Detective Olivia Hale lit her third cigarette of the morning and let the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling fan that barely stirred the suffocating air of the precinct. The hum of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and tired detectives trading files created a constant background noise she had long grown deaf to. But the silence in her office was deafening. Silence meant one thing: no answers.
Her desk was a battlefield of open case files, photographs, and post-it notes in every shade of neon. Three faces stared back at her from the wall where she'd pinned them side by side—faces that didn't belong together, yet were forever linked by the brutal way their lives had ended.
Olivia leaned forward, flicking ash into an already crowded tray. "What are you missing?" she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing on the photo of Justin William.
Justin—twenty-seven, a social science teacher. Killed in his apartment. His body had been found slumped against the sofa, hands bound behind him, mouth stuffed with his own necktie. The crime scene report said no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Whoever had done it, Justin had trusted enough to let inside.
Her gaze slid to the next victim. Wilson. Twenty-four, a gym trainee with a reputation for being cocky but harmless. Found in the locker room after closing hours, head smashed with a weight plate. The CCTV had mysteriously glitched that night, showing only static during the exact window of the murder. Olivia had watched that static over and over, as though it might blink and give her a clue. It never did.
Finally, the youngest. Nineteen. A university student. No name released to the media yet, only "male student." Found in his own house, sprawled across the kitchen floor. Knife wounds—clean, precise, but so many they blurred into savagery. The boy's mother had returned from night shift and discovered him in a pool of blood that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Olivia had been the first detective on scene. The smell of copper and bleach had clung to her clothes for days afterward, no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Three victims. Three young men. All with their own lives, their own circles. And yet something in the way they were killed whispered the same story. Olivia exhaled smoke slowly, tapping her finger against the photos.
"Same signature," she whispered, voice low, as if saying it too loud might summon the killer. "Different weapons, different places… but the same hunger behind it."
She pulled out her notebook and flipped to the page where she'd scrawled her theory. She read it again, half to herself, half as though lecturing an invisible jury.
"Justin—control. Bound hands, gagged. Killer wanted dominance, to see him powerless." Her pen tapped against the edge of the photo.
"Wilson—rage. No rope, no gag. Just blunt force. Messy, impulsive, but still deliberate. He knew what he was doing."
Her eyes moved to the student. "And the boy… obsession. The knife wounds weren't random. They were personal. Whoever did this wasn't just killing. They were… cleansing. Erasing."
She leaned back, her chair creaking, and stared at the three photographs together. "Not random," she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek. "No way in hell this is random. Same hand. Same shadow."
Her office door creaked open. A junior detective peeked in nervously. "Detective Hale? Captain's asking for an update."
Olivia waved him off with a sharp flick of her wrist. "Tell him he'll get one when I have one. Not before."
The door shut again. She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another, her nerves electric. There was something else here, she could feel it. The itch beneath her skin wouldn't let her rest.
She stood, pacing in front of the pinned photos. Her eyes locked on Justin's again. A teacher, quiet life. No enemies. Wilson, loud, full of bravado, maybe a few gym rivals but nothing serious. And the student—just a kid. No common thread in occupation, no common neighborhoods, no drugs, no debts.
And yet.
She grabbed a red marker and circled their faces one by one. "All men. Young. Attractive in their own way. Each one killed in a place that should've been safe." Her hand froze for a second, and she whispered the thought out loud, tasting the words.
"They trusted him."
The silence of the room pressed in. Olivia tapped the pen against her lip, her mind racing. This wasn't just murder. It was seduction turned rotten. A predator who knew how to lure, how to make them let down their guard before the blade came out, before the rage took over.
She stepped back, taking in the photos all together on the board. A teacher. A trainer. A student. The line was too clean, too deliberate, like chapters of a story being written in blood.
Her voice came out low, certain, almost reverent. "You're not killing strangers. You're choosing them. Each one means something to you. And I'll find out why."
The clock ticked past midnight. Olivia hadn't moved in hours. But she didn't feel tired. Not yet. The killer was out there. And if she didn't catch him soon, she knew there'd be a fourth face staring back at her from that wall.
She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray, eyes cold, jaw set.
"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts," she whispered to the photos. "Because I'm coming for you."
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Marcus coughed his drink which Vincent bought him,"ahem ahem—"
Vincent patted his back,"drink slowly ,cariño.. you know one of my prisoner friend usually tell , when someone thinks about you too deepy you tend to cough out suddenly", he laughed after telling the superstition.
But Marcus didn't laugh, he thought with a deep silence and replied eerily calm,"Maybe someone is breaking their head thinking about me"
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH DETERMINATION,
DETECTIVE, OLIVIA HALE.
WITH DEEP THOUGHTS,
VINCENT .
WITH CALMNESS ,
MARCUS.