CHAPTER ONE — The Man Who Didn't Flinch
Atlanta never really slept. Even at 2:14 a.m., the city hummed with a low, unsettling heartbeat — sirens in the far distance, a train rumbling somewhere under the streets, and the occasional whisper of wind brushing against dim apartment windows.
Oswald Kane barely heard any of it.
He stood alone on the rooftop of an old brick building off Peachtree Street, his dark coat snapping with every gust of night air. At thirty, he had the quiet look of a man who'd lived twice his age — sharp jawline, tired eyes, and a stillness that made people avoid meeting his gaze. Cold… that's what everyone called him.
But no one ever noticed the truth hiding beneath that frozen surface.
He wasn't dangerous.
He wasn't heartless.
He was just… innocent in a world that never gave him the chance to explain anything.
Tonight, the city felt heavier than usual, like it was holding a secret too big to swallow.
Oswald checked his wristwatch — an old silver piece with a cracked glass he refused to throw away — just as his phone buzzed. A single message lit up the screen:
"Oswald. They found another body."
His jaw tightened.
Not again.
He had spent the last three months being followed by crimes he didn't commit. Every time a body appeared, his name somehow ended up hiding in the shadows near it — wrong place, wrong time, wrong eyes watching.
The worst part?
He knew the victim this time.
Oswald descended the stairwell quickly, boots echoing on the narrow steps, but his expression didn't change. People accused him of being cold… but if they could hear the chaos running through his mind, they'd know better.
Outside, the air smelled like rain, heavy and metallic. Streetlights flickered weakly, as if the city itself was afraid.
At the end of the block, police lights painted everything blue and red. Officers moved around the taped-off area, their voices low, tense. Oswald stopped behind a parked car, watching the scene quietly.
Detective Mara Ellington — the only person in Atlanta who still believed he might be innocent — spotted him instantly. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't shout or call for backup. Instead, she walked toward him slowly, expression unreadable.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I got your message," Oswald replied, voice calm, almost too calm.
"That message wasn't an invitation."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because right behind her, lying on the cold asphalt, was the body of someone Oswald had spoken to just yesterday.
And pinned to the victim's coat…
…was a small silver ribbon.
An item Oswald himself owned.
An item someone had stolen.
An item placed there deliberately.
Mara followed his eyes and whispered, "Someone wants you framed again."
Oswald's voice finally cracked — just barely.
"I know."
And before either of them could speak again, a scream erupted from the far side of the street.
Someone else had just found something.
Something worse.