher. If we don't nail him, we'll have panic on our hands."
Detective Liu spoke for the first time, voice clipped. "He leaves almost nothing behind. No fingerprints. No weapon. Not even footprints outside. Whoever he is, he's careful. Careful enough to blend in."
Her gaze swept across the photos on the wall, then the room itself, as though the killer could be sitting among them.
Rowan muttered under his breath. "He could be anyone. Could be smiling at us right now."
The thought lingered in the stale air long after the meeting was adjourned.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, a much brighter scene played out.
The hotel breakfast lounge buzzed with the quiet chatter of morning guests. Plates clinked, coffee machines hissed, and the television mounted on the wall droned with the morning news.
Vincent sat slouched at the table, a plate piled high in front of him—pancakes drowning in syrup, scrambled eggs, sausages, a muffin for good measure. He stabbed at the stack with enthusiasm, chewing noisily, while his stolen leather jacket dangled from the chair.
Across from him, Marcus was far more restrained. A single slice of toast, a plain omelet, and black coffee. He cut small bites with surgical precision, posture straight, every movement composed.
The news anchor's voice floated through the lounge:
> "Police are still on the hunt for the man responsible for two grisly murders in the city. The suspect, dubbed the Phantom Butcher, is believed to be highly intelligent and extremely dangerous…"
Vincent glanced at the TV, a sausage half-hanging from his fork. Then he laughed, a loud, cocky bark that drew a few stares from nearby tables.
"Jesus, listen to this crap." He shook his head, smirking at Marcus. "Serial killers always slip up. That's how it goes. They get cocky, leave some dumb trace, and boom—caught. If I ever killed someone, I'd never be that stupid."
Marcus's hand tightened around his coffee cup. Porcelain creaked faintly under the pressure. For a split second, his jaw clenched, a flash of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the same calm half-smile he always wore.
He gave a quiet, almost forced chuckle. "Yeah. Stupid."
Vincent didn't notice. He was too busy imitating a documentary narrator, waving his fork around dramatically.
"Imagine it—me, the world's smartest serial killer. No fingerprints, no evidence, nothing. They'd be tearing their hair out trying to catch me. Meanwhile, I'd be sipping martinis on a beach somewhere."
He took a huge bite of his pancakes, syrup dripping down his chin. "Idiots wouldn't stand a chance."
Marcus set his coffee cup down with care, though his fingers twitched once before he pulled them back. His gaze lingered on Vincent, not with amusement but with something deeper. Darker. Calculating.
The muscles in his cheek tightened as he murmured, "Yeah… they'd never see it coming."
Vincent chuckled again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Bet you anything this Phantom Butcher guy? Total amateur. Probably some wannabe freak who watched too many horror flicks."
The laugh that followed was carefree, almost childlike.
But across the table, Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes.
The TV droned on, repeating the word dangerous, but Vincent wasn't listening. He was already flagging down a waitress for another round of eggs.
Marcus, however, never looked away from him.
His gaze lingered like a blade pressing against skin—hungry, cold, and patient. Watching Vincent laugh, talk, eat with syrup-stained lips. Watching him as though he were studying a puzzle he already knew the solution to.
Vincent thought he was mocking a nameless killer.
Marcus knew he was sitting across from him.
And in Marcus's mind, one thought simmered beneath the calm mask:
If only you knew how close you were to being next.
-------
PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH CHARMS ,
VINCENT 😉
WITH ... SILENCE ,
MARCUS 🤫