The storm had passed, but the city felt no safer.
The discovery of the underground bunker left Ava reeling. The photos of victims. The journals. The time-stamped camera logs. It was all too calculated, too obsessive—and far too personal. Someone had been watching them, not just recently, but for years.
She sat in the precinct now, hunched over a map of the city. The red pins marking known crime scenes looked like open wounds bleeding into the paper. There was a rhythm to it, she realized—a pulse beneath the chaos. Damien wasn't just killing. He was composing.
Marcus stood at the far end of the bullpen, flipping through the journal pages they had recovered. He looked exhausted, but sharp. Focused. His silence wasn't heavy; it was steadying.
"You find anything new?" she asked.
"There's a pattern in the journal entries," he said, walking over. "Every fifth victim was a woman in law enforcement. Different states. Different ranks. But they all fit a type."
Ava looked up, frowning. "You think this was always aimed at someone like me?"
"I think you were always the endgame," Marcus said quietly.
The clock on the wall blinked 1:17 AM. The station was silent, save for the hum of computers and the occasional creak of the building settling. Ava tried to ignore the ache in her back and the burn in her eyes.
Marcus disappeared for a moment, then returned carrying two paper cups. He set one beside her without a word.
"You always know when I need coffee," she murmured.
He gave a small smile. "I always know when you're about to collapse and pretend you're fine."
She looked up at him—really looked. There were dark circles under his eyes. His jacket hung from one shoulder, half-buttoned. He hadn't gone home either.
"Why are you still here?" she asked, voice low.
He leaned on the desk, close enough for her to smell the cinnamon on his coffee.
"You think I'm gonna leave you chasing Damien alone?"
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Ava looked down at the map again. "This is going to get worse."
Marcus's voice softened. "I know."
"You should walk away while you still can."
"I won't."
She glanced at him. His eyes were steady. Fierce.
"Why not?" she whispered.
Marcus held her gaze. "Because I don't want to lose you too."
Something heavy passed between them—something unspoken, but real. Ava opened her mouth, then closed it. Her pulse beat faster. She looked back at the map to avoid the warmth spreading in her chest.
But all she said was, "Thanks for the coffee."
He didn't push.
"Anytime," he said softly.
Then he sat beside her, their shoulders brushing, both staring at the map like the case was the only thing between them.
The moment lingered longer than it should have. She took a long sip of the bitter brew, grateful not just for the caffeine, but for the comfort of his presence. It reminded her she wasn't entirely alone.
"I found something," she finally said, tapping a pin near the waterfront. "There's a warehouse here—abandoned two years ago. Matches the pattern."
Marcus leaned in, their arms grazing. "Let's check it out. First thing in the morning."
Ava nodded, but her mind wandered—back to the bunker, to Nathan's last known movements… and to Damien's chilling voice echoing in the dark.
They continued working in silence, parsing through records and photographs. Occasionally, their fingers brushed as they reached for the same file. Neither commented.
It was nearly 2:30 AM when Ava leaned back and sighed. "I can't stop thinking about the photo in the bunker. Nathan, alive. Or… something that looked like him."
"You think Damien faked it?" Marcus asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe Nathan wasn't dead when we thought he was." She ran a hand through her hair. "What if I've been following a ghost?"
Marcus stood and walked over to the whiteboard. He picked up a marker and drew a line connecting the bunker to the first murder site.
"You're not following a ghost," he said. "You're following a pattern. And patterns leave trails."
Ava smiled faintly. "You always were better at making sense of the mess."
He glanced back at her. "No. I just don't let the guilt cloud my judgment."
That stung more than she expected. Marcus immediately softened.
"Sorry," he added quickly. "I didn't mean—"
"No," she interrupted, standing. "You're right. I let what happened to Nathan consume me. Maybe that's what Damien wanted."
A moment passed before Marcus said, "Then don't give him what he wants."
She looked up at him. He was standing so close. She could feel the warmth radiating off him. See the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
Ava swallowed hard. Her voice was barely audible. "That's easier said than done."
"Then let me help you."
There it was again—not just the partnership, not just the loyalty. Something deeper. Something dangerous.
She wanted to step back. To shut the door on the emotion rising between them. But her body didn't move.
Then her phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a blocked number.
Her breath caught in her throat. She answered it on speaker.
Static.
Then a voice.
"You're closer than you think, Detective."
Damien.
Ava stiffened. Marcus moved instinctively, pulling up the call trace system.
"Did you enjoy my photographs?" the voice continued. "There are more."
A pause. Then:
"Check the alley behind your precinct. I left you something."
The line went dead.
They stared at each other, the weight of the moment pressing down.
Without a word, they grabbed their coats and weapons.
Outside, the air was cold and still. The alley was damp, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp.
Then Ava saw it—a small cardboard box, placed neatly against the wall.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Inside was a Polaroid.
Nathan. Eyes wide, hands bound. Today's date scrawled in red ink at the bottom.
Marcus cursed under his breath.
"He's alive," Ava whispered. "Nathan's still alive."
Her knees nearly buckled.
Marcus caught her by the arm. Held her steady.
"We'll get him back," he said firmly.
And in that moment, Ava believed him.