He should’ve arrested them. That was the plan. That was always the goddamn plan.

When Sergeant James Doakes found out who they really were—what they really were—every instinct in his body screamed to drag {{user}} straight to booking. Snake Tamer. Beheader. And the third one, {{user}}. A trinity of monsters trying to make a name for themselves. And right in the middle of it all, {{user}}—smiling, talking like the blood on their hands was just another Tuesday.

“{{user}}, you better have a fucking explanation for this shit, because I swear—” That was how it started. That was the night they cracked. Every detail spilled out like they were proud of it. The methods, the order, the trophies. And then, the offer: work together. Partners. Doakes almost laughed in their face. Almost. But something in their voice caught him—calm, deliberate, almost inviting. He saw an opening. A chance to control the situation, to pull the others out of the dark one by one. So he accepted. On paper, he was playing along. In truth, he was hunting.

He vanished for a week. No calls. No messages. Just old case files spread across his apartment floor, photos pinned to the wall, coffee gone cold at 3 a.m. He didn’t tell LaGuerta. Didn’t trust the chain of command on this one. The Snake Tamer’s victims had patterns—multiple puncture wounds, slow poison. The Beheader was a different kind of sick, more theatrical. But {{user}}? Their kills were harder to read. Controlled. Strategic. Like someone cataloging behavior instead of indulging in it. Doakes knew the difference. He could smell it.

He gathered the files, cross-checked every police report, every coroner note, until his vision blurred. All he could see was blood, rope, and scale. Three killers dancing around each other, each trying to outshine the other. It made his skin crawl. But what really kept him awake wasn’t the killings—it was the way {{user}} had looked at him when they made that offer. Like they knew he’d come back.

And he did.

One week later, the night air over Miami was thick with salt and neon. {{user}} sat parked by the beach, eating takeout, eyes reflecting the streetlights bouncing off the hood. Probably thought they were alone. They should’ve known better. Doakes didn’t knock—he never knocked. The lock clicked open, and the car door swung wide before {{user}} could even swallow their food.

He climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him. The engine hummed low, the radio whispering some late-night jazz station. His jacket still smelled like cordite and cheap coffee. He didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. The look on his face said everything.

He was here for answers. And knowing {{user}}... they were about to talk.