The night was alive with laughter and bass-heavy music spilling from the club doors. Cars honked, heels clattered on pavement, drunk voices echoed down the street. Nobody noticed her stumble out of the line of taxis until she dropped her purse, laughed at herself, and waved down another ride.
Her name was Claire Donovan. Nineteen. A business major who loved neon lights, vodka shots, and dancing until her feet ached. To the world, she was just another college girl out too late. To the Bald Man, she was next.
The taxi dropped her a few blocks from her dorm at 1:32 a.m. The driver swore later he'd watched her walk toward the campus gate before turning back to the road. He didn't see the shadow that peeled itself from the alley.
Claire's heels clacked against the sidewalk, uneven, her laugh dissolving into a hiccup. Then a hand closed over her mouth.
Another locked around her waist.
Her scream was muffled against rough skin. She kicked, nails scratching, purse flying into the gutter. But he was strong. Inhumanly steady. She was dragged into the dark like she weighed nothing.
The city kept moving. Nobody looked twice.
Hours later, her body was found in an abandoned warehouse two miles away. Her dress torn, makeup streaked, life cut short by the same merciless axe. This time, he left her propped against a wall, eyes forced open, staring at nothing. Blood pooled at her feet like she'd been left to watch herself die.
Beside her, taped to the concrete, was another note:
"Time is blood. Tick. Tock. You failed her too."
Detective Marcus Hale read the words under the harsh beam of his flashlight. His throat was dry. He tucked the note into an evidence bag and stared at Claire's lifeless body.
"Two girls in two days," Officer Ruiz muttered, fists clenched at his sides. "This isn't random, Marcus. He's choosing them. Same type young, girls who drink, who party. What if it's someone from the clubs? A bartender? A driver?"
Hale shook his head. "No. This is bigger. Too clean. Too controlled."
Ruiz's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe it's someone you already know."
Hale snapped his gaze toward him. "Don't." His voice was sharper than he meant, but Ruiz didn't flinch.
Back at the precinct, Hale pulled every file he could find on serial killers who targeted women. Names stacked in front of him like a cemetery of unsolved nightmares. But nothing matched. Not the wounds. Not the timing. Not the chilling notes.
It was like chasing a ghost that rewrote itself every night.
When he finally closed the files, the Chief was waiting in his office doorway.
"You're drowning, Hale," he said flatly. "I gave you this case because you've handled monsters before. But the press is circling, the mayor's calling me every hour, and now I've got parents crying on my floor. If you can't give me a lead soon, I'll hand this to someone else."
Hale's chest burned. "You think a new name on the paperwork will change this? He's out there because he wants to be. He's not sloppy. He's not desperate. He's playing us. And every second we waste, another girl—"
"Enough." The Chief's tone was final. "You've got one week."
That night, Hale sat at his desk, Claire's photo in front of him. A smiling girl with messy hair, squinting into the sun. Now a lifeless victim of a man who treated her like a clock he could stop whenever he pleased.
His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. He pressed his palms into his eyes, fighting the burn, but the tears came anyway. Silent. Hot. Useless.
He whispered to the empty room:
"I'm sorry, Claire."
But the truth sat heavier than the silence.
Sorry wasn't enough.
And the clock was still ticking.