The hum of the precinct at night was different from the day shift. Fewer phones rang, fewer people bustled about, but the air carried something heavier—like the silence between storm clouds.
Detective Olivia Hale leaned against her desk, arms crossed, her dark eyes sweeping the room. The chatter of junior officers at the far end grated on her already raw nerves. They were laughing. Laughing, when three bodies in two weeks lay cold in the morgue.
"Cut the noise," she barked, her voice sharp as a whip crack.
The laughter died instantly. Papers shuffled, shoes scuffed. Nobody looked her in the eye. Olivia didn't care. Let them be afraid. Fear was fuel, and tonight, she needed every drop.
She dropped into her chair, the creak of old leather echoing like a groan. A corkboard loomed in front of her, messy with photos, sticky notes, red strings that connected lives now severed. She picked up a pen, tapping it against the desk as her gaze fell on the first photo.
"Justin William," she murmured. "Twenty-seven. High school social sciences teacher."
She knew his file by heart. No criminal record. Loved by students. Lived alone in a small apartment. His body had been found in his own classroom, sprawled across the teacher's desk with a notebook in his hand. Pages soaked in red. A blade wound—precise, deliberate—straight through the heart.
Her pen slid across the desk to the second file.
"Wilson Lee. Twenty-four. Gym rat. Spent more time lifting weights than breathing air." Olivia exhaled slowly, remembering the photos. The coroner's report replayed in her head like a bad song. Wilson had been found in the shower room of his gym, water still running, his throat slit ear to ear. No signs of forced entry. No defensive wounds. As if he'd trusted his killer right up until the blade sang.
Her eyes hardened as she reached for the third. The youngest.
"Nineteen-year-old Jacob Meyer. University student. Bright kid. Wrong address." Her voice cracked, but only a little. She straightened her shoulders and continued. "Found in his own house. Door unlocked. Parents out of town. Stabbed in his sleep. No struggle. No chance."
Olivia pushed back from her desk, standing again, pacing. The floor creaked beneath her boots.
Three murders. Different victims. Different ages, lifestyles, places. On the surface, no connection. But Olivia knew better. Monsters didn't kill at random. They followed rhythms, patterns, instincts carved into bone.
She stopped at the corkboard again, her pen hovering in the air like a conductor's baton.
"What do you want me to see?" she whispered, as if the victims themselves could answer.
The photos stared back—silent, accusing.
A knock broke her concentration. A rookie peeked in. "Detective, it's almost midnight. Want me to wrap things up here?"
Olivia's glare was sharp enough to pin him in place. "Monsters don't keep office hours, Martinez. If you want to sleep, go home. I'll stay."
The rookie nodded quickly, vanishing like a spooked cat. Olivia smirked despite herself.
She turned back to the files, muttering to the empty room. "Three murders. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Clean work. Too clean for a first-timer."
Her fingers drummed against the desk. Then she stilled.
One detail had lingered at each scene, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. A notebook. Not the same one, not identical brands, but always there. At Justin's desk. In Wilson's gym bag. Near Jacob's nightstand.
She scribbled the word in bold letters across her notepad: NOTEBOOK.
Why a notebook? A killer's trophy? A message?
She pulled one closer, the photos blurry but enough to see ink bleeding across pages. Olivia leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
In Justin's, a single line scrawled: He deserved better.
In Wilson's, three words: Weakness is fatal.
In Jacob's, a sentence half-finished, as if the writer had been interrupted: Memory fades, but—
Her stomach knotted. Memory. Fading. She circled the word with such force the pen nearly tore the paper.
"Not random," she said softly. "You're telling me something, aren't you?"
She pressed her hand against the desk, grounding herself. She wasn't looking at a killer who killed for thrill. This was personal. Purposeful. Someone with a pattern hidden deep beneath the surface.
Her reflection glared back at her from the precinct window. Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, hair pulled tight to mask the mess beneath. She clenched her jaw.
"Alright, mystery man," she whispered. "You left me breadcrumbs. I'll follow."
Behind her, the corkboard loomed larger, its red strings like veins pulsing with secrets. Olivia grabbed her coat, her steps brisk and determined.
The night outside was cold, sharp with the scent of rain. She welcomed it, letting the chill bite her skin awake. Somewhere in the city, the killer was breathing the same air, watching the same moon.
And she would find him.
Olivia lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into the shadows, and muttered, "Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. Because I'm coming for you."
-------
PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH DETERMINATION,
DETECTIVE OLIVIA HALE.