Back at the station, the team worked fast.

  Cursor’s fingers flew over his tablet, hacking into Wrecker’s darknet account. His glasses reflected rows of encrypted messages, chat logs and hidden forum threads filled with grotesque images and cryptic conversations.

  “Got something,” Cursor muttered, his brow furrowed. “Wrecker’s been chatting with someone. Looks like he’s exchanging details about upcoming ‘performances.’” He tapped the screen.

  A cold silence settled over the room.

  Cursor nodded. “He just sent coordinates to the other party. Looks like he’s about to stage another ritual — real soon.”

  Lance snapped into action. “We move. Now.”

  The team arrived at an abandoned industrial lot, tucked beneath the neon gloom of the Lower Docks. The rain pounded against the rusted metal rooftops, the air thick with the scent of damp concrete and engine oil.

  Lance held up a hand, signaling the team to go in quietly. They moved in the shadows, weapons drawn, the glow of streetlights casting long, distorted figures against the walls.

  Then they saw him.

  Wrecker stood in the center of the lot, dressed in a tattered black coat, his arms outstretched like a conductor. Before him lay a grotesque scene—bloodstains, a limp body tied to a chair, a noose hanging ominously from the ceiling.

  Maya’s breath caught. “Oh, hell no.”

  Sarge moved to charge forward, but Lance held him back.

  “Wait,” Lance muttered.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Cursor squinted. “That’s not a body.”

  He zoomed in on his tablet’s enhanced camera.

  It wasn’t a human.

  It was a life-sized mannequin, disfigured and painted with grotesque detail.

  Wrecker wasn’t murdering someone—he was staging it.

  A moment later, the psycho burst into wild laughter, spinning around with theatrical delight.

  “Ahhh! I have guests!” Wrecker grinned, spreading his arms in mock celebration. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  Sarge stalked forward. “You sick freak.”

  Wrecker gave a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you! I do my best to please.” His voice was exaggeratedly dramatic, a twisted performer in his own stage play.

  Lance cut to the point. “What the hell is this?”

  Wrecker sighed, twirling his fingers like an orchestra conductor. “Art. Expression. A way to feel something in this numb, rotting world.” His voice dropped, a whisper laced with something darker. “I don’t kill, Detective. I perform, it’s show business!”

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  Cursor scoffed. “You fake murders? What, for the fun of it?”

  Wrecker grinned. “No, no, no, my dear friend. I do this… to feeeel alive!” His smile widened in an exaggerated manner. “You see, I don’t want to die. But I think about it. Every. Single. Day.” He let out a shaky breath, then snapped his fingers. “So I create the scene. I play it out. I control it. And for a little while, the dark thoughts go away.”

  Maya stared at him, unsettled.

  Lance stepped closer. “What about the real victims? Eleanor Vance? The others?”

  Wrecker sighed theatrically. “Ah, Eleanor! Sweet, tortured soul. We talked, you know. She got it. She understood.” His voice dipped into a whisper. “Until she didn’t.”

  Maya’s fists clenched. “You killed her, didn’t you?”

  Wrecker gave her a mockingly hurt look. “Me? Oh, darling, no! I simply… reached out. Offered a friendly voice to those who felt as alone as I did.”

  Lance’s eyes darkened. “How did you find them?”

  Wrecker grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Sarge grabbed him by the collar. “Start talking. Now.”

  Wrecker laughed in his face.

  “Oh, Sergeant… violence won’t work on me.” His voice dropped to an eerily calm whisper. “I enjoy the pain.”

  Lance stepped in, his voice low and lethal. “Then tell us the truth before we drag you into a dark hole where no one will hear you scream.”

  Wrecker’s grin faltered, just slightly.

  Then he sighed, leaning back lazily. “Fiiine. You wanna know my little secret?”

  He tapped his temple and leaned forward.

  “I hacked the counseling system.”

  The room fell deathly silent.

  Maya’s blood ran cold. “You what?”

  Wrecker chuckled. “It was so easy. The company database was a joke to crack. All those desperate, sad souls, looking for someone to listen… all their personal files, private messages, suicide risks, right there, waiting for someone to reach out.” He smirked.

  Lance’s mind raced.

  The Counselling Hotline System had already been compromised.

  Maya’s voice was hushed, disturbed. “Why? What were you trying to do?”

  Wrecker tilted his head, as if the answer were obvious.

  “I just… wanted to talk to them.” His eyes widened, his voice almost childlike. “I wanted to know that I wasn’t alone.” He grinned again, a manic gleam in his gaze. “And by using a proxy, we can set ourselves free.”

  Maya’s breath caught.

  Something about what he said… A deep, nagging thought, just outside her grasp.

  Something important.

  But she still couldn’t put it into words.

  Lance turned to Cursor. “Pull every log, every digital trace. I want everything that he accessed.”

  Cursor nodded, already working.

  Sarge yanked Wrecker up from the chair. “You’re done, freak. Let’s see how creative you feel in a prison cell.”

  Wrecker only grinned, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Oh, Detective,” he whispered. “You still don’t see it, do you?”

  Lance’s eyes narrowed. “See what?”

  Wrecker leaned in closer, his breath ghosting against the air.

  "I’m not the only one watching."

  Lance stiffened.

  For the first time since the case started, he felt truly uneasy.

  That evening, Maya found him where she always found him—holed up in the precinct, drowning in case files, the glow of a flickering holo-screen making the shadows under his eyes look even deeper.

  “You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  Lance didn’t look up. “I sleep just fine.”

  Maya sighed, stepping closer. “You know that’s bullshit.”

  Silence.

  Maya studied him, the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was holding something back.

  She took a breath. “Lance… what are you running from?”

  He finally met her gaze. And for once, he didn’t have an answer.

  She sat down across from him, waiting.

  Waiting for him to trust her.

  And for some reason, tonight, he did.

  “His name was Daniel,” Lance said, voice low.

  Maya’s expression softened. “Your brother?”

  Lance nodded, his eyes distant, as if seeing something far away.

  “He was smart. Too smart. He started noticing things he wasn’t supposed to. Digging into things that got him killed.”

  Maya held her breath.

  Lance’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “They called it a suicide. But I know better.”

  Maya’s chest ached at the way he said it—so certain, so bitter.

  “You’ve been chasing ghosts ever since,” she murmured.

  Lance exhaled through his nose. “I don’t chase ghosts, Carter. I chase the people who make them.”

  Something about the way he said it made Maya’s heart clench.

  Because she realized, maybe for the first time—he wasn’t just obsessed. He was punishing himself.

  And the worst part?

  He didn’t want to stop.