The house reeked of copper and rot.
Detective Nina Alvarez stepped over the shattered glass at the front door, her gloved fingers brushing the grip of her holstered pistol out of habit. The morning light filtered through the expensive windows, illuminating the horror inside.
It wasn't just a murder.
It was an art piece of hatred.
Agent Brent's corpse had been found by his cleaning lady, or what was left of him. Blood caked every inch of the bedroom walls, pooled in thick, sticky layers beneath the bed, and painted obscene streaks across the ceiling fan. Nina's boots left red prints where forensics had yet to tarp.
She stood tall, commanding, her long raven hair tied into a braid that draped over her shoulder like a silk shadow. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain beneath the harsh lights, and her dark eyes were cold, sharp—always watching. Always reading the room.
She didn't flinch when she saw the body.
Didn't wince at the barbed wire still embedded in Brent's limbs.
Didn't gasp at the names carved into his chest.
Nina had seen horrors before. Cartel jobs. Torture rooms. Cult killings.
But this?
This was personal.
"Agent Brent," she muttered. "What did you do to earn this?"
She crouched beside the body, scanning the meticulous work. Nails pulled. Skin flayed. Eye gouged. The killer wasn't sloppy—he was deliberate. Purposeful. The brutality wasn't random—it was orchestrated.
"Like a symphony in screams," she whispered.
Behind her, the coroner threw up in a trash bag.
She stood and turned toward the hallway, where a piece of broken glass caught her eye. Just beneath a smear of blood on the wall—three words, written with a trembling fingertip before Brent died:
"HE'S STILL ALIVE"
Nina's heart stuttered.
She knew about the Marchand Massacre.
Everyone in the upper brass had been ordered to bury it—cops and feds raiding a suburban home, wiping out an entire family under the guise of a "security threat."
The boy. Jay.
Officially listed as dead.
But if Brent's last words meant anything… Jay wasn't just alive.
He was hunting them.
---
Outside, Nina lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. The morning sun did nothing to warm her.
This wasn't a vendetta—it was a purge.
And she had just stepped onto the path of a ghost who wanted the world to burn.
She exhaled smoke and stared into the distance.
"If you're out there, Jay… I'm going to find you. Before this ends in Hell."
She didn't know yet that she was already too late.