CHAPTER ONE: THE INTERNSHIP
Rain sheeted across the windshield as Elias Vale gripped the steering wheel tighter. His fingers were stiff, half from nerves, half from cold. The city always felt darker in October—like its shadows could swallow you whole if you took the wrong turn.
He exhaled slowly, heart hammering.
You've worked for this. You earned this.
The towering gray building ahead loomed like a monolith: District Nine Homicide Division. The same place that had failed to find his brother's killer three years ago. And the same place where Elias now stood, nineteen years old and hungry for justice, armed with nothing but textbooks, trauma, and a brittle smile.
He parked, grabbed his ID card, and stepped out into the rain.
Inside, the station buzzed with movement—phones ringing, officers barking orders, suspects being hauled in through security. Elias felt like a child in a den of wolves.
"Vale. Elias Vale?"
He turned. A short woman in a beige trench coat approached with a clipboard. "Detective Rowan. You're the youngest intern we've had in five years. Hope you don't faint at the sight of blood."
"I don't faint," Elias said, lifting his chin. "I'm here to solve murders."
Rowan snorted. "Cute. You're being assigned to a consultant today. Damien Cross. Used to be a legend in this building. Now he's more of a ghost."
Elias blinked. "Wait, the Damien Cross? The one who caught the Metro Slasher?"
"That's the one. Retired two years ago after a bad case. Now he works cold files. Alone. Anti-social. Bit of a prick. But he's a genius." She looked him over. "Try not to piss him off."
Great, Elias thought.
Rowan led him through a maze of hallways to the far end of the precinct. Past the noise. Past the detectives. To a door with no nameplate, just a worn sticker that read: Consulting Division – Access Restricted.
She knocked once. No answer. Opened the door anyway.
Inside was dim and cluttered, lit only by a desk lamp. Crime scene photos papered the walls, red string connecting victims, symbols, times. A chalk outline had been drawn on the wooden floor. Files were stacked in chaotic piles. The room smelled faintly of coffee, leather, and something sharper—gun oil?
And there he was.
Damien Cross stood with his back turned, shoulders straight, black shirt tight around a lean frame. He turned slowly, a lit cigarette in one hand, and Elias's heart lurched.
Late thirties, maybe. Unshaven jaw. Cold gray eyes that looked through him, not at him. There was something off about him. Like he'd seen hell and memorized the address.
"Intern," Damien said flatly. "You're early."
Elias opened his mouth to speak, but Damien walked past him, grabbed a file, and tossed it on the desk. A photo slipped out—blood, alley, a woman's face twisted in agony.
"Start with this," Damien said. "Solve it."
"I… What?" Elias blinked.
"You said you're here to solve murders." Damien leaned against the edge of the desk, eyes unreadable. "Prove it. Or go home."
Rowan gave Elias a look that said you're on your own, then left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Elias swallowed and sat down, flipping open the file. The victim: Serena Locke, age 22. Found strangled behind a nightclub. No witnesses. No DNA. No motive. A cold case.
He read for ten minutes. Damien said nothing.
Finally, Elias looked up. "There's a pattern here. The body was cleaned. No defensive wounds. Like she trusted the killer."
Damien raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"She had no drugs or alcohol in her system. But the bruises on her neck weren't consistent with strangulation—they were too uniform. Almost staged." Elias hesitated. "I think the scene was altered. This wasn't where she died."
Damien tilted his head slightly, then walked forward, slow and deliberate. He crouched beside Elias's chair, too close. "And what does that tell you?"
Elias froze. The man's presence was suffocating. His voice low and controlled. Dangerous.
"It tells me the killer wanted us to find her. But not the truth," Elias whispered.
Damien's eyes sparked—just for a second. Approval? Interest?
"Impressive," he murmured. "But it's not just a 'killer,' Vale. It's a pattern. Five women in four years. Same method. Same pose."
Elias's blood chilled. "Serial?"
"Worse." Damien stood. "They stopped looking after Serena. No one connected them. But I did."
He moved to the wall and pulled down a photo. Another victim. Different city. Same dead eyes.
Elias stood too. "Why are you working this alone?"
"Because I don't trust anyone," Damien said. "Not after what happened last time."
There was a weight in those words. A bitterness Elias didn't understand. Not yet.
Damien turned to him. "You're not here to play detective. You're here because someone wants me to take on a leash. Let's get one thing straight."
He walked up to Elias, again too close.
"I don't like interns. I don't like children playing with corpses. And I especially don't like pretty boys who think they can waltz in and impress me with textbook deductions."
Elias's throat tightened, but he didn't back down. "Then why keep me?"
Damien's smile was slight, crooked, unsettling. "Because something about you is... familiar."
Before Elias could respond, the phone rang. Damien picked it up. His expression changed.
"I'll be there in ten," he said, hanging up.
He grabbed his coat. "There's been a new body."
Elias's pulse jumped. "You mean, another—?"
"Same pattern," Damien said. "Fresh kill. Two hours ago."
"Can I come?"
Damien paused. His eyes met Elias's again. Still cold. But there was something else now—curiosity? Calculation?
"Fine," he muttered. "Don't slow me down."
They rode in silence through the city. The streets gleamed wet under flashing lights. As they approached the crime scene—an alley behind a warehouse—Elias felt his stomach twist.
Police tape. Flashing cameras. Blood.
The body was curled beside a dumpster, head tilted at an unnatural angle. The same calm expression. Same bruises. Same staged pose.
But this time, there was something different.
Pinned to the victim's blouse was a note.
Damien stepped forward, crouched, and peeled it off with gloved fingers. His eyes narrowed as he read it. Then, slowly, he handed it to Elias.
One line. Written in red ink.
"You missed one, Cross. Want me to kill him too?"
Elias's hands trembled.
Damien turned, slowly.
And for the first time that day, Elias saw something in his eyes.
Not coldness.
Not calculation.
Fear.
Real, soul-deep fear.