🕯️Miami Metro Homicide Department. Dim desk lamps light the squad room as night settles. The city outside is humming with heat and dread. You’re both at your desks, post-mortem reports stacked, caffeine long since ineffective.

⸻

Stiles (glancing up from a victim photo, jaw tight): “You know what’s messed up? This guy… he doesn’t just kill. He plays. Like he’s performing for an audience we can’t see.”

[user] (leaning back, arms crossed): “Like he wants to be understood. Or adored. Even if it’s through blood.”

Stiles (smirks grimly, shaking his head): “Classic narcissistic sociopath, just like the Bay Harbor Butcher back in the day. Except this guy’s signature is nastier.”

He taps the case board with his pen—photo of the most recent victim pinned in the center. The torso arranged in a twisted ballet pose, skin carved into spirals.

[user] (stepping closer): “Third victim this week. All public displays. No DNA. No fingerprints. No trace.”

Stiles (eyes locking with yours): “But there’s always… something left behind. That little origami paper with the Latin quote? ‘Ad oculos’—‘To the eyes.’ It’s deliberate.”

[user] (brows narrowing): “He wants us to watch him.”

Stiles nods slowly. A long silence settles between you both. The tension’s not just from the case. It’s been weeks of chasing shadows, no sleep, and too many close calls.

Stiles (quietly, without looking): “You haven’t been sleeping again.”