Celia Moore had never felt quite this frustrated in her career. She had confronted violent criminals, stalked fugitives, and navigated political corruption, but nothing compared to working with Arsen Vale. Every interaction with him was like trying to reason with a storm—impossibly controlled, devoid of sentiment, and quietly devastating in its accuracy.
The case files lay spread across the carrel in front of her, each one a small monument to human suffering: victims chosen with surgical precision, chalk equations scrawled like instructions for a morality experiment, and an unnerving absence of motive beyond intellectual curiosity. She flipped through a report on the latest murder, her jaw tightening.
"This is barbaric," she said quietly, more to herself than to Arsen.
Arsen didn't look up. He was crouched over the holographic display of the crime scene, tapping out patterns that only he seemed to comprehend. His fingers traced invisible paths over the projection of rail lines, signals, and victim positions.
"Barbaric is irrelevant," he said finally, his voice as flat as steel. "The emotional response is not data. What matters is the pattern of decision-making."
Celia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Pattern of decision-making? People died, Arsen. Three of them already. And now you're talking about algorithms and patterns as if it's some abstract game."
Arsen's pale eyes flicked to her, calculating and calm. "It is a game, Detective Moore. Just one with irreversible consequences."
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. Working with him was like standing inside a glacier: beautiful, formidable, and entirely unyielding. Yet despite his coldness, she couldn't deny that he had been right every time so far. Every prediction he had made, every variable he had tracked, had led the Bureau closer to understanding the killer's methodology.
"Enough philosophical discussion," Rowan Hart's voice crackled over the commlink. "We've got another site to check—Central Station platform eight. Rail signal interference confirmed. Maintenance crew found signs of tampering early this morning. It's your turn, Arsen. Celia, follow his lead."
Celia glanced at Arsen. "Lead?"
He stood, coat flaring slightly as he moved toward the elevator. "Observation is not leading, Detective Moore. You follow and record. Logic will guide our actions, not instinct."
Her frustration simmered as they descended to the sub-levels of the station. The platform smelled of damp concrete and grease, the faint metallic tang of electricity hanging in the air. Yellow evidence markers dotted the tracks, and maintenance crews moved in cautious silence.
"Tell me why you're ignoring the police theories," Celia said, following him. "They believe the killer is targeting victims based on moral hierarchy—people whose deaths will create maximum public outcry. It's logical."
Arsen didn't glance at her. "Logical by whom? Not by the killer. Those theories are emotional extrapolations. He does not care about public sentiment. He cares about decisions—the choices made when a human is confronted with an impossible scenario."
Celia shook her head. "You sound like you're justifying murder with philosophy."
"Justice is irrelevant," Arsen replied, crouching beside the third victim marker. "Observe." He tapped a small holographic device that projected a sequence of movements from the previous incidents. The light danced along the tracks, mapping out the moments between the killer's arrival and the train's passage.
"What am I looking at?" Celia asked, leaning closer.
"Timing," Arsen said. "Delays, hesitation, acceleration. The killer measures response times. Every act, every pause, every choice is data. He's testing the elasticity of human decision-making under pressure."
Celia's stomach churned. "And you're just… analyzing it?"
"Yes," Arsen said simply. "Analysis is preparation. The patterns suggest that this is not random. The killer manipulates circumstance to provoke specific responses. The victim's psychological state is as critical as their physical location."
Celia glanced around at the platform, at the flickering lights and silent rails. "And the victims? Their suffering?"
Arsen's eyes met hers for a brief moment, cold and unwavering. "Collateral. Necessary variables. Emotional interference clouds judgment. A pure analysis requires emotional detachment."
She swallowed hard, trying to reconcile the inhuman logic with the tragedy surrounding them. Every instinct she had as a detective screamed at her to act on emotion, to empathize, to condemn. But Arsen's gaze reminded her that instinct was irrelevant here; calculation reigned supreme.
They walked along the platform in silence, Arsen occasionally stopping to tap on the data projected from his wrist device. He moved like a conductor, orchestrating a symphony of probability in his mind. Celia felt the weight of each step, the tension in the air thickening as if the station itself were holding its breath.
"See this?" Arsen finally said, pointing to a sequence of lines on his projection. "These are decision branches. Each victim responded differently to the same stimuli—signal delay, proximity of train, presence of witnesses. There is a hierarchy to the choices. Observe the consistency."
Celia frowned. "Consistency of what?"
"Compliance," he said. "The killer's algorithm favors those who follow the imposed scenario predictably. Notice how hesitation diminishes the projected outcome value. Those who resist or improvise reduce the efficiency of the experiment."
She shivered. "Efficiency of murder."
Arsen inclined his head. "Do not anthropomorphize. Efficiency is neutral. It is neither cruel nor merciful. It merely is."
Celia took a step back, feeling the chill of his detachment. She had dealt with many dangerous criminals, but none had approached logic with such unflinching clarity. Yet the pattern he revealed was undeniable. The killer was meticulous, disciplined, and terrifyingly rational.
They examined the signal box together. The metal casing had been tampered with, wires rerouted, timers adjusted. Celia traced her gloved fingers along the grooves, noting the precision of the interference.
"Any fingerprints?" she asked.
"None worth noting," Arsen replied, already scanning the area with his device. "The killer anticipates forensic countermeasures. Standard methods will fail. He leaves only information relevant to pattern analysis."
Celia bit her lip. "So what's your theory? Who's next?"
Arsen didn't answer immediately. He crouched beside a series of footprints etched into the damp concrete, studying the angles and depth of each print. Celia watched as he traced the path from the signal box to the edge of the platform and back again, measuring stride, pressure, and speed.
"Pattern," he murmured. "The algorithm favors volunteers. Those who yield willingly to circumstance maintain maximal logical consistency. Resistance introduces variables that reduce predictive certainty."
Celia frowned. "You mean… the next victim will volunteer?"
Arsen stood, his expression flat but resolute. "Yes. The killer's next victim will volunteer to die."
Celia felt a chill creep down her spine. She wanted to argue, to demand proof, to assert that human beings could never act in such a calculated way under duress. Yet Arsen's conviction carried an authority that she could not ignore.
"Volunteers don't make sense," she said softly, almost to herself. "People don't just volunteer to die."
"They do when the framework is precise," Arsen replied. "Choice is manipulated. Context is controlled. Fear, empathy, hesitation—these are variables. Remove them, and the decision is rational."
Celia's mind raced. How could anyone orchestrate such a scenario? How could they manipulate morality so completely that a human being might submit to death with full awareness? She tried to imagine herself in that position, the weight of inevitability pressing down, the logic of survival stripped away by circumstance.
And yet, looking at Arsen, she realized that in his eyes, this was not hypothetical. This was the inevitable conclusion he had drawn from patterns, statistics, and human psychology. He saw the world as a lattice of choices, each node connected by probability, each outcome calculable.
They continued their sweep of the platform, noting anomalies, measuring distances, cataloging potential variables. Celia recorded their observations meticulously, still wrestling with her own moral revulsion.
Arsen moved silently between the markers, tracing invisible lines of causality with uncanny precision. He tapped the projection of one victim's path, adjusting the temporal sequence and overlaying the probable decisions of bystanders.
"The algorithm considers influence, not innocence," he said. "Every human in proximity is a node in the equation. Their reactions are data points, their hesitation a deviation to be accounted for."
Celia's voice was tight. "So every witness, every passerby, they're part of his experiment too?"
"Yes," Arsen replied. "And the results are predictable. The killer designs scenarios where deviation is minimal. He is teaching humanity to respond rationally—or observing how far it fails."
She shook her head, trying to absorb it. "It's… it's monstrous."
"Monstrous implies judgment," Arsen said, stepping back to examine the entire sequence from the top of the platform. "We do not judge. We calculate. That is all that matters."
Celia felt a pang of unease. His words, delivered with absolute calm, left no room for argument. Yet the clarity of his logic forced her to consider possibilities she would have otherwise dismissed.
"What about timing?" she asked. "When do you think he will strike next?"
Arsen closed his eyes briefly, tilting his head as if listening to a frequency only he could hear. He reopened them, his gaze steady. "Timing is irrelevant. He acts when conditions reach maximal compliance. The probability matrix dictates the moment."
"And the victim?" Celia pressed.
Arsen's voice was almost detached, yet precise. "Voluntary. That is the constant. Resistance will only occur if the scenario is compromised."
Celia exhaled slowly, her stomach twisting. She had never encountered a criminal so removed from fear, empathy, or consequence. Yet the predictions were frighteningly plausible.
She looked at him, searching for some hint of humanity, some acknowledgment of horror or sympathy. There was none. Only the unflinching logic of a mind that saw the world as an equation waiting to be solved.
Celia realized, with a sinking feeling, that following Arsen Vale was not just a lesson in deduction. It was an immersion into a world where morality was secondary, where human suffering was data, and where the next death could be anticipated not by intuition, but by mathematics.
As they left the platform, the rain had intensified, hammering against the station's roof. The lights flickered, reflecting off the wet concrete like fractured glass. Celia tightened her coat, her mind replaying Arsen's words.
"The killer's next victim will volunteer to die."
She wondered, with a shiver, if anyone could survive a pattern so meticulously calculated. And somewhere deep within her, she feared the answer was already written in the numbers.