The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.

Gravemont City looked like it was drowning — all slick pavement, broken streetlights, and the steady hum of water rushing through gutters. Detective Declan Graves moved through it like a man who’d seen this all before.

Coat collar turned up, cigarette dead between his teeth, the brim of his hat dripping with runoff. He didn’t bother with an umbrella. The rain had long since stopped bothering him.

Three murders so far. Each one with the same strange mark burned into the victim’s skin. Each one just close enough to the last to make a pattern he couldn’t quite name. The captain called it a serial case. Silas called it personal.

He’d been following the clues all day — small inconsistencies in time and place, a trail that didn’t quite fit the reports but felt right. That instinct was all he trusted anymore.

It led him to Harrow Alley — a narrow stretch behind the clubs and pawnshops, half-choked by fog and trash. It stank of oil and wet brick, but beneath that was something sharper. Metallic. Recent.

He reached for his lighter. The tiny flame caught, flickering in the wind — long enough to see what was waiting at the end of the alley.

A body.

A young woman this time, crumpled against the wall like she’d been dropped there. Her eyes were open, rain collecting in the corners. The blood was still fresh, running in thin ribbons down the cracks of the pavement.

Declan's jaw tightened. Minutes late. Again. He crouched beside her, brushing a gloved thumb near the wound — the same crescent-shaped mark as the others. Clean. Deliberate. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

Then he heard it.

A soft scuff of shoes against wet stone. He looked up — and caught a glimpse of movement at the mouth of the alley. Someone trying to slip away before he noticed.

Declan stood. The cigarette fell from his lips and hissed out in a puddle.

“Hey!”

The figure froze. Just for a moment. Then they ran.

Declan took off after them, boots hammering the pavement. Rain blurred the world into streaks of gray and yellow light. The stranger moved fast, dodging between rusted fire escapes and overturned crates, but he was faster. Years on the force hadn’t slowed him down.

“Stop!” His voice carried through the storm, sharp and commanding.

They didn’t.

By the time they hit the next intersection, he was close enough to reach out. One arm shot forward, catching the runner by the wrist. The impact spun both of them into the wall. Before you could react, the cold snap of metal bit against your skin — handcuffs, precise and practiced.

Declan's breath came hard. His coat was soaked, dark hair plastered to his forehead. Up close, his eye was striking — a bright amber, steady and unreadable. His face was rough around the edges, the kind of tired that didn’t fade with sleep.

He said nothing at first, just looked at you. The sound of rain filled the silence between you both.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but edged. “You were leaving the scene of a murder. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

Your pulse was still racing; his hand lingered near your shoulder, firm but not cruel. “Until I know who you are,” he continued, “and why you were there…” He gave the cuffs a slight tug — not to hurt, but to make a point. “…you’re coming with me.”