The station felt heavier that morning. Silence, thick like smoke, lingered in the air. Hale hadn't slept; the city's lights still burned behind his eyes. The photo on his desk ,a young woman smiling with unguarded joy, mocked him.
Lydia Hart. Nineteen. College sophomore. Found dead.
The same night he'd received that photo.
"Same pattern," Ruiz muttered, flipping through the file. "Blunt trauma. No witnesses. No cameras."
Sammie leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Same kind of note too."
Hale didn't look up. "We know."
"No," Sammie pressed. "We don't. Because every damn note is sent to you, Hale. Every single one."
Ruiz's chair screeched. "Not again, Sammie..."
But Sammie cut in, his voice sharp. "You're telling me it's coincidence? Killer writes to you, mocks you, and every girl he touches ends up dead within forty-eight hours?"
Hale's jaw tightened. "Watch your words."
"I'm just asking questions," Sammie said, tone deceptively calm.
"Then ask them right," Hale snapped. "I don't know him. I don't know why he sends them. But I'm not the one killing these girls."
Ruiz stood, a silent warning between them. The Chief's voice broke through the tension from the hallway , rough, impatient. "Enough! We're losing control of this case. Get something done before I pull it off all your hands."
Hale turned away, pulse hammering. Ruiz caught his shoulder, low voice steady. "Let's just go. Start with Lydia's last steps.
The Club
The neon sign of Echo Room still flickered from the night before. The bartender, pale from too much caffeine and fear, leaned across the counter.
"She was here last night," he said. "Left around one-thirty. Alone."
Ruiz showed him the photo. "You sure?"
"Yeah. She was drunk ,couldn't even find her phone. Said something about catching a taxi."
CCTV footage rolled across a flickering screen. Hale froze the moment the taxi pulled up. A dark sedan. Tinted windows. No license plates.
"Play it again," Hale said.
They watched the loop. Lydia laughing, stumbling, waving goodbye , then the car door shutting.
And gone.
No trail. No driver ID. No one else saw a thing.
The Dorm
Lydia's dorm smelled faintly of perfume and coffee. Posters of sunsets and handwritten notes clung to the walls. Her roommate, a quiet girl named Emily, sat wrapped in a blanket, trembling.
"She wasn't a bad person," Emily whispered. "She just liked... living. Parties, music, dancing , she wanted to feel free."
Hale crouched beside her. "Did she mention anyone bothering her? Anyone new?"
Emily shook her head, eyes red. "No. But... she said something weird last week. That someone had been watching her Instagram stories at odd hours. Same profile, no picture."
Ruiz noted it. "Username?"
She nodded. "It was just… TIMEkeeper."
Hale froze. The word hung in the air like a chill.
The Taxi Trail
Hours later, the detectives combed through taxi logs, calling every registered service in the area. No records matched. No driver, no vehicle, nothing.
"Fake car," Ruiz muttered. "He planned it. Knew her routine."
Sammie looked up from his desk, eyes tired but sharp. "He's getting faster. Every move we make, he's already ahead."
"And he's watching," Hale murmured.
Sammie's glare flickered. "Yeah. Maybe too close."
Ruiz slammed the file shut. "Enough. We're chasing shadows."
The Autopsy Room
Hale met Dr. Paul again that evening. The fluorescent lights hummed softly. The doctor greeted him with that familiar calm smile, his gold-and-red wristwatch glinting as he gestured toward the report.
"Detective Hale," Paul said warmly. "Rough week, huh?"
"Rough month."
Paul nodded. "You know... sometimes killers leave more in their patterns than in their crime scenes. Maybe this one isn't about who dies, but when."
Hale blinked. "When?"
"Timing," Paul said simply, turning to the body chart. "Intervals, dates, hours. Check the timestamps."
It sounded strange , but somehow right.
The Letter
Back at the precinct, Sammie was pacing by his desk when Ruiz and Hale walked in.
There was a plain envelope waiting. No stamp. No fingerprints.
Sammie frowned, opened it.
Inside , a small card, a perfect circle drawn in ink, and one sentence beneath it:
"You're looking in the wrong place. Tick. Tock."
The room went still.
Sammie looked up, eyes meeting Hale's. For the first time, he didn't speak.
Hale reached for the card ,Sammie pulled it back. "No," he said quietly. "This one's mine."