The sound of the sirens in the distance is the only thing that fills the air, the wail of authority that follows in the wake of chaos. The weight of the night, of everything that's just happened, hangs heavy on my chest, suffocating me. It's over. The killer is in custody—or maybe not, depending on your point of view. I'm not sure anymore. There's no relief. No victory to feel.
I stand outside the old house, the place where everything came to an end, the same house that once held memories of what was supposed to be a peaceful life. It's all gone now. All of it. The killer, the trail of blood they left behind, the confessions—their scarlet marks on this world are gone. But the scars... the scars will remain.
I glance at the officers as they load the killer into the back of the squad car. Their face is expressionless now. They look like a person, but I know better. Beneath that mask, beneath all of the carefully constructed lies and manipulations, was someone who had been broken for so long. Someone who was once a part of the world I knew, someone I could have saved if I had only seen it sooner.
But it's too late for that now.
I try to shake the thoughts away, but they're sticky, like oil in water, impossible to get rid of. I'm standing here, alone with my own reflection in the glass of the squad car, and I can't help but feel... empty.
The killer is gone, but their legacy isn't. It's in every victim's face, every ruined life, every scarred soul left in the wake of their twisted spree. I thought I could solve it. I thought catching them would bring me peace. Instead, it feels like I'm just standing in the middle of a wreckage that will never truly be cleaned up.
As I turn to leave, I hear a voice behind me. Vera. Her footsteps are soft but determined. She stops beside me, her eyes tired, but she's still standing. We both know it's over, but we also know that we'll never really be free of it.
"You did what you had to do," she says quietly, her words a faint attempt to soothe the ache. But it doesn't work. The ache is deep, and no one can take it away.
"I know," I mutter, my voice flat. "But I still don't know if it was enough."
She doesn't reply. There's nothing more to say. The truth is, I'll never be able to forget what I've seen. The things I've learned. Not just about the killer, but about myself. The echoes of their pain, their rage, it feels like I've been forced to relive my own trauma all over again.
At the end of the day, the killer's confessions—those scarlet confessions—were not just a declaration of their own suffering. They were a mirror. A reflection of something darker inside me, too. Something I didn't want to face, but had no choice but to confront.
I've been running from my past for so long, thinking that if I could just catch the killer, if I could just stop them, it would all end. But it doesn't.
The truth is, there's no escaping what's inside me. No matter how much I try to bury it, the pain, the loss, it never really goes away. It just... stays. It's like a shadow, always behind me, always following me, waiting for the moment when I'll stop pretending.
I think about my brother, about the way he died when we were both 25. He had his own demons, his own scars, and I never got the chance to make peace with him. I never got to ask him if he felt betrayed, if he felt alone in his pain. I never got to ask him if he understood what it was like to be abandoned by everyone you thought you could trust.
The killer was right about one thing—they made the rest of us feel their pain. But in the end, all they really did was share the same burden that we all carry. That weight that follows us everywhere we go, that tells us we can't escape. That reminds us that no matter how much we try to outrun our past, we'll never really leave it behind.
Vera puts a hand on my shoulder, and I look at her, seeing the concern in her eyes. She knows. She knows the toll this has taken on me. And I know the toll it's taken on her, too.
But we don't talk about it. We just stand there, watching the car drive away, and I wonder if we'll ever really escape the mess we're in.
"Let's go home," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, not really hearing her. My mind is still spinning, still haunted by the things I've seen. But I know she's right. We need to move on. We have to.
But moving on doesn't mean forgetting. It never does.
As I turn away, I feel a familiar sting in my chest, that ache that never truly goes away. Maybe I'll learn to live with it, or maybe it will break me in the end. But for now, I keep walking, step after step, knowing that while the scarlet confessions are over, the story isn't. Not for me. Not for anyone who's been touched by this.
And that's the part that I can't escape. The part that will follow me, like the shadow, forever.
I take a deep breath. There's no turning back now.