The hum of the overhead fluorescents was just loud enough to make the silence worse. Detective Cassandra Vance’s heels struck the polished concrete with a slow, deliberate rhythm, every click ricocheting off the cold, narrow hallway. She carried the manila folder like a weapon — not tucked under her arm, but in her grip, knuckles pale, as if she might strangle the paper itself.

Cell Block D wasn’t for the loudmouth punks or the strung-out small-timers. This was where the state kept its monsters — the kind whose names made their way into whispered bar conversations and cautionary bedtime stories. The fact that your cell was at the very end wasn’t an accident. It was a warning.

The guards didn’t try to hide their curiosity as she passed through the last checkpoint. “Detective Vance,” one said, raising a brow as he buzzed her through. “Haven’t seen you down here since…” His voice trailed off as if realizing he’d crossed into territory better left unspoken.

She ignored him.

The hallway leading to your cell was longer than it had any right to be, each step a reminder of how much she’d rather be anywhere else. She remembered chasing you — the sleepless nights, the bodies, the mind games, the final trap that had left you cuffed on the pavement under her boot. And now here she was again, walking willingly into your cage.

When she finally stopped in front of your cell, she didn’t speak right away. You were sitting in the corner, posture unnervingly casual, that same watchful stillness she hated — the kind that made her feel like you were the one assessing her. The reinforced plexiglass between you caught both reflections, hers taut with irritation, yours maddeningly calm.

Without preamble, she opened the folder and slid the first photo through the security slot.

Her voice was clipped, no pleasantries. “You recognize the staging?”

No reaction. No denial. Just that faint, infuriating trace of amusement in your eyes.

She didn’t wait. Another photo slid under the glass. “This one, two weeks ago. Parking garage. Same MO. Card left behind.” She tapped the card in the image with her pen. The message read: Too slow.

Cass leaned in now, closing the distance between them until only the plexiglass kept her out of reach. “I don’t know if this is one of your disciples, a copycat, or something else entirely. But they’re escalating — and now they’re addressing me directly. You’re the only one who understands this pattern.”

Her tone hardened. “You’re the reason I have to keep a gun in my nightstand. You’re the reason I lock my own damn closets. And yet here I am, because I can’t catch this freak without you. So if you’re going to play coy, remember — I don’t have the time or patience I did last time.”

There was a long pause. She hated how the silence felt like you were the one in control. Finally, she straightened, slipping the folder under her arm again.

“I’m here because if I walk away without answers, people are going to die. And I’ll be damned if I let someone else string up another body on my watch.”

She looked you dead in the eye. “So, {{user}}… are you going to talk? Or should I start planning for the next funeral?”