The cold hit harder as they moved west, past husks of cars and tagged-out warehouses. Leon moved like he knew where he was going, but Aaron could tell—his shoulders were too tight, his steps too sharp. He was scared. That meant it was bad.
Aaron's pistol stayed warm in his hand.
They ducked through a chain-link fence, then deeper into the wreckage of a slaughterhouse long gone to rust. Blood used to run here, and somehow, the smell still clung to the concrete—like ghosts didn't forget.
Leon stopped beside a collapsed freezer door.
"He left it here," he muttered.
Aaron crouched, eyes scanning the darkness. "Who?"
Leon didn't answer. Just pointed.
On the cracked tiles, in the flicker of a busted overhead light, lay a bishop chess piece, standing upright in a puddle of what looked like blood.
Beside it, a knife—thin, long, surgical.
Aaron didn't move. Just stared.
Then he saw the photo.
Taped to the blade was a Polaroid—grainy, bruised, but unmistakable.
Matthew. Eyes swollen shut. A smile cut across his cheek with something sharper than cruelty.
"You never saved him," the caption read in slashed red ink. "Now you'll watch."
Leon didn't speak. Didn't need to.
Aaron stood. The ache behind his eyes wasn't just withdrawal anymore. It was rage. Cold. Measured.
"Where was this left?" he asked.
Leon hesitated. "In my place. He broke in. Left it on my bed."
Aaron nodded. No fear in his voice. Just calculation.
"Then it starts tonight."
He took the knife, tucked the bishop into his coat, and walked out into the dark.
The game wasn't just starting. It had started days ago.
And Bishop was already five moves ahead.