Genre:-- Physcoloigical thriller, mystery.
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The coffee shop is quiet this evening, almost empty, save for the low hum of the espresso machine. I sit by the window, my laptop open, but my fingers don't touch the keys. I keep staring at the screen, scrolling through my notes, my mind drifting. Headlines, articles, and unfinished cases are all tangled together in my head, but nothing seems to come together.
"Evening," a voice breaks through the silence.
I look up and see her—young, with messy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and a notepad in her hand. She gives me a smile, the kind that feels like she's not just doing her job but actually noticing you.
"Morning," I reply, offering her a half-smile. "Just coffee for now, please."
She scribbles something down and tilts her head a little. "You're here at this time? it looks You arrived on time as our shop going to close in thirty minutes..."
I let out a soft sigh, leaning back in my chair. "Something like that. Always feels like there's more to write than time to do it."
She laughs quietly, nodding as she taps her pen against the pad. "I get that. You a writer or something?"
I hesitate for a second, not sure if I want to get into it. But she looks genuinely curious, so I say it anyway. "Journalist," I tell her, my voice light, even though my thoughts are somewhere else. I glance at the screen again—my latest case. "Trying to figure out what's worth writing about these days."
Her eyes brighten, and I can see her leaning in a little. "That sounds exciting. Isn't that your job? To figure out what matters?"
I chuckle, though it feels a little bitter. "Yeah, you could say that. But some days it feels like everything's already been said. Every story already told."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I'm back in it—the case I'm tangled in. The mysterious deaths, the list, the twisted game someone's playing, pulling me deeper.
What if this case could change all of that? What if this time, the story could be something real? Something that shakes people awake? The thought lingers, but there's another side to it too.
But it's dangerous. I can feel it. This whole thing feels like a trap.
The waitress's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Maybe you just haven't found the right story yet," she says, her voice light but with a hint of something deeper behind her words. "Or maybe you're just waiting for the perfect one."
I nod, even though I'm not sure I believe it. She moves away, leaving me to my thoughts, and my coffee.
Perfect story… I think, staring down into the cup. Or the perfect trap. Maybe I'm already too deep in it to see the difference.
I let the quiet settle in again, the weight of everything I'm avoiding pressing down on my shoulders. The case, the clues, the feeling that it's all heading somewhere, but I can't tell if it's the right direction or a dead end.
I always believed the pen was mightier than the sword. As a journalist, my job was to uncover truths buried beneath piles of lies. But I never imagined the truths I'd uncover would put me face-to-face with a monster hiding in plain sight. My name is Damian Harker, and this is a story I never intended to write.
It started three months ago when the first body turned up. The victim was a disgraced businessman, known for embezzlement and corruption. His death looked like a clear suicide — gunshot to the head, a hastily scrawled note beside him. But something about the case didn't sit right with me. The note read:
"He has come. The reckoning begins."
I dismissed it as the ramblings of a broken man, until the second body appeared two weeks later. This time, it was a politician, infamous for his criminal connections. Same setup: a supposed suicide, a note left behind, the same chilling phrase. I arrived at my Home.
"He has come. The reckoning begins."
By the time the third body was found, the city was buzzing with rumors. A vigilante? A serial killer? The police seemed clueless, labeling each death a coincidence, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story. My instincts screamed that someone — or something — was orchestrating these deaths.
I spent sleepless nights poring over police reports, victim profiles, and crime scene photos. There were no fingerprints, no signs of struggle, no witnesses. It was as if the killer was a ghost. But one detail tied everything together — each victim was someone society despised, someone people whispered deserved their fate.
It was on a cold October night that I received the first real clue. My phone buzzed with an anonymous tip: "If you want answers, meet me at Pier 17 tonight at 11."
I arrived at Pier 17 fifteen minutes early, my breath misting in the cold night air. The place was deserted—just the occasional creak of rusted metal and the distant sound of waves crashing against the docks. Streetlights flickered, their glow barely cutting through the fog that had settled over the water like a ghostly shroud.
I pulled my coat tighter around me and scanned the area. No movement. No sign of anyone waiting. My fingers hovered over my phone, ready to call the number that had sent me the message, but something stopped me.
A shadow moved in the corner of my vision.
I turned sharply.
A figure stood near the edge of the dock, back turned to me, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat.
For a second, neither of us spoke. Then, in a calm, measured voice, he said, "You're either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Harker."
The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine.
"Who are you?" I asked.
The man turned slightly, just enough for me to see the faint outline of his face under the dim light. He had sharp features, an unnerving stillness to him.
"I'm just someone who appreciates your work," he said. "I am You've been following the deaths, haven't you? Looking for patterns. Searching for answers."
"You're the one who called me here?"
"Yes."
I took a step closer. "And what do you know?"
He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Not much. Just enough to know that you're asking the wrong questions."
I narrowed my eyes. "Then tell me. What are the right ones?"
Silence. Then, he slowly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed it onto the wooden dock between us.
"Everything you want to know is in there," he said. "But once you read it, you won't be able to turn back."
I hesitated before picking it up. The paper was old, creased. The handwriting was neat but slightly hurried, as if written in urgency.
"The reckoning begins."
I looked up—but the man was gone.
The dock was empty. No footsteps, no fading sound of movement. Just the eerie stillness of the night.
I glanced around, heart pounding. Had I imagined him?
No. The note in my hands was real. And whatever it meant, I had just stepped into something far more dangerous than I had anticipated.
**The Next Day***
Back in my apartment, I poured over the note.
It contained names—dozens of them. Politicians, businessmen, criminals. And dates. Dates that matched the murders. But the most disturbing part?
There were more names. More dates.
And the next one was tonight.
My chest tightened. If this list was real, then someone else was about to die.
I grabbed my coat, my notepad, my recorder. I had no idea what I was walking into. But I knew one thing—
I had to be there before it was too late.
**11:45 PM – The Next Crime Scene**
The location on the list led me to Mercer Heights, an upscale residential district. I parked my car a block away, taking in the eerie silence of the street. It was too quiet for a neighborhood like this. No distant sounds of televisions, no dogs barking—just an unsettling stillness that wrapped around the houses like a veil.
I checked my watch. Eleven forty-five.
The name from the list echoed in my mind: Robert Langford.
A prominent businessman. Known for fraud, money laundering. Recently acquitted. A man who had escaped justice—at least, in the eyes of the law.
But someone out there had decided to serve a different kind of justice.
I moved toward the house, keeping to the shadows. The property was surrounded by high metal gates, security cameras positioned at every angle. But something was wrong—
The front gate was slightly open.
I hesitated. Every instinct told me to call the police. But something deeper—curiosity, obsession, I don't know—forced my feet forward.
I slipped through the gate, keeping my movements slow, careful. The front door was ajar, swaying slightly as if caught in a draft.
Someone was already inside.
I took out my recorder, pressing 'record' as I whispered, "Harker, Mercer Heights. Unlocked door. Possible break-in."
My pulse pounded in my ears as I stepped inside.
Inside the House
The hallway was dark, except for a dim light coming from an adjacent room. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with something metallic—blood.
I crept forward, my breath shallow. The living room was in chaos—overturned furniture, shattered glass. A struggle had taken place here.
And then, I saw him.
Robert Langford.
He was seated in an armchair, eyes open but lifeless, a deep gash across his throat. Blood had soaked into the carpet beneath him. But what struck me the most—
A piece of paper clenched in his hand.
Just like the others.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move closer. My fingers trembled as I pulled the note from his hand and unfolded it.
"He has come. He watches. He knows."
I exhaled sharply. The same words.
But before I could process it, a whisper cut through the silence.
"You're too late, Mr. Harker."
I froze.
The voice was calm, almost amused.
I turned slowly, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
There, standing in the doorway, half-hidden by the shadows—
Him.
The killer.
The man I had been chasing.
He stood with unsettling stillness, his face obscured by the darkness.
"You're getting close," he said, his voice smooth, measured. "But you're still missing something."
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
"Tell me, Mr. Harker," he continued, taking a slow step forward. "Why do you think they keep leaving messages? Why do you think they know what's coming?"
I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "You tell me."
A pause. Then, a chuckle.
"Because fear is a powerful thing."
In one swift motion, he pulled something from his pocket and tossed it toward me. I flinched, expecting a weapon—
But it was another folded piece of paper.
"See you soon, Mr. Harker."
And before I could react, the lights cut out.
The room plunged into total darkness.
I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking, trying to turn on the flashlight—
The door slammed shut.
By the time I got the light on—
He was gone.
Aftermath
The police arrived twenty minutes later. I gave my statement, keeping some details to myself. I didn't tell them about the conversation. I didn't tell them about the note.
Because something about this was bigger than just a killer.
When I got home, I finally unfolded the paper he had thrown at me.
My stomach twisted.
It was a list of names.
And at the very bottom—
My name.
The List
My fingers trembled as I stared at the crumpled piece of paper.
Names.
A dozen of them, all written in the same precise, almost mechanical handwriting. Some were already crossed out. Victims. People who had turned up dead in the past few months.
And at the very bottom—
Damian Harker.
My name.
I swallowed, my throat dry.
This wasn't just a story anymore. I wasn't just a journalist investigating a string of murders.
I was next.
3:12 AM – My Apartment
I sat at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen casting long shadows across the room. Every instinct told me to call the police, tell them everything.
But I knew how this worked.
I had spent years reporting on crime, watching how law enforcement handled cases like this.
The police would take the list. They'd question me. They'd put me under surveillance, maybe assign me protection.
And then, they'd wait.
Wait for the killer to make another move.
Wait for another body to turn up.
That wasn't an option.
I reached for my recorder and hit 'play,' listening to the recording from earlier at Langford's house. The killer's voice came through the speaker, calm and deliberate.
"Because fear is a powerful thing."
I rewound. Played it again.
"See you soon, Mr. Harker."
I exhaled slowly. He wasn't just toying with me. He wanted me to know something.
I looked back at the list.
One name above mine wasn't crossed out.
Jonathan Reeves.
The Last Name Before Me
Jonathan Reeves was a retired judge. A controversial one. Known for lenient sentences on high-profile criminals, letting dangerous people walk free due to technicalities.
If the killer was targeting people he saw as corrupt, Reeves was an obvious choice.
I pulled up his address. A large, isolated property on the outskirts of the city.
I hesitated. This was reckless.
But if I didn't act now, Reeves would be dead by morning.
I grabbed my coat and car keys.
**4:45 AM – Reeves' Residence **
The mansion loomed ahead, its gothic architecture silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky. The driveway was empty. No signs of movement inside.
I parked a short distance away and approached cautiously.
Something felt off.
The front door was open.
I stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. The house was dark except for a faint glow coming from upstairs.
I moved toward the staircase, my heartbeat steady but tense.
Halfway up, I heard it.
A whisper.
Low. Muted.
Then—a soft chuckle.
I gritted my teeth and pressed forward.
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched into darkness. The glow was coming from the last room at the end.
I reached for my phone, turned on the flashlight, and stepped forward.
Then—
The door creaked open by itself.
I raised the light.
Inside, Judge Reeves sat motionless in a leather chair, facing away from the door. The dim lamp on his desk flickered slightly.
My stomach twisted.
I stepped closer. "Judge Reeves?"
No response.
I walked around the desk, my breath catching in my throat.
He was dead.
A single bullet wound to the head. Blood dripping onto a stack of legal documents.
But something else made my skin crawl.
There was another chair in the room. Right across from Reeves.
Someone had been sitting there. Watching him.
Waiting.
And on the desk, between the two chairs—
A voice recorder.
Still recording.
I reached for it, my hands unsteady, and hit 'play.'
A faint static. Then—
"You're persistent, Mr. Harker."
I froze.
"I was wondering when you'd get here."
Then, from the shadows—
A quiet footstep.
Behind me.
A Step Too Late
The footstep was quiet, deliberate. A presence I could feel more than see.
I gripped the recorder tighter, pulse hammering in my ears.
"You're persistent, Mr. Harker."
The voice from the recording echoed in my mind. He had known I would come here. Had he been waiting?
I turned around fast, aiming my phone's flashlight into the darkness.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty.
But my gut told me otherwise.
Someone was still here.
I slowly stepped back toward the door, scanning the shadows. The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
Then—
A sharp click.
A sound I recognized immediately.
A gun being cocked.
I barely had time to react before a voice spoke from the darkness.
"You journalists... always chasing the truth."
I went still.
The voice was smooth, measured. Not rushed, not nervous.
Confident.
He was toying with me.
I raised my hands slightly. "You knew I'd come."
A soft chuckle. "Of course."
I strained my eyes, searching for any movement. "You waited here. For me. Why?"
Silence. Then—
"To see if you're worthy."
My stomach twisted. "Worthy of what?"
He didn't answer.
I had two options—stall for time or make a move.
I chose both.
I let my breath hitch, feigning nervousness. "You're killing people who deserve it, right? Corrupt politicians, criminals… and now a retired judge. What makes me the next name on your list?"
A pause.
Then—
"Because you're getting too close."
I didn't wait.
I lunged sideways, diving toward the desk, knocking the lamp over as I moved.
A gunshot rang out. Loud.
Wood splintered behind me.
I hit the ground hard, rolling behind the desk, gasping for breath. My hands scrambled across the desk's surface until they found something—
A letter opener.
Better than nothing.
Footsteps. Slow, measured.
He wasn't running. He wasn't afraid.
I clenched the letter opener, steadying my breath.
The footsteps stopped just around the desk.
Then—
"You're clever, Harker. But not clever enough."
I had half a second to react before something slammed into the side of my head.
Pain. White-hot, searing. My vision blurred.
The room spun.
I hit the floor.
The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me—
A figure standing over me.
Tall. Shadowed.
Watching.
Waiting.
** 7:06 AM – Unknown Location **
Pain.
A dull, throbbing ache in my skull.
I groaned, forcing my eyes open.
Darkness. A concrete floor. A dim light flickering overhead.
I tried to move—my wrists were bound.
Panic shot through me. I struggled, testing the restraints. Tight.
Then I heard it.
Breathing.
Someone else was in the room.
A shadow moved just beyond the flickering light.
"Morning, Harker."
The voice was calm. Familiar.
I blinked hard, forcing my vision to clear.
The man stepped forward, finally into the light.
And for the first time, I saw him.
The man behind the murders.
The one who put my name on that list.
He smiled.
"Let's talk."
Face to Face with the Devil
"Let's talk."
His voice was almost casual, as if we were two old friends meeting for a drink.
I wasn't in the mood.
My wrists burned from the tight restraints. My head throbbed where he had struck me. The dim light buzzed above, flickering just enough to cast shifting shadows across his face.
For the first time, I could see him.
He was younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Clean-cut, well-dressed, with sharp, intelligent eyes that studied me like I was an unfinished puzzle.
And the worst part?
He looked... normal.
If I passed him on the street, I wouldn't have given him a second glance.
"Comfortable?" he asked, leaning against a metal table.
I exhaled, keeping my voice steady. "Should I be?"
He chuckled. "Fair point."
I glanced around. The room was small, concrete walls, no windows. A basement? A warehouse? I couldn't tell.
There was only one door. And him.
"Where am I?" I asked.
He tilted his head. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we won't be interrupted."
I forced a smirk. "You know, people usually take journalists out for coffee when they want to talk."
He actually laughed at that. "You're funny, Harker. I like that."
I didn't.
I shifted slightly, testing the restraints again. Too tight. No give.
He noticed. "Don't bother." He tapped the metal cuffs around my wrists. "I know how you think. You're already planning how to get out of here. But let's not rush things."
I narrowed my eyes. "If you wanted me dead, I'd already be in a ditch somewhere. So what do you want?"
He smiled. "I want you to listen."
I stayed silent.
"Do you know why I do what I do?" he asked.
I already knew the answer. "Because you think you're some kind of savior. A necessary evil, killing those who deserve it."
His expression didn't change. "Close. But not quite."
He stepped closer.
"Tell me, Harker... when was the last time you saw justice actually work?"
I didn't answer.
"You report the news. You expose corruption. You dig up the dirt on these people. And what happens? They walk free. Every single time."
I clenched my jaw. "That doesn't make you a hero. That makes you a murderer."
His smile faded slightly. "Hero? No. I'm something else entirely. Something this world needs."
I swallowed the growing lump in my throat. "And what's that?"
He leaned in.
"A reckoning."
Silence.
I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Then—
A knock.
I jumped slightly, startled.
He didn't move.
"It seems we're out of time."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
He sighed, almost disappointed. "You should've listened more carefully, Harker. I wasn't just talking about justice."
He reached into his pocket. I tensed, expecting a weapon—
Instead, he pulled out a small voice recorder.
He clicked a button, and a distorted voice played:
"By the time you find this, the reckoning will have already begun."
The blood drained from my face.
I knew that voice.
It was mine.
I looked up at him, stunned. "What the hell is this?"
He smirked.
"A parting gift."
Then—
The door burst open.
Gunshots.
The room exploded into chaos.
A Reckoning Unfolds
Gunfire erupted.
The room exploded into chaos—flashes of light, the deafening crack of bullets. I hit the floor, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.
I barely saw him move.
The villain—Elias Vance—dropped behind the metal table, untouched, as if he had already predicted this. The masked gunmen weren't his men. They were the police.
Someone grabbed me, yanking me toward the ground. An officer. "Stay down!" he barked, gun aimed at the shadow where Vance had hidden.
I could hear laughter.
Low. Controlled. Unbothered.
Then, his voice cut through the gunfire.
"I already called them myself, officer."
Everything stopped.
The gunfire halted. The tension in the air thickened. The officers, now visibly confused, hesitated.
I lifted my head, breathless, staring at Vance.
He stepped forward, his hands raised in mock surrender. His expression? Calm. Too calm.
"This has been fun," he said, *"but I believe we're done here."
He reached into his coat pocket—slowly, deliberately—pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen from the desk. He wrote something.
Then, he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
"We will meet again, Mr. Harker."
The sirens outside grew louder.
He turned, walking toward the balcony door.
I scrambled to my feet, my instincts screaming at me to stop him. He was escaping.
"Where are you going?" I demanded.
Vance simply smirked. He pulled something from his coat—a gun.
But he didn't aim it at me.
He backed toward the balcony's edge. The police burst through the door.
The officers shouted—"Drop the weapon!"
Vance turned his gaze to me.
"Goodbye, Mr. Harker."
And then—
He jumped.
I rushed forward, heart hammering. The moment I looked over the edge—
A single gunshot echoed in the night.
I flinched. Vance's body lay sprawled on the pavement below.
The police stormed past me. Sirens wailed. I stepped back, my hands trembling.
It was over.
Or so I thought.
The Next Day
Morning came with an eerie silence.
The weight of last night's events hadn't left me. My apartment felt suffocating, but I didn't dare leave.
Then, the newspaper arrived.
I picked it up from my doorstep, half-expecting a headline about Vance's death. Instead—
I froze.
The front page was worse than I imagined.
"A RECKONING INTERRUPTED?"
Serial Vigilante Dies After Mysterious Fall—But Police Uncover Startling Truth.
I kept reading, my fingers tightening on the paper.
"Authorities confirm that the suspect, Elias Vance, had already contacted law enforcement before his fall. Upon investigating his phone records, they discovered he had hired a sniper—who has since been arrested—to ensure his death upon hitting the ground. The weapon in his hand was unfired. The bullet that ended his life did not come from his own gun."
My chest tightened. He planned it.
I continued reading—
"Additionally, police recovered a handwritten note from the suspect's coat. The message was short but chilling."
I swallowed hard, scanning the text below—
"I WILL BE BORN AGAIN."
The paper slipped from my hands.
A deep, cold dread settled in my gut.
Vance wasn't just playing a game.
He had already planned his next move.
And somewhere, somehow—
He was still out there..No he died...As it's he is Physco Killer.
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