2024—
Los Angeles, California—
The hum wasn't just electrical. It was alive. A low, throbbing resonance that vibrated in molars and made coffee cups tremble on cheap particleboard desks. Fluorescent tubes flickered like dying fireflies overhead, casting jaundiced light over corkboards swollen with red string, mugshots, and crime scene photos so graphic half the interns had puked their first week. This wasn't Quantico. This wasn't even downtown LAPD HQ. This was the forgotten belly of the beast—where the Bureau sent cases too weird, too bloody, or too politically radioactive for daylight.
And right now? They had all three.
Agent Dirk didn't stride back into the room. He materialized, like smoke given legs and a smirk. His boots clicked against linoleum worn thin by decades of pacing detectives and nervous snitches. In one hand: a slim manila folder, edges dog-eared from frantic rifling. In the other: his tablet, screen glowing like a malevolent altar. He radiated the smug, coiled energy of a man who'd just found the cheat code to reality.
Lindsay McDermont, SSA, didn't turn immediately. She was studying Photo #7-C: a close-up of arterial spray pattern on a dumpster behind "The Rusty Nail," Werdin Street. The angle suggested the victim hadn't seen it coming. Or maybe they had. Maybe they'd welcomed it. Lindsay's knuckles were white around her lukewarm coffee mug. "Dirk," she said, voice flat as Kansas, not looking up. "If that smirk gets any wider, your face is gonna crack and leak whatever cheap bourbon you had for breakfast."
Dirk chuckled, a dry rasp. He slid the folder onto the central table with a theatrical thwump that made Davies jump. Schraigg, hunched over a laptop displaying thermal imaging of an abandoned textile mill, didn't flinch. He'd seen Dirk's "I cracked it!" entrances before. They usually ended with someone getting shot, sued, or both.
"Relax, Linds," Dirk purred, leaning back against the table, arms crossed. He savored the silence, the weight of impending revelation. "Been swimming in Krista Morrigan's financial sewage. And lemme tell ya… what floated to the top ain't just interesting. It's the kinda shit that makes Internal Affairs weep into their expense reports."
Lindsay finally turned. Her eyes, the color of storm clouds over Puget Sound, locked onto his. Cautious. Always cautious. "Define 'interesting,' Dirk. And lose the theatrics. My patience budget got spent on explaining to the Deputy Director why we need flamethrower permits."
Schraigg grunted, pushing his glasses up his nose. Davies, youngest on the team and still radiating "please don't let me screw this up," edged closer, notebook clutched like a shield.
Dirk tapped his tablet. The projector whined to life, bathing the far wall in harsh light. Spreadsheets bloomed – columns of numbers, dates, merchant logos. "Krista's got two main piggy banks. Capital One and Chase. The CapOne? Textbook broke college kid. Balance: $31,487.22. Transactions?" He scrolled. "Walmart groceries. UberEats–mostly spicy ramen and those weird vegan nuggets. Tinder Gold subscription–active. Twitch sub to 'LivLuvLife'–surprise, surprise, her sister Liv. Netflix. Merch hauls from cannibalcorpse.store–hoodies, mostly black, size small. And…" He paused, eyebrow climbing towards his receding hairline. "…Arknights. Mobile gacha game. Dropped $4,300 in Q4 2021 alone. During some 'Originium Dust' event. Sounds like bad sci-fi glitter. Point is? Normal. Annoyingly, depressingly normal."
"Go on," Lindsay prompted, the single word sharp as a scalpel. The normalcy was the trap. They all knew it.
"The Chase account," Dirk's voice dropped, losing the swagger, gaining a gravelly edge. "That's where the funhouse mirror starts. Current balance: $12,784,916.33."
Schraigg let out a low, sustained whistle that sounded like air escaping a punctured tire. "Twelve point seven million? For an engineering undergrad who works part-time shelving books at the UCLA library? That ain't inheritance, Dirk. That's… cartel-level weird."
"And it gets weirder," Dirk continued, pulling up a highlighted transaction. "Most recent deposit: 48 hours ago. Amount: $380,000.00. Sender ID: 'J. Carrow.' Ring any bells?"
Lindsay's jaw muscles clenched. A vein pulsed faintly at her temple. "Our phantom philanthropist. The ghost who funds nightmares." James Carrow. An alias smoother than polished obsidian. Traced through shell companies, offshore accounts, and digital dead ends. Always paying for Krista's… acquisitions.
"That's the appetizer," Dirk said, his grin returning, thinner now, predatory. "Main course? I called in a favor from Benny 'The Weasel' Petrovich. You know Benny. Sells everything from untraceable burner phones to surplus Soviet nuke triggers, if you ask nicely and pay in gold Krugerrands."
Davies leaned forward, eyes wide. "Benny? The guy who 'retired' after the Miami incident?"
"The very same. Living large off a shrimp boat in Belize. Still takes calls for old friends… and bigger payouts." Dirk pulled up another image – a grainy, timestamped photo from Benny's hidden alley cam. A figure, slight, hooded, standing beside a nondescript white van. "Benny swears it's her. Size, build, the way she holds her shoulders–matches Krista's campus ID pics. Masked, obviously. But here's the menu Benny served her…"
Dirk started ticking off fingers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow carried over the TOC's hum:
"One: Four one-gallon jugs of military-grade napalm gel. Sticky stuff. Burns underwater. Two: Sixteen pounds of C-4 plastique. Packaged in four neat little 4-lb bricks. Easy to carry. Easier to hide. Three: One kilogram of calcium metal. Reacts violently with water. Makes hydrogen gas. Boom. Four: One Israeli TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle. Compact. Nasty. Five: Two Colt M1911A1 .45 autos. Classics. Reliable. Six: One M79 grenade launcher. Seven: Thirty rounds of 40mm M381 High Explosive. Eight: Ten rounds of 60mm M720A1 HE mortar shells–Benny says she insisted on the 'A1' variant for better fragmentation. Nine: Several authentic Edo-period wakizashi short swords and some custom ones too. Not replicas. The real deal. Razor-sharp. Ten: Assorted surgical tools–scalpels, bone shears, chisels. Stainless steel. Industrial grade. Eleven: One Subaru WRX STI. VIN sanded off, engine swapped, plates ghosted. Even Benny's best tech couldn't ping it. Twelve…" Dirk paused, letting the dread build. "…One Browning M2 .50 Caliber Heavy Machine Gun. Belt-fed. With two thousand rounds of M8 API incendiary armor-piercing ammo. The kind that laughs at armored personnel carriers and turns them into scrap metal confetti. Not exactly picnic fare."
The silence that followed wasn't just stunned. It was hollow. The hum of the fluorescents seemed louder. Davies looked slightly green. Schraigg slowly removed his glasses, polished them meticulously on his shirt, and put them back on, his face unreadable.
"She… bought all that?" Lindsay's voice was dangerously quiet, stripped of inflection. "From Benny?"
"Not in one go, Boss," Dirk clarified, sensing the nuclear option in her tone. "Staggered deliveries over six months. Cash. Unmarked bills. Small denominations. Like she was buying groceries, not building a private militia. And the delivery address?" He pulled up a map. Zoomed in. A dilapidated Victorian house, paint peeling like sunburnt skin, nestled between a condemned auto shop and a vacant lot choked with weeds. "150 Porter Street. Exactly 147 yards, according to Google Earth, from her registered apartment at 221 East 8th Street. Practically her backyard."
Lindsay exhaled, a slow, controlled stream of air that did nothing to dispel the icy knot forming in her gut. "She's not just killing. She's fortifying. Stockpiling. Preparing for a siege." She turned to Davies. "The weapon profile. Consistency?"
Davies flipped frantically through her thick binder, pages whispering. "Confirmed, SSA. Seven hundred and three confirmed homicides across seventeen states over eighteen months. Primary MO: Close-quarters, bladed weapon. Japanese short sword–wakizashi or tanto–used in nine-eight point seven percent of cases. Clean, precise cuts. Often decapitation or bisecting the torso. Minimal struggle marks. Victim usually unaware or incapacitated first. Firearms? Zero ballistic evidence at any primary scene. Not a single casing. Not a stray bullet hole in a wall."
Schraigg picked up the thread, his voice grim. "Which means the guns, the grenades, the fucking .50 cal? They're not for hunting. They're for running. Or fighting off anyone stupid enough to corner her. SWAT teams. Rival gangs. Maybe even… us. She's planning her exit strategy. Loud, messy, and terminal for anyone in the blast radius."
"Ten steps ahead," Lindsay murmured, the words tasting like ash. "Always ten steps ahead. Methodical. Patient. Ruthless. And funded like a damn sovereign state." She strode to the main corkboard, her boots echoing. Her gaze swept past the gruesome photos, the maps, the timelines, and settled on Krista Morrigan's UCLA student ID photo. Smiling. Bright eyes. Straight A's. Volunteered at the animal shelter. "We underestimated her. Called her a 'lone wolf.' A 'disturbed kid.' She's playing chess while we're counting checkers."
She spun back to the team, her command presence snapping into place like a switchblade. "Dirk. Eyes on 150 Porter Street. Now. Thermal cams. Motion sensors. Audio bugs if you can get 'em close without tripping her security – assume she has it. I want to know if a rat farts in that basement. Schraigg. Davies. Coordinate with EOD and SWAT Alpha. Full tactical package. Breaching charges, flashbangs, armored vehicles, the whole nine. Assume the 8th Street location is booby-trapped to hell and back. Assume Krista is armed, armored, and expecting us. This isn't a raid. It's a goddamn invasion. Move!"
Before the flurry of activity could fully ignite – before Schraigg could grab his comms headset, before Davies could start dialing – the heavy steel door to the TOC groaned open on unoiled hinges.
An agent Lindsay didn't recognize–young, face pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's chill – stood there. Flanking him: an elderly woman leaning heavily on a gnarled oak cane, her floral dress incongruous against the TOC's institutional grey. Beside her, a girl in her early twenties, clutching a worn UCLA hoodie, eyes darting nervously around the room like a spooked deer.
The hum dipped. Every head turned. The weight of unsolved murders momentarily suspended by the arrival of… civilians?
The young agent cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "SSA McDermont? These are Mrs. Beverly Grant… and her granddaughter, Samantha Grant. Mrs. Grant… she has information. And a photograph. Regarding the Werdin Street incident."
Lindsay's posture straightened, but her expression remained carefully neutral. Civilians with "information" usually meant hysterics, misidentifications, or time-wasting conspiracy theorists. But protocol was protocol. "Mrs. Grant. Samantha. Thank you for coming. I'm Special Agent in Charge Lindsay McDermont. Please, sit." She gestured to two rickety chairs near the evidence table, away from the most graphic displays.
Mrs. Grant shuffled forward, her cane tapping a slow rhythm on the floor. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, etched with worry lines, but her eyes, a faded blue, held a startling clarity. Samantha perched on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands in her lap.
"Well," Mrs. Grant began, her voice surprisingly strong, cutting through the tension. "Two nights ago. Balcony. Third floor, 847 Werdin. Right smack dab next to Skid Row, God help us. Stupid cat – Mr. Whiskers, rest his soul, he jumped the railing last Tuesday – anyway, I was trying to shoo him off before he took a header. That's when I saw her."
"Her?" Lindsay prompted, leaning forward slightly, elbows on knees. Professional interest, carefully modulated.
"Yes. This girl. Dark hair, long, down past her shoulders. Young. Twenties, maybe. Pretty, in a… sharp way. Like a knife you admire before it cuts you." Mrs. Grant shivered slightly. "She was walking down the sidewalk. Casual. Like she was heading to the damn grocery store. Except…" The old woman's voice hitched. "She was carrying this big red ice box. Plastic. Walmart brand, I think. And her hands… oh, Lord, her hands were dripping. Covered in blood. Fresh blood. Glinting under the streetlamp."
A collective intake of breath. Lindsay exchanged a lightning-fast glance with Schraigg. Werdin Street. The Rusty Nail dumpster.
"What did she do?" Lindsay asked, her voice steady, belying the adrenaline spike.
"Nothing frantic! That's what chilled me!" Mrs. Grant insisted, her knuckles whitening on the cane. "No running. No looking over her shoulder. Just… walking. Purposeful. Like she'd finished her chores. It was… wrong. Deeply wrong. So I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my phone." She fumbled in her large tapestry purse, pulling out a slightly battered smartphone. "Took this."
Lindsay held out her hand. Mrs. Grant handed over the phone. Lindsay swiped to the gallery, tapped the most recent photo, and froze.
There she was.
Krista Morrigan.
Captured mid-stride under the sickly yellow glow of a sodium vapor lamp. Long, dark hair partially obscuring her face, but the profile was unmistakable–the high cheekbones, the determined set of the jaw from the campus ID. She wore a black hoodie–the Cannibal Corpse logo just visible beneath the hood's shadow. In her right hand: the distinctive red Coleman cooler. In her left: fingers stained a deep, wet crimson, droplets catching the light like rubies. And protruding from the gap between her hoodie and the waistband of her jeans, tucked diagonally across her lower back: a slender, rigid object. Metal glinted dully at its tip.
"That's not all," Mrs. Grant added. "I overheard her talking on the phone. I couldn't hear everything, but I got a good chunk of it."
"What did she say?" Lindsay asked, her voice steady.
Mrs. Grant thought for a moment before mimicking the girl's tone. "'Hey, B… yeah, it's done. Yeah, I'm coming over now. Be there in ten. Yeah, fucker… have my money transferred. Yeah, the 380 grand. Alright, see you.'"
The room erupted in murmurs. Lindsay's mind raced. "B" had to be Bradley Kinford—or "James Carrow."
The mention of 380 grand matched the exact amount transferred to Krista's account 48 hours ago. Everything was lining up too perfectly to be a coincidence.
"That's not all," Samantha, the granddaughter, chimed in nervously. "I… I think I know her."
Lindsay's pulse hammered against her ribs. Not a stick. Never a stick. "Samantha," Lindsay said, her eyes still locked on the screen, her voice low. "You go to UCLA?"
Samantha jumped, startled to be addressed directly. "Y-yes. Poli-Sci. Sophomore."
"You've seen her? On campus?"
Samantha nodded vigorously, then stopped, swallowing hard. "Oh yeah. Krista Morrigan. Everyone knows Krista. Top of every class. Professor Henderson loves her. Scary smart. But… there's something else." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Last year. Spring semester. Quad, near Royce Hall. These three guys… frat types, Sigma Chi jackets… they were hassling me. Following me. Making… comments. I was trapped near the fountain. Started crying. That's when she appeared."
"What did she do, Samantha?" Schraigg asked gently, leaning forward, his earlier cynicism vanished.
Samantha closed her eyes, reliving it. "She just… stepped between me and them. Didn't say a word at first. Then… she moved so fast. One hand went under her jacket… pulled out this… this sword. Short, curved blade. Looked ancient. And in her other hand… a pistol. Big. Black. Looked like a Colt." Samantha opened her eyes, wide with remembered terror. "She pointed the sword at the leader's throat. The gun at his groin. And she said…" Samantha mimicked the voice, chillingly calm, devoid of inflection: "'Value your lives? Don't want to end up as props for the Fallout TV series? Leave. Now.' They didn't run. They fled. Tripped over each other. Didn't look back."
"She was armed. On campus. Past security?" Lindsay's voice was tight, controlled fury simmering beneath.
"Yes," Samantha whispered. "Metal detectors at the Humanities building entrance. She walked right through. Smiled at the guard. How? I don't know. Magic? Sleight of hand? She just… did."
Schraigg let out a low chuckle, breaking the heavy silence. It wasn't amused. It was bleak. "You know the real kicker? The cosmic joke?" He gestured vaguely towards the city beyond the reinforced windows. "How many people saw her? Walking down Skid Row. Blood on her hands. Red cooler. Maybe even the sword hilt peeking out? And how many called 911? Zero. Zilch. Nada." He shook his head. "LA, baby. City of Angels, land of the blind. See a girl covered in blood? Must be filming a music video. Or performance art. Or just another Tuesday night in the dystopia. Nobody bats an eye. Nobody wants the hassle. Nobody wants to get involved. It's the new normal. The perfect camouflage."
Lindsay shot him a glare that could frost glass. "That 'normal,' Schraigg, is why she's butchered seven hundred people. Why she walks free. Why she thinks she's untouchable." She turned back to the Grants, her expression softening fractionally. "Mrs. Grant. Samantha. You've done invaluable work. Truly. This photo… this testimony… it changes everything. We'll be in touch. An agent will escort you out and arrange safe transport home. Thank you."
As the young agent led the visibly relieved but shaken women out, the TOC door clicking shut behind them, Lindsay faced her team. The air crackled with renewed purpose, edged with fear. "Photo confirms identity. Location confirms proximity to the Werdin scene. Campus sighting confirms access and brazenness. The arsenal confirms capability and intent. We have her. Now we end her."
Her words, sharp and final, still hung in the humming air, vibrating with lethal promise, when the door burst open again.
Not a creak this time. A violent slam.
Agent Chen, fresh-faced, usually unflappable, stumbled in, gasping for breath, face flushed, tablet clutched like a lifeline. "MA'AM!" he yelled, voice cracking. "EYE-BLECH! REDDIT! CCTV FOOTAGE! WERDIN STREET BAR! JUST POSTED! VIRAL IN TEN MINUTES!"
Every head snapped towards him. Lindsay's hand shot out. "Bring it. NOW."
Chen practically dove for the main console, jamming a cable into his tablet. The projector whined, flickered, then stabilized. Grainy, black-and-white, high-contrast footage filled the wall. Time stamp: 02:17 AM, Two Nights Ago. Location: Exterior camera mounted above the entrance of "The Rusty Nail," Werdin Street.
Lindsay leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes devouring the screen.
There. Emerging from the gloom of the alley beside the bar. Walking with brisk, unhurried strides. Hood up, but the distinctive black Cannibal Corpse logo clear even in the poor resolution. The red cooler, identical to Mrs. Grant's photo, swung slightly in her right hand.
Lindsay let out a short, humorless bark of laughter. "Dirk. The merch. Confirm."
Dirk, already scrolling frantically on his own device, didn't look up. "Cannibal Corpse online store. Order history linked to her Capital One. Hoodie purchased March 12th. Size small. Black. With the 'Tomb of the Mutilated' album logo. I'll be double-damned."
On screen, Krista reached the sidewalk. Paused beside a sagging pile of black garbage bags. Knelt slightly. Reached into the shadows beneath a makeshift cardboard lean-to. An emaciated figure, wrapped in filthy blankets, emerged cautiously.
Krista spoke. No audio, but her lips moved. She handed the man something wrapped in paper–a sandwich? Then, a crisp rectangle. A bill. The man held it up to the dim light, squinting. His shoulders slumped in disbelief. Krista stood. Smooth, efficient movement. Her left hand dipped into her hoodie pocket. Pulled out a simple blue surgical mask. Unfolded it. Secured it over her nose and mouth with practiced ease. The transformation was chilling. From recognizable student to anonymous specter.
She turned. Walked purposefully towards the mouth of the alley where the dumpster–and the body–would be found an hour later. Disappeared into the deeper shadows.
Lindsay grabbed the remote. Thumbed the pause button. The frozen image filled the wall: Krista Morrigan, unmasked for a fleeting second before donning her disguise, caught in the act, the red cooler a grotesque accessory, the surgical mask a symbol of calculated concealment.
"The witness," Lindsay stated, her voice colder than the TOC's AC. "Corroborated. Undeniable. That's our killer. Krista Morrigan. No more aliases. No more shadows."
The silence shattered. Keyboards clattered. Radios crackled to life. Schraigg was already sprinting for the door, bellowing into his headset, "GET ME THE WARRANT CLERK! WAKE HIM UP! TELL HIM IT'S MCDERMONT AND WE NEED THE PAPERWORK FOR EAST 8TH AND PORTER STREET YESTERDAY! ARMORED VEHICLES! FULL BREACH! NO EXCEPTIONS!"
Lindsay turned to the remaining agents, her eyes blazing with a fierce, terrifying light. The hunt was over. The trap was set. The insignificant girl, the underestimated killer, the architect of seven hundred nightmares, was finally, irrevocably, in their sights.
"This ends tonight," Lindsay declared, the words echoing off the concrete walls, heavy with finality. "Move out. And God help anyone who gets in our way."
The TOC exploded into controlled chaos. Desks were abandoned. Gear was grabbed. Comms channels flooded. The hum was drowned out by the roar of impending violence. Outside, the indifferent city of Los Angeles slept on, unaware that in its forgotten basement, the hunters had finally cornered the monster. And the monster, they knew, would not go quietly. She had napalm. She had C-4. She had a .50 cal. And she had nothing left to lose. The insignificant girl was about to make herself very, very significant. One way or another.