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A cold gust prickled my skin as I stood outside the crime scene, my feet sinking slightly into the wet, gritty soil. February had brought one of the bleakest, dampest winters in years, but tonight it seemed crueler. My name's Detective Regina Wilde, and by now, I know when a chill is just winter—and when it's something far worse.

I stepped under the yellow tape, flashing my badge to the young officer guarding the entry. He gave me a nod, eyes wide with fear and nausea. Rookie. This wasn't the kind of scene they trained him for, and I couldn't blame him.

"Detective Wilde," he managed, swallowing. "You… you might want to prepare yourself."

The house loomed over us, a silent shadow against the night sky. A single light from the upstairs bedroom window flickered, casting strange patterns over the cracked front path. The air was thick, almost cloying, as if the night itself was in on some terrible secret.

"Alright," I said, taking a breath. "Let's see it."

As I entered, the scent hit me—metallic, thick, with a hint of something floral underneath. It was the scent that stayed on your clothes long after you'd scrubbed your skin raw. Blood, mixed with the faint trace of roses.

In the living room, two bodies lay sprawled across the floor. A couple, mid-thirties, dressed in what looked like dinner attire. She was in a red silk dress, ripped and stained now, her head turned at an unnatural angle. His shirt, a pale blue, was soaked in a deep, rust-colored stain. A single rose, blood-red, lay between them.

"Another Valentine," I muttered to myself. I glanced up and met the eyes of Detective Martinez, my partner, who'd been examining the scene in silence.

"Regina," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "We've got another letter."

A chill ran through me. I hadn't expected that. But then again, this was no ordinary killer.

Martinez held out a small, folded note, gloved fingers careful. I took it from him, my hands steady though my heartbeat was anything but. The paper was high-quality, almost elegant. I unfolded it and read aloud, barely able to keep the edge out of my voice:

To my dearest detective, Regina Wilde,

Here we are again.

Do you feel it? The thrill? The chase? The love between hunter and hunted?

Meet me on Valentine's Day.

Bring your best. Bring your worst.

I'll be waiting.

Your Bloody Valentine

The words settled over me, chilling every nerve in my body. He'd signed it, just like he always did. Like a lover signing off a Valentine's card, as if this was some twisted romance.

Martinez shifted uneasily beside me. "He's getting bolder."

"Bolder and more personal," I replied, staring down at the words. "He's taunting me."

"The same handwriting?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. It was unmistakable—delicate, cursive, as if the letters themselves were a promise, a whisper of something dark.

"Same. He's calling this his 'Bloody Valentine,' Martinez. I don't think he's stopping until I find him. He wants me to."

"Well, then, we'll find him," he said, voice more confident than I felt. "He's leaving clues, right? The rose, the couple…"

I crouched beside the bodies, examining the placement of the rose. "It's the same setup as the last scene," I murmured. "The woman's dressed in red, like it's supposed to mean something. And he left them holding hands." My eyes traced over the interlocking fingers of the two bodies, cold and pale in death, still entangled even in the horror.

Martinez's eyes followed mine, then he turned away, muttering. "Sick bastard. What kind of message is he trying to send?"

I let the silence settle between us, studying the scene with every ounce of attention I could muster. Somewhere in this room, I knew there was a whisper, a hint of his twisted mind at work. "He's romanticizing it," I replied finally, standing. "He's recreating some twisted love story… or his own version of one. The perfect night out, and he's the only one who knows how it's supposed to end."

The rookie officer cleared his throat from the doorway, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else. "Detective… I, um… we're ready for the bodies to be moved."

I nodded. "Go ahead. But be gentle with them," I added, voice softer. I might not have known them, but the least I could do was treat them with the respect the killer hadn't. "And make sure evidence gets processed quickly. I want everything from tonight by morning."

As the officers moved around me, carrying out their duties, I took one last look at the scene, at the red dress, the rose, the blood that had pooled between them. Each detail felt like another taunt, another invitation from a ghostly lover.

Martinez tapped my shoulder, breaking the spell. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. "Just wondering what it's going to take to get him. He's so careful. Never leaves a trace. Only these letters."

"You're not alone in this," he reminded me, tone warm. "You've got all of us. And we're going to catch him."

I met his gaze, letting the warmth of his words seep into me, even if I wasn't sure I believed them. This killer was different, and he knew it. He knew how to get under my skin, how to pull me closer with every death, every scene painted in shades of blood and love.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unknown number. I glanced at Martinez, who raised a questioning eyebrow, but I held up a hand, stepping outside to answer.

"Detective Wilde," I said, trying to sound authoritative. The wind whipped around me, biting my skin as I waited.

For a few seconds, nothing. Silence. But I knew he was there. I could feel it, that same chill from before, an invisible hand pressing against my spine.

"Regina…" The voice was smooth, soft. But it held a darkness that made my stomach clench. "Did you enjoy my gift?"

My throat went dry, but I forced myself to speak. "You're not as clever as you think," I said, voice hard.

He chuckled, a low, chilling sound. "Oh, but we both know that's not true, don't we?"

I clenched my jaw. "This game? It ends. Soon."

"Oh, I hope not," he replied, his voice as sweet and sticky as honey. "After all, Regina, I've saved the best for last."

And then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his words lingering in the night air.

I ended the call, fingers trembling, rage and fear tangling inside me like thorns. Martinez had stepped outside, watching me, eyes filled with concern.

"What did he say?" he asked, voice cautious.

I didn't look at him, my gaze fixed somewhere in the dark, where I could feel my Bloody Valentine waiting, watching.

"He said he's saved the best for last."