It was late. The precinct was quieter now, save for the occasional hum of machinery and the distant sound of rain hammering against the windows. The city outside was still alive, but in here, inside the cold glow of the evidence room, Detective Inspector Lance felt utterly alone.

  He sat in front of a holo-monitor, reviewing the recorded footage from Wrecker’s apartment. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from the flickering screen. His team had gone home for the night, but sleep wasn’t an option for him.

  Not yet.

  Not until he found something.

  He scrubbed through the recording, pausing on different frames of Wrecker’s so-called altar—a grotesque shrine dedicated to serial killers, suicides, and madness.

  Newspaper clippings. Photographs. Crime scene prints.

  And that painting—Eleanor Vance’s twisted angel, smeared with dark red strokes.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Lance grimaced, rubbing his temples.

  What the hell was Wrecker trying to say?

  He fast-forwarded through the footage Cursor recorded, stopping whenever something stood out.

  Then—something caught his eye.

  A series of scribbled words, scrawled in jagged handwriting on the wall near the painting.

  The camera angle didn’t pick it up at first, but as the footage zoomed in, Lance saw it.

  The writing was smudged, barely legible, written in frantic strokes.

  But the message was clear.

  "HE SPEAKS TO ME TOO."

  Lance’s pulse slowed.

  His hands clenched into fists as he stared at the screen.

  He studied the walls—the erratic writing, the violent imagery, the obsession.

  Then he looked at the centerpiece painting.

  And something clicked.

  It wasn’t the words themselves that shook him—it was the implication.

  Who is ‘HE’?

  Lance hit rewind, watching the scene again. The way the letters shook, the way the ink bled into the wall, as if written in desperation.

  Wrecker wasn’t working alone, there must be someone else involved. Someone who whispers to Wrecker in the dark.

  The victims.

  The suicides.

  The dead.

  Lance’s stomach tightened.

  The realization settled like lead in his gut.

  This wasn’t just about Wrecker. This wasn’t just about a psychotic man playing games.

  There was something bigger at play.

  Someone behind the curtain.

  Lance reached for his comm device, his voice low, tense.

  “Sarge, Maya, Cursor—get back here. Now.”