The room was dimly lit, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat between you and Jochim, the surgeon you’d known for years - a steady presence in your chaotic life as a detective. The two of you had spent the evening as you often did, sharing a few drinks.

You leaned back into the couch, rubbing your temples. "It's maddening, Jochim. Another body last night. Same MO. Same absolute lack of usable evidence. The guy’s a ghost."

Jochim, sat beside you, calm as ever. He tilted his head, an amused glint in his blue eyes as he watched you vent.

“Hmm. Sounds like quite the puzzle," he said evenly, his voice calm as always.

You sighed. "It’s not just that. This last one—" You hesitated, remembering the classified details swirling in your mind. "Let’s just say, the bastard’s getting more creative. It’s like he enjoys making a statement."

Jochim turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as if he wanted to smile. “Creative... how?"

You shook your head. “I can’t say much. You know how it is."

But then Jochim spoke, the words rolling off his tongue too casually. "What, like the dislocated joints?”

For a moment, everything froze. Your breath caught in your chest as the words hung in the air.

Your voice came out slow, almost unsure. "How do you know that?"

Jochim froze, the easygoing air about him vanishing in an instant. Slowly he set the glass down on the table. He didn’t meet your eyes at first, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, his entire body unnaturally still. Then, he turned to you.

It was subtle at first, a flicker of something in his eyes, a tightening at the corner of his mouth. But then, as the seconds dragged on, his lips curled upward in a smile. Not the kind you’d seen before, but something cold, calculated. A smile that spread too slowly, revealing too much of his teeth.

“…Oh," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a chilling amusement. You didn’t mention that to me, did you?"