I don't believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
The phone call came just before sunrise—an anonymous tip about another body, another young life taken. But it wasn't the victim that grabbed my attention. It was the number. The killer's message. "25 years, 25 dead." Those words hit me like a punch to the gut. They echo in my head, over and over again, as I stand in front of the crime scene.
The scene is a mess, of course. Blood smeared across the concrete like a sickening work of art. The victim—another 25-year-old—lay in a pool of crimson, his body crumpled and lifeless. But it's not the gore that pulls me in. It's the number. That goddamn number.
I rub my hand over my face, trying to push away the images that flood my mind. I can't help it. I never can. 25—the number that always drags me back to the worst day of my life. The day I lost my brother.
Damon and I were both 25 when it happened. Two brothers, born on the same day, raised in the same house, chasing the same stupid dreams. Then, in one instant, it was all gone. He was dead, and I was left to pick up the pieces. The wound's been there ever since, deep in my chest, never healing. And every time something happens with a 25-year-old... it feels like the scar opens up again.
I stare down at the body, trying to focus. The usual thoughts of revenge, justice, all that nonsense flood in, but I can't shake the feeling. There's something personal about all this. Something about the number 25. I can't explain it, but I know it's not just some random spree killer. No, this one is different. This killer is carrying something much darker—something I understand all too well.
I crouch down to examine the scene. The victim, a man named Jaxon, looked like he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't see a struggle, no sign that he fought back. It's almost as if he'd known what was coming, or worse—deserved it.
Then I spot it. A piece of paper, stained with blood, tucked under his hand. I pull it free, holding it up to the light. It's the same message from the first murder: "25 years, 25 dead."
The message is like a needle jabbed into my mind. I can't stop thinking about it. Why 25? Why this number? My fingers tighten around the note. I don't know if I'm trying to crush the paper or hold on to it. Either way, I can't escape the nagging thought that this killer is somehow linked to me. Linked to my past.
My gut twists. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe I'm reading too much into this. But I can't ignore the fact that this—this number, this pattern—it feels like a warning. Like someone's trying to make me remember something I've buried.
"Detective Kane," a voice calls out behind me. I don't need to turn to know it's Vera, my partner. She's been with me for years, but even she doesn't fully understand what this case is doing to me. She doesn't know about Damon. No one does. I keep that part of my life locked up tight. But this case, it's forcing the past back into the open.
I don't say anything at first. Just keep staring at the body, the message, trying to sort through the mess of thoughts in my head.
"Anything?" Vera asks, crouching beside me. I give her a quick glance, then turn my attention back to the note.
"It's not random," I mutter, almost to myself. "This... this is personal."
She gives me a sharp look, sensing the shift in my tone. "You mean the pattern with the age? Yeah, I noticed that too. All the victims are 25. It's eerie."
"Eerie doesn't even begin to cover it," I reply, my voice low. "I think this is more than just some sick thrill-seeker. This feels like... like revenge."
Vera looks at me, her brow furrowing. "Revenge? You think the killer has a reason for going after 25-year-olds?"
I don't answer right away. I can't. Because the truth is, I don't know if this killer is just looking for people who happen to be 25, or if, like me, they're stuck in a memory from their past. The kind of memory that claws at your insides and never lets go.
The kind of memory I've been carrying for years.
I stand up, shaking off the dark thoughts. "We need to look into the victims' backgrounds more. I'm betting there's something—some link between them. Something that connects this all to 25."
Vera nods. "I'll check the victims' records. Maybe we'll find something that makes sense of all this."
But deep down, I already know. It's not just the victims we need to be worried about. It's the killer. And whatever happened to them when they were 25, it's shaping everything they're doing now.
I just hope we can find them before they finish what they started. Because if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's this: this killer's not stopping until they've taken 25 lives.
And I don't think I'm ready to face what comes after that.