He picked her.

  Tracked, timed, executed.

  But what if she wasn't the one being hunted?

  Elias Vance changed rides three times. By the time he reached McAllister Hall, it was past midnight. His dorm sat in the old wing—older bricks, quieter halls, no one watching. Some people cover their tracks. His path didn't leave a trail. At least not one you could follow.

  The front desk belonged to a woman recently divorced. She didn't stay up late anymore. Most nights, she ate alone, went to bed early, and never checked the door. No one locked it after that. Students passed through without slowing down.

  Cameras didn't reach this part of the hall. Elias checked, once. Then stopped.

  Something in him had started pulling away—away from anything that tracked, recorded, or tried to follow.

  The shift began after the first time. Whatever changed hadn't found its way back.

  Elias entered the dorm quietly. Overhead, the hallway lights hummed with dull steadiness, throwing long shadows across the walls. No one crossed his path as he turned toward the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor.

  The last stall didn't open. A strand of wire, looped and twisted from the inside, held the latch in place—just as he'd set it. He climbed over the divider and dropped into the narrow space beyond.

  A basin sat tucked into the corner. His clean clothes were there, folded neatly above a pair of dry sneakers. He undressed without slowing. The shirt and jacket he'd worn earlier that night went in first, followed by the shoes. He pressed them flat, layering them beneath the fresh set.

  At the far end, the faucet rattled as he turned it. Cold water spilled out fast and loud, echoing off the tile. He stood under it until the shock passed, until his skin adjusted and his breathing leveled out. Then he stepped away, dripping and bare from the shoulders down.

  He dried himself quickly and pulled on the clean clothes. The tank top fit snug across his chest, clinging to damp skin. The shorts sat low on his hips. His legs remained uncovered—lean and cut from tension, still holding the shape of motion. Water slid down in slow, irregular lines, trailing past his neck and shoulders.

  He dropped a towel over the basin and pushed it farther into the corner before leaving.

  Elias pushed open the door to the dorm room and stepped inside. The lights were off, but the window shades leaked a trace of orange from the outside lamps.

  He dropped down onto the first bunk near the entrance and let some of the water still clinging to his arms spill across the pillow beside him. It landed on the cheek of the boy sleeping there—a pale-skinned roommate who stirred as the wetness reached his face.

  After a few seconds, the boy blinked. It took him a moment to focus.

  "Elias," he mumbled. "You went to shower?"

  "Couldn't sleep," Elias said. "Too hot. Just rinsed off."

  He didn't wait for a reply. It wasn't meant to be a conversation—just enough to remind the other boy he was here.

  The curtain dropped in a heavy fold, sealing off the narrow space. Four people shared the room. Odd-numbered beds were always the lower bunks, even numbers up top.

  From under the mattress, he pulled out a dark brown curtain and clipped it to the hooks fixed along the metal frame. The fabric hung low, thick and fully opaque, sealing off the space around him.

  He lay back against the mattress, arms slack at his sides, eyes open to the dark. The heat had faded. But something else hadn't. It moved behind his thoughts—soft, constant, like sound that forgot to end.

  The killing was already shelved. What echoed after had no shape. Not yet.

  But it had a name.

  The Signal.

  Compared to that, what he'd done tonight felt smaller than it should have. He could still feel the shape of it—just not where it should've been. Like background noise behind a louder frequency.

  He'd gone through the usual motions afterward. Changed his clothes. Took the long way back. Slipped through the side gates during the time slot he'd picked out hours earlier. The sidewalk outside had cooled by then. All of it precise. Mechanical.

  Until the lights flickered once behind him—then stayed still.

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  Even the alibi was airtight—too airtight, maybe. Zachariah had always said he overdid it. If you weren't under suspicion in the first place, no one would bother checking.

  Still, Elias ran through the full routine. Out of habit. Or something like it.

  He shifted on the bunk. The curtain barely moved. Sleep didn't come. Not even close.

  Normally, there was a crash after the adrenaline wore off. A kind of drop. Muscles loosened, breathing slowed, the mind finally settled enough to fall.

  Tonight, none of that landed.

  The sequence had played out already—entry, blade, twist. Still, something itched beneath the skin. He didn't know if it was too much or not enough.

  Elias lay there for half an hour before sitting up again. His bunk was narrow, but he had enough space to slide the small folding desk out from beneath the frame. He opened it quietly, careful not to shift the curtain.

  The laptop booted without a sound. Once the startup sequence cleared, he navigated past the default folders and opened a hidden directory labeled Set-A. It didn't look like much—just seven folders with generic timestamps—but each one contained full records on a different target. Seven people. Seven finished timelines.

  He didn't blink. But the air near his face felt wrong—like breath from somewhere else.

  Targets One through Six were all the same type: drifters, repeat offenders, background noise in a system built to forget them. For each of them, it had only taken three things—location, timing, and a solid alibi. Everything else followed naturally.

  He scrolled past it.

  On screen, the icons sat in place like nothing had happened. Like they didn't hold movement logs, facial patterns, social detachment matrices, or reconstructed entry paths.

  Crime segments on television always ended with arrests. That's what kept people calm—resolution, confession, footage of someone breaking down in court.

  But Elias had studied the numbers. Most cases didn't end that way. Some never started.

  A killing without motive, without history, without links to the victim's social orbit—those didn't lead back to anyone. There were no threads for investigators to follow. No obvious pressure points. No why.

  If you built the shell right, there was nothing inside to trace.

  Even in the real world, not every cop is a Holmes.

  Lauren Beck, the woman in business attire, office support staff, had been on the list for weeks. No criminal record on paper, but enough behind her to warrant interest.

  He'd watched her twice before—once at a café near her building, once as she stepped off the tram after dark. Both times, she moved the same way: practiced, efficient, forgettable. The file hadn't overstated it—buttoned blouse, narrow-cut slacks, black shoes, hair pinned up. Always quiet. Always early.

  Target-07. The cleanest-looking one so far.

  Set-A held everything. Employment records. Timeline projections. Transit logs. No direct financial charges. No trial. No fallout.

  But none of that meant she was clean. Not to him.

  Years ago, she'd been the face of a polished investment front—papered in disclaimers, sold through offshore channels, dressed up in legalese and numbers no one questioned. Early access. Structured returns. "Guaranteed windows" for placement. She hadn't run the whole thing, but she'd sold it better than anyone.

  People bought in. Some emptied accounts. Some refinanced homes. She didn't run it alone, but she was the one who made it work.

  Zachariah flagged her.

  One of his family's housekeepers had gone in heavy. Then dragged her son and daughter-in-law into the same scheme. When it crashed, there was nothing to fall back on. Just interest and debt and the kind of silence that never feels clean.

  She took the pills in Zachariah's living room. He called the ambulance. Stayed on the line. Watched them wheel her out.

  She didn't make it past morning.

  Zachariah had brought the name, but it wasn't his need. He liked the pressure. The tension before something cracked. Elias was built different. His didn't stop at the edge.

  The scroll caught again. Another image loaded.

  A protest photo. Blurred at the edges, timestamp half-erased. A government building in the background—square, glass-fronted, uninviting.

  In front of it, a crowd.

  Some held up cardboard signs. Others gripped a long vinyl banner stretched between them. The paint had run, but the letters were still legible.

  CORRUPT DEVELOPERS STOLE OUR LIVES—WE DEMAND JUSTICE

  Elias leaned closer.

  Two of the protesters stood out. Older. A couple, by the shape of them. He recognized the angle of the man's shoulders. The woman's hands at the edge of the fabric.

  He'd seen them hold a banner once before. But not like this. Not beneath sunlight. And definitely not when they still had breath.

  They were the ones from the fire. The ones who'd wrapped her in flame. Silently. Without moving back.

  That was why they'd looked familiar.

  He sat back.

  He'd read the file. Weeks ago. But only the parts that seemed useful—fraud history, false fronts, the offshore pipeline. This had looked distant. Political. Something that didn't touch him. He hadn't looked long enough to connect it back to the buildings east of Sycamore. To Marrin Lot.

  But Lauren Beck had been there too. In another case. Another layer.

  The phrasing wasn't his. He'd heard it before. From the Signal.

  And some debts don't disappear. They change hands.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  This wasn't just haunting. And if it wasn't that—then what the hell was it?

  His phone buzzed against the desk.

  Elias looked at the screen.

  Zachariah.

  He stared at the caller ID for half a second.

  Then picked up.

  "Yeah?"

  Zachariah didn't respond right away.

  Elias felt it before the answer came. A kind of pressure.

  "Something happen?" he asked—quiet, careful.

  His thumb hit the record button.

  "You need to fucking answer me," Zachariah said, suddenly sharp. "Did you go through with it?"

  Elias stayed still.

  Then: "She's dead?"

  "Dead," Zachariah said. "Cardiac arrest. No wounds. Nothing visible. Medical examiner signed it off. Club owner found her. Already ruled accidental."

  His hand moved on its own.

  To the knife beside his bed.

  Not drawn—just held. Pressed flat against his palm.

  It was cold. But that wasn't the point.

  He'd used it. Driven it in. Turned it.

  Watched her body seize under the blade.

  Heart failure?

  His grip tightened. The chill in the steel spread up his wrist, like the wrongness could transmit through contact.

  "You scare her to death or something?" Zachariah said. There was a smile in it, barely.

  "Because damn. That's the cleanest kill I've ever heard of."

  The segment had ended.

  The Signal hadn't.

  And he was still on the list.