Ryan adjusted his gloves as he crouched beside the body, the neon glow of the club’s dance floor flickering through the open door. The victim—early twenties, dressed to impress—lay lifeless on the slick pavement of the alley, a deep gash at the base of his skull.

“Single blow,” Ryan muttered, inspecting the wound. “No signs of a struggle.”

Frank Tripp exhaled sharply, arms crossed. “Witnesses say the guy walked out of the club alone. Two minutes later—bam. No one saw who did it.”

Ryan’s brow furrowed as he scanned the alley. There was something off. The position of the body, the lack of drag marks… He turned to the nearest security camera, mounted just above a rusted dumpster. The red recording light flickered.

“Maybe no one saw,” Ryan said, standing, “but I bet that camera did.”

Back at the lab, Ryan loaded the footage. As the grainy video played, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. The victim staggered into the alley, phone in hand—then suddenly went rigid, as if hit with a stun gun. A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, dragging him down in one swift move.

Ryan rewound the clip, pausing at a faint reflection in a puddle. A glimpse of a distinctive wristwatch.

“That’s no random attack,”

Ryan murmured.

“This was personal.”