1 — THE HUNT
The rain had been falling since dusk.
Not a storm, not a downpour — just the steady hiss of water on pavement, the kind that drowns footsteps and makes shadows blur.
Perfect.
From my spot across the street, I watched him. Same stride as back then — cocky, bouncing on the balls of his feet like the world tilted to make his walk easier. His coat collar was up, his head bent against the drizzle, but I could still see his face.
Jared Keene.
Seventeen days.
That's how long he made me his sport in sophomore year. Seventeen days of "accidents" — books knocked from my hands, food trays flipped in the cafeteria, whispered rumors that grew teeth and claws by the time they reached the principal's office.
Seventeen days of being the joke everyone was in on.
And tonight, he was going to learn what seventeen days feels like when you can't breathe.
I followed at a steady distance, blending with the few others still on the street. People glance at you less in the rain. They want to get where they're going, not remember faces.
Jared took the corner into an alley — not because he was stupid, but because he was lazy. It was a shortcut to his building. I'd scouted it three nights in a row, memorized the security lights, the blind spots, the faulty camera above the dumpster.
I slipped a hand into my coat pocket and felt the smooth metal there — the high school locker key I'd carried all these years. Number 219. His locker.
He didn't see me until I spoke.
"Seventeen days," I said quietly.
He stopped, half-turning, confusion creasing his forehead. "What?"
I stepped into the light. It took him two seconds to place me. His mouth opened, then closed. The smile he tried on was thin and shaky.
"Hey… uh… do I know you?"
"You remember," I said. "Locker 219."
The change in his eyes told me everything. The recognition. The faint, almost reflexive smirk that said he still thought it was funny. That sealed it.
The cord was already in my hand. A smooth loop. I stepped in fast, arm up, and pulled it tight around his neck before he could finish whatever pathetic attempt at denial he was starting.
His hands clawed at the wire, nails scraping my gloves. I pressed my forearm against the back of his head, tightening the garrote until his knees buckled. I kept him upright, because I wanted him to feel every last second.
I counted in my head. Not seconds — days. Each one dragging past in a slow, deliberate rhythm. When he went still, I eased him down, checking the alley mouth. No one.
The rain hissed on.
---
2 — THE MESSAGE
I worked quickly. His wallet went into the dumpster — not for theft, but to slow ID. His phone, smashed under my heel, slid into the gutter where the water would carry it away.
From my coat pocket, I took the small wind-up timer. Seventeen hours, exactly. I set it ticking, the sound sharp in the damp air, and placed it beside him.
Next to it, the key. Locker 219.
And on a scrap of lined notebook paper, I wrote in neat block letters:
> NEXT IS YOU.
YOU HAVE 17 HOURS.
The note was for someone else. Someone who would understand the number.
---
3 — THE CALL
Detective Killian McMiller had been awake since 3:17 a.m., when the rain against his apartment window turned into the staccato rattle of his phone.
Now he stood under the alley's thin strip of police tape, collar up, coffee cooling in his hand. Hill McCallister was crouched beside the body, flashlight beam fixed on the small metal key next to the timer.
"Seventeen hours," Hill read aloud, straightening. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Killian's gaze lingered on the note. The block lettering. The way the ink had bled just slightly in the damp.
"It's not about him," Killian said finally.
Hill glanced up. "Come again?"
Killian stepped closer, careful not to disturb the evidence markers. "It's about whoever's next. This is a warning."
"You're telling me our guy kills someone, then leaves a countdown for the next one?"
"That's what it looks like." Killian sipped his coffee, though it was already cold. "Question is… why seventeen?"
Hill flipped open his notepad. "Could be the victim's apartment number, years they knew each other, hell, the day of the month…"
"Or," Killian said quietly, "it's the number of days the next victim pissed our killer off."
Hill stared. "That's… specific."
Killian didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the key. The tag had a faintly scratched engraving: 219.
---
4 — THE HOOK
By the time the body was zipped and loaded, the rain had turned into mist. Killian stood at the mouth of the alley, watching the city wake up. Somewhere, out there, a clock was already ticking down from seventeen hours.
And somewhere, a man or woman had no idea they were about to die.
---
On the other side of the city, I sat in my car two streets away from a tidy brick apartment building. The curtains in the third-floor window shifted, and a face appeared — older, heavier, but still them.
I smiled.
Seventeen hours. Tick. Tock.