> "I'm just getting started."
That was the message carved into the fifth victim's skin—deep, deliberate, almost artistic.
And I knew that handwriting anywhere.
---
The morgue was too cold, even for a place made to house the dead.
I stood just outside the observation window, my breath fogging the glass as the coroner peeled back the white sheet. Victim Number Five. She was young. Brunette. Mid-twenties, maybe. But the way her body was positioned, arms folded neatly across her chest like a sleeping child, screamed familiarity.
Adrian had staged her.
Just like the others.
"Another one," said a voice behind me.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to. Rachel Stone didn't make herself known. She simply was—a presence that slithered under your skin before you knew you were being watched.
She stepped beside me, arms crossed, a pen tucked behind her ear. Hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun, her brown eyes locked on the corpse with the kind of unshaken steel only a detective—and a survivor—could wear.
"Number five," she said quietly. "Third one this month."
"And he's getting bolder."
She didn't reply right away. Instead, she studied the carved words, tracing the curve of each letter from the other side of the glass. Her silence filled the room like smoke.
"I ran your DNA through the system," she finally said.
I stiffened.
She noticed.
"Relax. It didn't match. But you know something. I can feel it."
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
How could I tell her the truth? That I recognized not only the message—but the pattern, the structure, the very style of Adrian's kills. He had a rhythm to his madness. Like a conductor orchestrating horror.
Rachel leaned closer, voice low. "You called me after victim three. You wanted in. You fed me enough to keep me chasing, but not enough to catch him. Why?"
I turned to her. "Because I don't know if I'm trying to stop him… or understand him."
Her jaw clenched. She hated vague answers. But she didn't press.
She stared back through the glass. "He posed her like the others. Rosary in the left hand. Eyes taped open. Smile cut into the face."
I closed my eyes. I could still hear Adrian's voice from years ago.
> "Smiles are cheap. Let's see how much pain it takes to make one stick."
Rachel spoke again, snapping me out of memory.
"This killer is too controlled. There's no panic in his work. He studies them. He plans every mark like he's painting a masterpiece." She paused. "That's not impulse. That's obsession."
I almost laughed.
"You're describing Adrian," I whispered.
She looked at me.
"You say that like you've known him all your life."
I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
The silence between us told her everything.
Her voice dropped an octave. "He's your brother."
I looked up at her then. "My twin."
Rachel exhaled slowly. "God help us."
---
Later that night, I stood on the rooftop of my apartment. The city was a sea of glittering sins below, every window a secret, every alley a whisper. And somewhere out there, Adrian was watching me.
Playing his game.
Leaving his trail.
I pulled the letter from my coat pocket. The one I hadn't shown Rachel. The one left in the victim's shoe, marked simply: "To him."
It read:
> "You always said I needed to be more like you. Careful what you wish for."
—A.
---
Meanwhile, Rachel sat alone in her office, the crime board cluttered with photos, pins, and red threads that snaked like veins across the surface. Five victims. Five warnings. And now… a lead.
A twin.
She clicked her pen three times—her tell when she was about to dive too deep.
The precinct was quiet. Most had gone home. But Rachel didn't sleep anymore. Not since victim two. Not since she started dreaming of carved smiles and open eyes.
She pulled up the forensic file and paused at the handwriting scan.
Adrian's message wasn't just carved.
It was burned into her memory.
"I'm just getting started."
Rachel whispered to herself, "So am I."