The pounding in my head erupted with each movement I made. I cracked open my eyes and found myself lying in bed — fully clothed in things I didn't remember putting on. The last thing I recalled was going to bed in nothing but my underwear and an oversized T-shirt. Now I was wearing jeans, shoes, and a plain white shirt.
Lately, this had become a routine over the past month.
To make matters worse, there were nights I'd wake up somewhere far from home, my clothes splattered with dark crimson stains. The memories came only in fragments — brief clips that vanished just as quickly as they arrived — before I slipped back into unconsciousness.
It terrifies me, this growing feeling that I'm losing control over my own body.
And the station isn't making it any easier. Over the last month, cases have spiked — all connected to a serial killer on the loose. The bodies? They only ever appear on the days my memory goes blank.
Getting out of bed and rubbing my sore limbs, I walked to the bathroom, popped some painkillers, then stepped into the shower, hoping to wash off the grimy feeling that clung to me after another unknown night.
Afterward, I dressed in my best suit, gathered my notes and binder, and headed out the door toward my car.
The drive to the precinct was a stress-filled haze. I couldn't shake the feeling that another body had already been discovered — or would be before the day was done.
When I walked into the office, I could feel the tension thick in the air like fog.
"Sir... was there another body found?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Ah! Tyler," my superior, Mr. Jackson, looked up from the files on his desk. "Yes. But this time, things were different. We're not even sure it's the same person responsible as before." He rubbed his chin, visibly puzzled.
"How so, sir?" I asked, pulling out my notebook, pen poised and ready to jot down every detail.
He laid out photos from the scene in front of me.
"Unlike the others, the suspect wasn't dressed in all black. This time, they wore a pale masquerade mask, jeans, black shoes, and an oversized white shirt. And the victim..." He hesitated. "Well, the way they were found — it's not like the others at all."
He was right. The difference was glaring. In past cases, the victims were torn apart, unrecognizable, nothing left but carnage. But this one… this body looked untouched — peaceful, even. As if she were merely sleeping.
"Sir, how did she die?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at the photos. "There's no visible trauma. Was it poison? And if so, why leave her posed like… like this?" My voice trailed off as I fell deep into thought.
"Tyler! Hey — TYLER!" Mr. Jackson's voice yanked me back.
"Yes, sir! Sorry. I got a little lost there," I said, rubbing the back of my head sheepishly.
"It's fine," he said with a sigh. "To answer your question: toxicology and autopsy came back clean. No wounds. No drugs. It's like she just… died. But there's more. When the body was examined closely, they found she had no blood left in her system."
"No blood?" I repeated, stunned.
"None. Her veins were filled with a silicone-like substance — as if someone had drained her and replaced it."
"That… that would take hours. Maybe days," I said, my mind racing. "Draining and refilling an adult body like that — it's not something you do quickly. Unless they have some sort of medical-grade setup. A lab."
"Exactly. And yet…" Jackson leaned forward, eyes tired. "The victim was seen alive that same afternoon. Found dead only a few hours later. Whoever's doing this — they have a hideout, and they know this city like the back of their hand."
"They'd have to know patrol schedules too," I muttered, scribbling furiously in my notebook. "To move around like this without getting caught... they're confident. They're smart."
I began packing up my notes.
"Where are you going, Tyler?" Mr. Jackson asked, looking up.
"I'm heading to the scene. I want to speak to the locals — anyone who might've seen something but is too afraid to talk to the cops."
He gave a nod of approval and returned to the evidence scattered on the table.
I left the office and headed straight to the parking lot. Once I got to my car, my pace quickened. Slipping into the driver's seat, I clutched the wheel tightly and lowered my head, trying to steady my breathing.
The description — the clothing.
Jeans. Black shoes. Oversized white shirt. A masquerade mask.
The same clothes I woke up in.
I have to find that mask.
Starting the engine, I sped home.
When I got there, I tore the house apart. I checked my room, bathroom, kitchen, laundry room — every drawer, cabinet, and corner. Under the couch. Inside the dryer. Even behind the fridge.
No mask.
Finally, I collapsed onto my bed, chest heaving.
"It's a coincidence. It has to be," I whispered, trying to convince myself.
But the thought wouldn't leave.
To stay awake, I forced myself into the kitchen and brewed coffee. Once the pot was ready, I drank greedily. Then I poured a second cup, grabbed my notes, and sat in the living room, going over every detail again and again.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
I woke up the next morning in my bed.
My notebook was still open on my lap.
And written in unfamiliar handwriting, in bold black ink, was a single sentence:
"It wasn't a coincidence."