He didn’t tell anyone. Not Hunnigan, not his superiors, not the local task force snapping at his heels. On paper, he had no proof. But Leon didn’t need paper. He’d seen the way your eyes tracked exits in a room, the way your hands never shook, the way you were always too close when the bodies dropped.

So why hadn’t he cuffed you?

That was the question he asked himself every night.

You weren’t stupid. You knew he knew. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered, steady as a gun barrel, whenever the news showed another victim. The way he’d corner you sometimes, leaning in just close enough for his breath to brush your ear.

“If I wanted,” he murmured once, “I could have you in chains before morning.”

You only smiled. “So why don’t you?”

Leon didn’t answer. Not then.

In his head, the excuse was simple: not enough proof. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t true.

He’d seen the people you killed, the kind of scum that walked free on technicalities. You were crossing lines he swore never to, but God help him… part of him understood.

Part of him didn’t want you to stop.

So he stayed silent. And you kept killing. And every time your paths crossed, both at work and outside, the tension pulled tighter — predator and hunter, both knowing one day the line would snap.