The sun is just beginning to set, casting long shadows across the city streets, but inside the precinct, there's no such thing as daylight. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of computer screens and the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing softly. My mind feels like it's buzzing too, tangled up in threads I can't seem to untangle. Every case file on my desk blurs together. Every victim, every clue, it's all starting to feel like one long nightmare that I can't wake up from.
Vera is sitting across from me, her brow furrowed, scribbling notes as we try to piece together something—anything—that will finally give us a lead. We've been at this for hours, but it feels like we're getting nowhere.
"We need to understand the psychology," Vera says, breaking the silence. Her voice is calm, but there's an edge to it. I can tell she's getting frustrated too. "What makes the killer tick? What's driving them?"
I exhale slowly, rubbing my eyes. It's a question I've been asking myself every damn day since we started this case. What's driving this killer? Why 25? Why these people? What's the connection?
I stand up and start pacing. "It's not just random. I know that. But there's something more, something deeper... I just can't figure out what it is."
Vera looks up from her notes, narrowing her eyes. "Let's take a step back. Think about it—what else do we know about the killer's past? What happened at 25?"
The word 25 hangs in the air between us. It's the thread that ties everything together, but it's also the thing that's driving me crazy. Every victim, every brutal murder, they were all the same age. And every time I look at the pattern, I feel like there's something I'm missing.
I pull up a file on my computer, scanning through the details we've gathered so far. Then something catches my eye. A name I hadn't noticed before. I mutter it to myself, almost under my breath. "Support group."
"What?" Vera looks up, sensing something in my tone.
"There was a local tragedy a few years back. Multiple deaths. It was all over the news, but I didn't connect it to the case until now. A support group was formed for survivors and families affected by it." I pause, letting the weight of the words sink in. "What if the killer was part of that group?"
Vera leans forward, her interest piqued. "So you think they're a survivor? Someone who watched their whole life fall apart after that tragedy?"
I nod slowly. "It's a possibility. We know the killer's trauma is tied to loss, betrayal, and rage. What if they lost someone close to them in that tragedy? What if they're still living with the fallout of it, and that's why they're so obsessed with people who are 25? It's not just about age. It's about the emotional imprint that age left on them."
Vera starts tapping her pen on the desk, lost in thought. "So they've been carrying this pain with them for years, looking for some kind of justice, some way to make it right?"
I feel a cold shiver run down my spine. "Or revenge. This isn't just about healing. This killer is angry. They're looking for payback."
---
As the hours stretch into the night, I can feel the tension tightening around me. Each piece of the puzzle seems to be slipping further away as the killer grows more erratic. The notes—they're getting worse. More cryptic. More desperate.
The last one, left on Nina's body, didn't just scream for attention. It demanded it. Written in jagged, frenzied letters, it read:
The truth is scarlet. But are you ready to face it?
I can't get those words out of my mind. Scarlet. The color of blood, of pain, of everything this killer's gone through. And the truth... What is it? What truth are they after? What are they trying to expose?
---
My phone rings, jerking me out of my thoughts. It's a number I don't recognize, but something about it makes my stomach twist.
"Detective Kane," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.
A soft, rasping voice comes through the line, sending chills up my spine. "You're getting close, Detective. But not close enough."
I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. "Who is this?"
The voice laughs—a low, mocking sound that grates on my nerves. "I'm just someone who's been watching. Watching you, watching them... Can you see it now? Can you feel it? The scarlet truth, it's all there. You just have to look harder."
Before I can respond, the line goes dead. I stand there for a moment, staring at my phone, my mind racing. This isn't just some random killer. This is someone who knows exactly what they're doing. Someone who's not just playing the game—they're controlling it.
---
The next day, things take an even darker turn. The killer's no longer staying hidden in the shadows. They're coming out of the woodwork, testing their victims, getting closer, playing some twisted game of cat and mouse.
We catch wind that the killer approached one of their remaining victims, a woman named Celia, just days before the murder. Celia had told a friend that someone was watching her, following her. She'd even mentioned a man who seemed to be hovering around her more and more.
Testing them. I feel sick to my stomach.
I can't help but draw parallels between this and my own life. I was tested too, once. By Damon's death. By everything that happened. And now, I'm seeing the same thing in the killer. This isn't just some mindless spree. They're trying to recreate their pain. They're trying to push people to the brink, just like they were pushed.
---
The flashbacks start to come in full force now, so vivid, I can almost hear the sounds of the old support group meetings. I wasn't there, but I've read about it. The way the members would talk about their losses—some would cry, others would just sit in silence. But in every meeting, there was one thing that stood out. The anger. The feeling of abandonment. The belief that life had betrayed them, that no one cared, that the system had failed them.
And that's where the killer's trauma started. Betrayed by someone they trusted. Someone who should have been there, but wasn't. The loss was too much. And they couldn't let go. The killer, just like the others in that support group, was drowning in their grief. But they didn't just grieve—they lashed out.
They became a broken person, driven by rage, seeking vengeance against a world that had turned its back on them.
The more I dig into their psyche, the more I see the darkness behind their actions. This isn't just about finding peace. This is about destroying the world that hurt them.
And somewhere in that twisted mind, I know they're watching me too, waiting to see how far I'll go before I break.
I can feel their eyes on me.
And I'm starting to wonder if I'm already too late.