The mist hadn't lifted with the morning sun. Instead, it thickened, dragging itself across Alder Creek like a suffocating shroud. It curled low along the streets, wrapping around lamp posts, slinking beneath rusted mailboxes, and swallowing sound until even birdsong felt miles away.
Detective Marcus Langley carefully parked his unmarked sedan into the back lot of Lincoln High while the tires scraped over frostbitten gravel. Patrol cars, parked nearby, spilled red and blue light which flooded the fog in palette-like washes of blood and bruise. A makeshift barrier made out of yellow tape struggled against the wind, trying to contain a growing mass of spectators —school students in coats far too light for the weather, teachers whispering into their cellphones, and parents staring blankly, eyes wide and clinging to each other.
Langley stepped out into the cold. He was a tall man, his frame heavy with years of long hours and heavier cases. His trench coat swayed with each step, the fabric damp at the hem from the creeping fog. Gray streaked his temples like frost on asphalt, and his eyes — dark, stormy — missed nothing.
He'd seen murders in alleyways and found bodies in rivers. But there was something about a dead teenager in a high school parking lot that always carved deeper than the rest. There were supposed to be places the world didn't touch. Schools. Bedrooms. Playgrounds.
This was a violation.
Officer Dana Briggs approached, ducking under the tape to meet him. She was sharp, eager, still new enough to feel each scene like a gut punch. The wind teased her dark braid over her shoulder.
"It's bad, sir," she said quietly. "You're going to want to see this yourself."
Langley gave a brief nod and followed her through the fog, the world narrowing to outlines and shadow. Only a single squad car was present on the scene, its headlights cutting through the mist. Just in front of it , crumpled on the pavement, was a body.
"Who is it?" Langley asked, already bracing himself.
"Tyler Grant," Briggs said grimly. "Seventeen. Junior. Star athlete — basketball, not football, I double-checked. Son of Carter and Valerie Grant. Big names in this town. Everyone knew him."
Langley frowned. "Doesn't look like a struggle."
"Nope," Briggs replied. "No sign of a fight. No defensive wounds, no major trauma. Not a scratch on him. Except—"
She hesitated, her voice hitching slightly.
Langley's eyes sharpened. "Except what?"
Briggs motioned toward the body.
Langley knelt next to it, thoughtful while not risking evidence contamination. Tyler's body was in a bad position, his arm twisted behind his head in an awful fashion and his other arm pinned tightly at his chest. His face was suspended in shock — mouth open, eyes unnaturally wide and glazed over, as if whatever he saw in his last seconds still remained behind his gaze.
He appeared to have died in the middle of a scream.
Langley leaned in.
Nestled in Tyler's rigid fingers was a small, gray plastic rabbit. It was old — the kind of toy you'd find at the bottom of a cereal box in the '90s. One ear was missing. The paint was chipped. But it had been placed there — no doubt about it. Judging by the grip, it seemed to have been forced into his hand after death. A chill crept through Langley's spine. "Was this already here when you arrived?"
Briggs nodded. "First officer on the scene said the same. No one's touched him. Coroner's on the way."
Langley stood slowly, eyes scanning the fog-bound lot. "Security footage?"
"Wiped. Or glitched. They're checking now, but last night's feed cuts out at 9:47 PM and doesn't pick back up until this morning."
"Sabotage or accident?"
"Too clean for an accident."
Langley nodded once, jaw tight. "And witnesses?"
Briggs shook her head. "None so far. Fog was thick as hell. Only clue is some faint scuff marks heading back toward the tree line behind the school. Too faint for solid tracking. And no prints. Whoever did this wore gloves."
Langley's gaze drifted back to the rabbit. He'd dealt with his share of killers, but this felt… ritualistic. Not rage. Not impulse. Not even personal. It was something colder. Calculated. A performance.
He turned to Briggs. "Full ME report. Tox screen, trace analysis, DNA under the nails. Everything. And I want everyone interviewed. Teachers. Janitors. Students. You don't walk through that much fog and not get noticed by someone."
Briggs nodded. "Already started. Principal's opening the auditorium for interviews."
As she turned to give orders to the others, Langley turned toward the growing crowd beyond the tape. His eyes scanned the sea of pale faces. Most were frightened. Confused. But a few stood apart — a cluster of four students, quiet, withdrawn.
A tall, awkward boy with too-large glasses.
A pale, sharp-eyed girl in a threadbare coat, watching everything.
A dark-haired teen standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched.
And a younger girl beside them, shrinking into herself, her arms wrapped tightly across bruised skin she clearly didn't want anyone to see.
The bullied. The overlooked. The ones who watched from the margins.
Langley's instincts flared.
They didn't look shocked.
They looked alert.
He filed their faces away in his memory. He'd talk to them. Soon.
But first, he turned his gaze back to the boy on the ground, and the toy rabbit lying in death's grip.
This wasn't random. This wasn't careless.
This was an announcement.
And the killer had just stepped onto the stage.