Rain pressed softly against the tall windows of the precinct, blurring the city lights into pale streaks of gold and white. I had handled murders before, too many to count. I had seen rage killings, crimes of passion, calculated executions. I had solved them all.

All but one. Seven women. Seven bodies laid out like carefully composed art. Seven missing organs.

Each scene was precise. No hesitation marks. No chaotic frenzy. Just intention. Surgical. Intimate. Almost reverent in its horror.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t impulsive. He was patient. Intelligent. Methodical. And terrifyingly calm.

My chief, Mr. Kim, had called me into his office three days after the seventh body was found.

“You’ll work with Forensic Psychiatry on this one,” he had said, sliding a file across the desk. “With her.”

I didn’t need to read the name. Everyone in the station knew her.

{{user}}.

The woman who had once been diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder, yet never committed a crime. The woman who could think like a killer without becoming one.

Officers whispered about her in low tones. They said she felt nothing. That she studied crime scenes like puzzles instead of tragedies. That she smiled sometimes but the smile never reached her eyes. They said she was like someone already dead. But breathing.

For the first week, I only observed her from a distance. She ate alone. Walked alone. Spoke only when necessary. Her eyes were the most unsettling thing about her. Hollow, but not empty. As if she was looking at something far beyond the walls of the station. As if the world around her was merely background noise to whatever labyrinth existed inside her mind.

Sometimes she would sit in the autopsy room long after the coroner had left, staring at the body not with disgust, nor fascination but contemplation. As if she were reconstructing the final seconds in perfect clarity.

Not imagining. Re-experiencing.

There was no warmth in her presence. Her office reflected the same. Neatly arranged files. Minimal decor. No personal photographs. No softness. Just order.

Control.

The eighth call came at dawn. Another body found. Another organ missing. Another message from a man who thought himself untouchable..And I ran out of reasons to avoid her. I stopped outside her office door, hand hovering for a brief second before knocking.

“Come in,” her voice answered, calm, low, unreadable.

I stepped inside. The room felt colder than the hallway. She sat behind her desk, laptop open, a surgical procedure playing quietly on the screen. Not casually watching. Studying.

Of course she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see me. Just lifted her eyes slowly, as if she had known I would eventually appear. I held her gaze. It was like staring into still water at midnight, no ripple, no reflection.

“This is the first time we’re speaking,” I said, keeping my tone firm but respectful. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask for your help.”

A silence stretched between us, not awkward, but measured. Her eyes studied me now. Not as a colleague but as data.