It's a strange thing, that feeling when you know something is coming before it happens. I've always had that sense, a gut feeling, when the air shifts. And today, something in me tells me Ivy is next. The signs are there—everything points to her, and I can feel it in my bones. I can't explain why, but I know.
When I get the call, I don't feel surprise. Just a grim sense of inevitability.
Ivy is dead. 25 years old. Just like the others. The scene is eerily familiar. Her body is found in an abandoned parking lot, just like the first victim. There's blood, of course—there always is—but it's the note this time that catches my attention. I'm used to the cryptic messages by now, but this one stands out. It's smeared in crimson, but still legible.
"The Scarlet Confession: 25 years, 25 dead."
I feel my stomach churn as I read it again. This killer... they want to be known. They want to be heard. They're toying with us, the police, with the city. There's something about the phrase that feels almost ritualistic—like a twisted prayer. The "Scarlet Confession." It's as if they want to be absolved, like they're confessing their sins, but at the same time, they're mocking us, daring us to catch them.
I can't shake the feeling that this isn't just about murder. It's about something deeper. Something personal.
Ivy... I don't know her. Not really. She was living a life that seemed perfect from the outside—friends, a job, a future. But after digging into her life, I find a few cracks in that image. Turns out, Ivy had been through her own demons. Her family had fallen apart when she was a teenager, her mother's death leaving a mark on her that no one could see. But nothing that would explain her death, not in the way the killer seems to want to teach us a lesson.
No, Ivy was just another person caught in the killer's warped idea of justice. Her struggles weren't any different from the others, but there's no clear reason why she was chosen. No tie to the first victim. No reason other than the number. 25.
I step away from the scene, my mind spinning. My instincts are telling me something else, something I can't fully grasp yet. This isn't just random. It's not just a spree killer hunting for victims. This is something else entirely. A puzzle. A game. The killer is out there, pulling strings, and it's up to me to figure out how they work.
But what drives them? I can't get the note out of my mind. The "Scarlet Confession." The confession of what? Of who?
And what does it mean for me? Because I know deep down, this killer isn't just after random strangers. They want something. They want to make a point. They want to make us see what they see.
I walk through the evidence again, looking for a pattern, something I might've missed before. The more I dig into Ivy's life, the more the pieces don't fit. She didn't know the first victim. She wasn't involved in anything dark enough to make her a target. But there was something else, something subtle. Her age. Her 25 years.
I think about my own brother, Damon, how his life was cut short. Was he too a part of this pattern? The idea gnaws at me. Did the killer know something about me, too? Something hidden in the fog of time?
I can't let that thought distract me. Not now. I've got a job to do, and this killer is getting bolder with each victim. Ivy's death is another step in a long road they're carving out, a road that's going to lead to me if I'm not careful.
The pattern is clear now. Each victim was 25 years old, but that's not the only connection. There's something psychological at work here. This killer isn't just picking victims. They're choosing people who—somehow—remind them of their own pain, their own trauma. And with each death, they're inching closer to whatever twisted goal they have in mind.
I stare at the bloody note one more time. "The Scarlet Confession."
The killer wants me to understand something, to solve their riddle. They're confessing, but they're not looking for forgiveness. They're looking for someone to see the world the way they see it. To feel the same pain, the same loss. To understand the rage that fuels them.
The more I think about it, the more I realize—this is personal. And it's going to take everything I have to catch them before they strike again.
I need to get inside their head. I need to figure out the story behind the confession. The killer thinks they're in control. But not for long.