The Morgue (Autopsy)
The cold bit harder here than outside. Even with his coat on, Hale felt it seeping into his bones. He hated the morgue—hated the way it made every life look small, like people ended up just another case number on a stainless-steel table.
Dr. Vivian Kline, sharp-eyed and unflinching, peeled back the white sheet. Allison looked younger now, almost like a child sleeping. Hale swallowed hard. She was alive less than 24 hours ago. Laughing, texting her friends, maybe making plans.
"Multiple strikes from a heavy axe," Kline narrated clinically, though her voice carried a heaviness too. "No hesitation wounds. He knew what he was doing."
Ruiz shifted beside Hale, his notebook useless in his trembling hands. "Jesus… she looks… she looks like my niece."
Hale glanced at him. Ruiz's face was pale, his jaw tight. Rookie emotions. Hale envied him that. He himself was past crying over victims. But not past feeling. Not tonight.
"Here," Kline interrupted, pointing at the girl's wrist. "A brand. Circular. Burned in, not cut. Deliberate."
Hale leaned in. His stomach twisted at the blackened mark, ugly against her skin. A countdown. A warning. Or both.
"She died fast," Kline added, softer now, almost apologetic. "Less than a minute after the final strike."
Hale turned away, pressing his hand against the glass. He didn't want to hear "fast." It wasn't fast enough. She had begged. Screamed. Called her mother while knowing she wouldn't be saved.
That was the cruelty of it. She had died knowing.
Allison's Family
The Hartman home was quiet, but it wasn't peace—it was shock. Allison's mother sat on the couch, a blanket over her shoulders even though the room was warm. She clutched a framed photo of Allison in a graduation gown, her hands trembling.
"I don't understand…" she whispered, voice raw. "She was just going out with friends. She said she'd be home."
Hale sat forward, his tone soft, careful. "Mrs. Hartman, anything unusual in the past few weeks? Calls, messages, arguments?"
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "She was happy. Planning her future. She didn't fight with us, not really. She was just… full of life." She broke down, the photo clutched against her chest as though it were Allison herself.
Ruiz looked away, blinking hard, pretending to check his notes. Hale didn't move. He had learned long ago not to fill grief with useless words. There was nothing to say that could stitch a mother back together.
After a long pause, Mrs. Hartman's voice cracked: "She told me she was meeting someone last night. She wouldn't tell me who. I thought… I thought it was a boy."
Hale's chest tightened. Not random. Not chance. The Bald Man had invited her.
"I promise you," Hale said finally, and his voice had a rare tremor, "I won't stop until I find who did this. I won't let him touch another girl."
Mrs. Hartman's eyes lifted, glassy but sharp. "They say he's been killing for years. If you couldn't stop him before… what makes you think you can now?"
Her words hit harder than she knew. Hale stood quietly, nodding once before leaving. Outside, the weight of her doubt clung to him heavier than the night air.
The Crime Scene Revisited
The undeveloped street was silent, empty except for the whisper of wind pushing trash across the pavement. The glow of his flashlight revealed only shadows and stains.
But standing there, Hale swore he could hear her—her panicked voice still echoing between the unfinished walls. Help. Mom, help me.
He crouched near the corner where she had fallen. That's when he saw it—paper, half-buried in dirt. He pulled on gloves before opening it.
The words crawled across the page in jagged handwriting:
"Tick. Tock. Your turn."
Hale's chest tightened. It wasn't just murder. It was a taunt. A message aimed at him.
He closed his eyes for a second, breathing hard. Memories pressed in—the first victims years ago, his failure to stop them. Now, it wasn't just about Allison. It was about him.
The Captain's Office
"You're off this case."
Captain Reynolds' office smelled of coffee and stale air. His fists were planted hard on the desk. "You're too close, Hale. I see the way you're unraveling. This guy's got his hooks in you, and you'll drag Ruiz down with you."
Hale stayed standing, his face stone. "He's escalating. He's leaving marks. Notes. He wants me on this case."
"That's the problem!" Reynolds barked. "He wants to dance with you, and you're about to give him the music."
Hale leaned closer, lowering his voice. "If you take me off, he'll kill again. And again. Because no one else understands him. No one else has been here before."
The Captain stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, his anger collapsing into tiredness. "Seventy-two hours. Bring me something real, Marcus. Or I'm pulling you off and sending you home."
Hale nodded once, stiffly. He turned and walked out. He didn't have 72 hours. He had less.
The Bald Man (Parallel POV)
In a warehouse across town, the Bald Man sat under a flickering light, his axe laid out like a sacred relic.
He cleaned it slowly, humming low, the sound too close to a lullaby. The rag came away red, but his head gleamed clean, sharp under the bulb.
On the wall in front of him was a giant paper web. Names. Photos. Strings connecting them. Some faces were already crossed out in red ink.
At the center, one word stood out:
HALE.
The Bald Man touched the name gently, almost like affection. His grin stretched too wide.
He whispered to himself, his voice smooth and cold: "The clock has started. And I always win."
Closing Hook
Hale sat in his apartment, the note spread across the desk. His hands rested on either side of it, gripping the wood until his knuckles turned white.
The room was silent except for his breath. His glass of whiskey sat untouched. His reflection in the window looked hollow, tired.
Then his phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He hesitated, then answered.
Silence.
And then—tik. tik. tik. tik.
Slow, deliberate. Like the swinging of a pendulum.
Hale froze, the sound slicing into his skull. Then the line went dead.
He stared at the phone, pulse hammering. Somewhere out there, the Bald Man was listening. Watching. Waiting.
And Hale knew one thing with absolute certainty—time was running out.