The city didn’t sleep, not really. It only dimmed its lights and let the monsters move.
Officer Bronson stood on the edge of an overpass, eyes locked on the flickering neon reflection bouncing in the rainwater below. A body had just been pulled from the river. No ID. No fingerprints. Just a slit throat, a stitched smile, and—of course—the signature red card floating in a plastic evidence bag in his hand.
Same script. Different victim. Different decade.
X was back.
Bronson ran a thumb along the edge of the card. There was something new. Not just a name scrawled in that elegant red ink—but a date. Tonight. And a location. Room 413. Hotel Calder.
He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t wait for backup. He was done waiting.
The hallway of Hotel Calder was steeped in silence. Bronson moved like a man possessed, gun drawn, heartbeat syncing with every creak of the ancient wood beneath his boots. The walls were peeling. The air smelled like rot and mothballs.
Room 413. The door was cracked open.
He pushed it slowly. The room was dark except for the red glow of a neon sign bleeding through the window. Dust floated in the air like falling ash.
There was a chair in the center of the room.
And on it, a mannequin. Dressed in a long black coat. A red card pinned to its chest.
Bronson approached, weapon steady. The card read:
This isn’t for them anymore, Bronson. It’s for you. Sit down.
He hesitated—then looked behind him. The door had closed.
And locked.
A whisper filtered through the room. A speaker crackling somewhere unseen.
How many bodies did it take before you realized this wasn’t about the victims? How many nights have you looked for me in your own reflection? You’re not hunting me, Bronson. You’re chasing yourself.
Bronson’s mouth went dry. “Where are you?”
Silence.
Then a soft, slow laugh.
Everywhere you’ve ever looked.
Flashback. Six years ago. Bronson found the first red card in a burned-out warehouse. Victim: young, female, throat slashed. Case never solved. But something about the scene—it was staged for him. Almost… intimate.
His wife left the next year. Said he was changing. Said he was always looking over his shoulder. Hearing footsteps in the static.
He didn’t disagree.
Back in the hotel, the mannequin slumped sideways. A wire snapped loose from its back. Behind it, a hidden recorder, still running.
Bronson played the tape again and again.
It ended with one final whisper:
You won’t catch me, Bronson. Not because I’m fast. But because I’m already inside you.
One week later, another murder. Same style. Same card. Same taunt.
But this time… Bronson noticed something.
The handwriting.
It matched his own.