The underground parking garage beneath City Hall smelled of mildew and oil.Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, making everything pulse in ghostly intervals of light and shadow.
Detective Mara Vex checked her watch. 2:57 A.M.She was alone. No backup, no forensic techs. No camera crew to broadcast her failure if she was too late.
Councilman Reed's car was parked near the far wall, headlights on, engine purring. The windshield glistened with condensation.
She drew her gun, thumbed the safety off, and approached slowly.
Three feet away, she saw the first sign: a smear of red across the driver's side window, like someone had dragged bloody fingertips in a lazy arc.
Her heartbeat slowed. Focus sharpened.
Stay calm.
She stepped closer.
The Councilman was inside—seated stiffly in the driver's seat. His hands rested on the wheel, wrists zip-tied. His mouth was open in a gaping O of horror.
On his chest, a sheet of white paper was taped:
"He taught me to smile."
His throat was a jagged red mouth. Carved deep.But it wasn't the blood that froze her in place.
It was the eyes.
Because in the empty sockets, something gleamed under the dome light. Tiny metal discs, glued to the bone.
She leaned closer. They were cameras—wired to a transmitter that blinked red every few seconds.
He'd been watching her arrive.
Far away, the Smile Architect sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by live feeds.One monitor showed Mara's face. Another showed the Councilman's last moments.He replayed the footage, pausing on the second the blade slipped across the old man's throat.
He didn't feel triumph.He felt completion.A line crossed off. A debt paid.
When he looked at Mara's image, he felt something close to kinship. She would understand eventually.
Mara stepped back, breath clouding in the cold air.Her phone vibrated.
Another message.
"Four names left. Each with a lesson. You are last."
She swallowed, tasting bile.
Who were the other names?What lessons?
And why had she never remembered that boy in the photos?
She heard footsteps then—echoing through the garage. She raised her gun, voice hard:
"Stop! Hands where I can see them!"
No one answered.
The footsteps faded into silence.
She exhaled shakily, then turned her attention back to the body. Taped to the Councilman's palm was a slip of paper, folded with the same meticulous care as all the others.
She peeled it free.
"Did you forget me, Mara?Or did you just pretend?Either way—smile.You helped build this."
Her fingers tightened on the note.
She thought of Institution #8—its corridors, its reeking padded cells.She remembered the voices screaming at night.And the boy who never spoke.The boy with the notebook clutched to his chest.
Somewhere in the dark, he watched her read the note.And he smiled.
Because the next body wouldn't just be a message.It would be a memory she'd never buried deep enough.