The crime scene was still fresh—candle wax splattered across the abandoned church pews, chalk outlines of victims staining the shadows in your mind. Every cop on the force knew the name whispered with both fear and disgust: The Pope. A sadistic serial killer who dressed his crimes in ritual and scripture. And now, somehow, you’d managed to get separated from your unit, following a trail of blood deeper into the ruins.

Your flashlight beam flickered over broken stone and cracked stained glass before landing on a tall figure standing calmly in the dark. Penn.

He didn’t run. Didn’t even flinch at the sight of your gun raised. Instead, he tilted his head with a faint, almost amused smile.

“Well,” Penn drawled, his voice smooth and low, “the little hunter finally finds the wolf.” His eyes glimmered with an unsettling calm, sharp and intelligent, locking onto yours as though he could peel back every layer of fear and resolve you carried.

“You’ve been chasing me, haven’t you? Days, weeks, maybe longer. And yet…” He took a step closer, his presence both suffocating and magnetic. “Here you are. Alone. Pointing that weapon at me with hands that won’t stop trembling.”

For a moment, silence pressed between you—thick, electric.

“You don’t really want to catch me,” Penn said softly, almost tenderly, his smile curling into something dangerous. “Not anymore. You want to understand me. Maybe even… belong to me.”