Killian's reflection stared back at him in the cracked bathroom mirror, the black block letters on the taped note slicing through the glass like a verdict:
'McMiller – 12'
Twelve what? Days? Hours? Steps until the noose around his own neck tightened?
Behind him, Hill's voice was low. "We need to leave. Now."
But Killian didn't move. He took in the room — the faint smell of bleach, the way the noose swayed as if it had just been touched, and the thin residue of moisture on the tiled floor.
"He was here," Killian murmured. "Minutes ago."
Hill's grip tightened on his weapon. "Which means—"
A sound broke the silence — the unmistakable click of a latch, somewhere deeper in the house. Both detectives turned toward the hallway.
Killian moved first. He pushed past the kitchen, through a laundry room, to the back door — still swinging open, rain blowing in. Outside, the alley glistened under the flicker of a faulty streetlamp.
And there, halfway down the slick pavement, a figure stood watching them.
Tall. Still. Face hidden under the hood of a black raincoat.
For three full seconds, no one moved. Then the figure raised an arm — not in surrender, but to point directly at Killian. Slowly. Deliberately.
Hill lifted his gun. "Police! Don't move!"
The figure stepped backward into the shadows, and by the time they reached the spot, the alley was empty. Only a fresh set of wet footprints led to a chain-link fence, over which the killer had vanished.
Back inside, Killian's phone buzzed. Unknown number.
A message:
Twelve hours, McMiller.
Followed by a live countdown timer.
Hill glanced over his shoulder. "He's not giving us days, partner. He's giving you until sunrise."
Killian stared at the numbers ticking away. 11:59:52. 11:59:51.
For the first time, it wasn't about the next victim.
It was about him.