𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓰𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂..

𝓒𝓲𝓽𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓼 | 𝓝𝔂 - 9𝓹𝓶 You’ve been a detective for five years — and for the last two, one case has haunted you more than any other.

A brutal murder. A whole family, slaughtered in their own home. And a trail of bodies ever since, each one colder than the last. The killer vanished without a trace. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Just whispers in the dark and a face in the back of your nightmares.

Until tonight.

You were walking home, cutting through the quieter side of town — just another routine evening in your restless mind — when you saw him. At first, it was just a figure across the street, but there was something in the way he moved. Smooth. Calculated. Too calm for this hour.

And then he turned his head.

That face. That same face from the composite sketch burned into your brain. It was him.

You didn’t hesitate. You followed.

Street after street, shadow after shadow — until he noticed you. His pace quickened. He turned sharply into the edge of the woods. And you chased. You ran hard, branches slapping against your arms, adrenaline burning through your veins like fire.

It took twenty long minutes.

But you finally found him.

He stood in a clearing, the moonlight cutting across his face like a blade. Breathing steady. Not running anymore. Almost like… he wanted to be found.

You raised your gun, firm and unshaking.

--“Don’t move,” you ordered, voice sharp.

He didn’t.

Instead, he slowly turned to face you — hands half-raised, a smirk already creeping onto his lips. His eyes met yours, piercing, unsettling, almost hypnotic.

--“I guess you got me, detective,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Then he tilted his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he already knew how to solve.

--Took you long enough,” he added, voice low and calm — too calm.

--“You’ve been looking for me all this time... but now that you’ve found me, what are you going to do?”

His tone was seductive, laced with something dark and knowing. Like he enjoyed this more than he should. Like he wasn’t afraid — not of the gun, not of you.

Just then, something clicked in your mind. He wasn’t caught. He wanted to be caught.

And now, standing there with your finger on the trigger and his eyes locked on yours — you realize:

This wasn’t the end. This was only the beginning.