The silence was razor-sharp.
Cole stood frozen, staring at the door.
Another knock.
Softer this time.
Almost… patient.
He slowly set the phone down, careful not to make a sound, and moved toward the nearest drawer. His hand closed around a screwdriver—nothing fancy, but sharp enough.
"Cole," the voice called again. "You've been learning, haven't you?"
It wasn't angry. It wasn't even loud.
Just familiar.
Cold.
Uncomfortably calm.
Cole's heart thudded against his ribs. Whoever was on the other side of that door knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn't a random threat. It was a message.
And it wasn't just for him.
It was for Damien.
For all of them.
He stepped back, his fingers tight around the screwdriver, and waited.
But the next knock never came.
Only silence.
He moved closer to the peephole and looked.
No one.
Nothing but the hallway light flickering slightly above the doorframe.
Then, the note—still clenched in his hand—tugged his attention again.
"He's watching you."
Not we.
He.
Whoever this was, they weren't working in a group.
They were acting alone.
And they were playing Cole's game.
"Somebody left him a note," Jonas explained to Damien as they reviewed the call log the next morning. "He said he was scared. Said someone was at his door… and then he went quiet."
"Did he say who?" Damien asked.
"No. But he said this person knows what he's done."
Damien's jaw clenched slightly. "What has he done?"
"That's what I was hoping you could tell me."
Damien didn't answer.
Jonas studied his partner. "You've always taken a special interest in Cole."
"He's a profiler," Damien said flatly. "We're working the same case."
"Doesn't feel like that anymore."
Damien turned to the evidence board. "The killer escalated. Broke their own pattern. Why?"
Jonas crossed his arms. "You think the killer approached Cole directly?"
"I think someone's playing both sides."
He stepped closer to the photos pinned on the board—Flint, Traynor, Miles, now the nurse.
"And if Cole's the one being watched, he might not be the target."
Jonas narrowed his eyes. "You think you are?"
"I think whoever this is," Damien said, tapping the symbol on the newest photo, "knows me better than they should."
The crime scene at the nurse's house was unlike the others.
No blood.
No violent wounds.
No theatrics.
Just silence.
The victim had died from an injection—something precise, clean. Forensics found traces of a paralyzing agent used in surgeries. The kind that kept the victim awake but unable to scream.
Damien watched as the body was carried away. No signs of struggle. No chaos.
Just… control.
The same control he used to have.
The same style he had abandoned years ago.
The same style someone was now copying.
"Could be someone from inside the system," one of the lab techs said. "This drug isn't easy to find."
Damien nodded slowly. "Or someone who's been watching it closely for a long time."
"Like a medical student?"
"Or someone who was never meant to be a student at all."
Back at his apartment, Cole paced restlessly.
He hadn't slept. The note was still on the table, untouched.
But something about the handwriting nagged at him.
He'd seen it before.
Not in a case file.
Not in a report.
In a journal.
He moved to his closet and pulled down the old shoebox. Inside were mementos—photos, old IDs, a few letters… and a black notebook with a cracked leather cover.
He flipped through the pages until he found it.
A list.
Names, scribbled in the same angular handwriting.
Each name had a symbol beside it.
Some were crossed out.
Some were underlined.
And at the very bottom:
Cole.
No symbol. No notes. Just his name.
He sat back, breath catching in his throat.
Someone had planned this.
Long before the killings started.
Long before the game began.
And now… it was his move.
Damien stood by the window of his apartment later that night, watching the street below. Rain misted the glass, and his reflection stared back at him—older, harder, sharper.
He opened his drawer and took out the old case file he'd hidden from Jonas.
Rowan Hale.
Patient. Suspect. Disappearance.
But never a confirmed death.
He flipped to the last page—a list of staff present at the institution before the fire that destroyed part of the records.
One name jumped out.
Travis Quinn.
Unlicensed nurse. Fired six months before the explosion. Never arrested.
Last known address: Redbridge Motel, Room 14.
Damien grabbed his coat.
If Quinn was still alive, he might know why the bodies were piling up again.
At the Redbridge Motel, the air smelled like bleach and mildew.
Damien knocked twice on Room 14.
No answer.
He jiggled the handle—unlocked.
He stepped inside, gun drawn, and swept the room.
It was empty.
Mostly.
A single chair sat in the middle of the room, facing a wall covered in photos.
All the victims.
All the crime scenes.
And pinned right in the center, circled in red:
Jonas.
Damien stared at it, blood running cold.
Why him?
Why now?
And then… the phone on the nightstand rang.
He answered.
"Hello?"
The voice was garbled. Filtered.
"You're falling behind, Damien."
Damien's grip tightened. "Who is this?"
"You trained him well," the voice continued. "But he's not you."
"You're talking about Cole."
"Everyone wants to be you, Damien. But no one wants the truth."
Damien's heart pounded.
"Let me guess," the voice said, "you're wondering why Jonas is next."
"Why?"
"Because he trusts you the most."
Click.