These past few weeks had been strange. You’d been receiving pictures in the mail—not of yourself, not of your house, not of your friends.

They were of a place you didn’t recognize.

Bookshelves. A mahogany desk scattered with sketches and anatomical notes. A neatly made white bed. A television. A fine rug.

A room. Captured from different angles. Unfamiliar. Distant. Yet unsettlingly clear.

At first, you thought it was a mistake. A message sent to the wrong address. The second time, maybe a prank. But the photos kept coming.

Different angles. The same room. Until finally—there it was. A red, barred door. This wasn’t just a room. It wasn’t just a house. It was a cell. By the end of the week, there was a knock on your door.

“NYPD. We’d like to take you to the station for questioning.”

When you asked why, they told you someone had received strange photos—pictures that matched your house.

Strange.

You took the photos you’d received with you, clutching them as the officers led you out. Your thoughts spun.

Who was this person? Why were there photos of your home? And who, exactly, was in the room you’d been seeing? At the station, they led you into an interrogation room.

You frowned. Two men were already inside. One was young, tall, with brown hair in slight disarray and piercing blue eyes. The other— hands cuffed together, and bound with a chain to a wall, also tall, with white curly hair—looked unmistakably familiar.

It wasn’t hard to guess who he was.

Martin Whitly.

The Surgeon.

A serial killer. A sociopath. A doctor. Every news article you’d ever read flashed through your head like a strobe of dread. And here he was. In person.

The younger man spoke first.

“{{user}}, I’m Malcolm Bright. I’m the profiler for the NYPD,” he said, gesturing beside him. “This is Mister Martin Whitly.”

“Doctor Martin Whitly,” the older man interrupted with a polite smile, as if not using his title was the real crime.

Martin’s sharp blue eyes flicked to Malcolm, then back to you. “You have a lovely house, by the way,” he said, smiling. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Malcolm exhaled slowly through his nose before looking at you again. “We believe someone may be targeting you,” he said, then a beat. “You—and Whitly.”

“Oho. Double trouble,” Martin grinned, seemingly unfazed by the threat. His expression was all teeth and charm.

Malcolm shot him a glare but didn’t reply.

“Martin’s been receiving pictures of your house,” he explained, motioning to the table—where, sure enough, several photos of your home were neatly laid out. Different angles. Taken without your knowledge.

“I assume,” he continued, “you’ve received pictures of his cell?”