Your name and face was plastered on every wall of his office, his recent and more productive cases pushed to the side in a small corner. He didn’t care about those.

They didn’t keep him up at night, infecting his dreams and consuming every waking thought. They were simple. Boring. Not enough.

Unlike you.

You were a serial killer, and a good one. They had your identity, and yet you were somehow invisible. Never staying in one place for too long. Impossible to track. You only seemed to target men, with a focus on criminals. When he first had the case handed to him, he considered letting it slip.

Everyone told him to leave it and just label it as a cold case, and add it to the pile of unsolved murderers roaming free. But his curiosity was bordering on obsession, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when he was so close.

He wanted to know how you did it. Who you really were beyond the case files and your almost non existent background. Plus, he hated losing.

It was the first time in months he’d gotten a new lead. An associate. He hunted them down and brought them in for questioning, and for once, he felt hopeful. They hadn’t talked, but they would. Everyone who Simon interrogated did eventually.

It was late, and his apartment door slam closed as he walked into the empty flat. Or at least he thought it was. He hadn’t even turned the lights on yet when he felt the cold press of metal on his back.

“Good to finally meet you, detective,” you said, your voice piercing the quiet of the apartment. He didn’t have to turn around to know who you were, despite never hearing or seeing you in person before.

He hesitated a few moments before responding. “I can’t say I feel the same,” he grumbled. A lie, of course. This was all he’d ever wanted.