FOG KILLER CHAPTER 1
By 5:22 PM, the city had vanished.
Not under bombs or fire — underfog.
The kind that breathes into your bones.
The city drowned in it — thick, unmoving, swallowing streetlights and sound.
The kind that settled in your chest.
It lingered.
Ray slept in his messy room, curtains half-drawn, ash scattered across a desk cluttered with old case files.
His phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
On the fourth ring, he groaned, picked it up, answered sharply.
"I'm on leave," he snapped.
A pause.
Rain hissed through the receiver — heavy, drumming on metal.
Then a voice — clipped, serious:
"Sir… we've got a body.
Female. Nineteen. Found in a greenfield near the old freight tracks south of the city.
No ID.
Tongue removed.
No prints. No blood.
The scene's staged. Arms out. Clean placement. No drag marks."
Another pause.
"It's... bad."
Beat.
Rain.
Then, lower now — quieter:
"It matches the pattern from thirteen years ago."
Ray said nothing. Just sat there, eyes now wide, fixed on nothing.
"I'll be there," he said — low and serious.
He hung up, turned off the phone, and sat on the bed in silence.
Lit a cigarette. One long drag. Eyes blank.
His hand shook once, then went still.
He walked out of his room, toward the front door.
The rain hadn't stopped.
It tapped gently against the bedroom window.
Evan sat on the floor, back against the bed, legs crossed, a blank notebook in his lap.
Meilin sat beside him, knees drawn to her chest, her long black hair draping over one shoulder — soft and still.
"I think I want to start writing," Evan said, grazing the page as if he could feel words waiting beneath.
Meilin smiled softly. "A novel?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"What's it about?"
He leaned back slightly, smirking.
"That's the part I don't know yet."
She tilted her head.
"So… you want to write, but don't know what to write?"
He shrugged.
"It's more like... I can feel it. Something's there. Just hasn't shown itself yet."
She tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Maybe it's waiting for you to stop thinking. Just go for it."
He smiled. "Maybe."
"I'm not great at this deep stuff," she said. "You're better at it."
"That's okay," he said. "I like that you don't fake it."
He brushed her cheek — calm, sure.
"Just be you."
She inhaled sharply. "Evan…"
He leaned in.
She didn't resist.
They kissed — gently at first. Her hands curled into his shirt.
Evan pushed the notebook aside and pulled her closer, hand finding her waist.
Meilin hesitated. "Evan… your dad—"
"He's asleep," Evan murmured, steady.
He kissed her again — deeper this time.
She whispered his name.
"Evan…"
Then—
"Dad?! What the hell?! Can't you knock?!"
Evan froze.
Ray stood in the doorway — silent. Still.
A shadow in the hallway light, watching them like he'd been there for hours.
He didn't say a word.
He lingered a moment too long.
Not blinking. Not breathing.
Just… watching.
Evan pulled away, pulse pounding.
"Dad… seriously. Can you not just stand there like a creep?"
Ray didn't answer.
He stepped inside slowly, boots leaving faint, wet prints on the floor.
"I've been called in," he said finally, voice gravel.
"Now? I thought you were on leave."
Ray didn't look at him. He stared out the window — at the fog.
"Change of plans."
A beat.
"I'll be out late. Lock the door."
Evan folded his arms. "Alright."
He looked at Meilin, then back at his father.
"Well… since you're already here — this is Meilin. My girlfriend. Didn't get a chance to mention her, what with you always being locked in your room or at work."
Meilin gave a small wave.
"Hi, Mr. Ray. Um… sorry about the whole… weird timing."
Ray didn't react.
Still watching the fog, he said,
"Don't open the door for anyone."
"Are you serious right now?"
Ray turned slightly — just enough to show part of his face.
Expression blank. Voice low.
"If someone knocks and says they're me… don't open it."
And he walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Silence lingered.
Meilin let out a slow breath.
"Your dad's... a little creepy."
Evan turned to her — sharp. "Hey. Don't say that."
"I didn't mean—"
"He's a good man," Evan said, quieter now. "He just… hasn't been the same… since Mom died."
He looked away, jaw tight.
"She cheated on him. With his best friend. He found out after she passed. That kind of betrayal... doesn't just go away."
Meilin's expression shifted —
sympathy, maybe regret.
Evan stared at the floor.
His eyes didn't move,
but something curdled behind them.
He opened his mouth, then shut it.
Tried to breathe. Calm down.
But something kept rising.
Then — colder:
"She was beautiful once.
Everyone said that.
But they didn't live with her."
A beat.
"She was always a whore!
He was too blind to see it."
The word hit like a slap.
Meilin blinked.
"Evan…"
But his gaze had gone somewhere else entirely.
A bitter laugh.
"I always saw it — even as a kid.
Pure trash!
I wanted to kill her."
Meilin started to say something — "Ev—" — but stopped.
His eyes flicked to her — something in them loosened.
"I'm sorry."
Then — as if trying to reset something inside himself — he added:
"The therapist called me once. Said he had tendencies. Asked me to keep an eye on him."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"So I moved back in. Partly for him. Partly 'cause I'm broke."
A pause.
"He's not a creep. He just... sees the world differently now. Like something broke and never came back."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then she shifted closer and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I didn't know," she said softly.
She hesitated, then whispered:
"You're a good son."
Evan gave a small, tired smile.
"I try."
The rain tapped gently against the window.
Then Meilin turned to him.
"You know... we never got to finish what we started."
Evan looked at her — really looked — and something in his shoulders eased.
He leaned in, slower this time.
She met him halfway.
Their lips touched — not rushed, not messy. Just warm. Familiar. Needed.
She tugged him in by the collar — felt him start to rise, slow and heavy, pressing hard against her.
She didn't stop. Hugged him tighter. Whispered in his ear:
"It's just us now."
In South Seattle, the rain slid down like a slow collapse — quiet, steady, relentless.
It didn't fall.
It crept.
The murder site lay in an overgrown field near an old freight line.
Warehouses loomed in the mist, rotting giants.
Somewhere in the dark, a train wailed and kept moving.
Red and blue lights blinked through fog.
Crime tape snapped in the wind.
Boots in mud. Radios crackling.
Ray stepped out of his car.
Didn't bother with an umbrella.
Just stared into the fog like it owed him something.
A city maintenance worker found her an hour ago, checking a flooded storm drain.
Thought it was a mannequin — until he saw the eyes.
"Detective Ray — sir."
Mid-30s, tight haircut, nerves showing.
His name tag: Gustavo.
"Gustavo. Talk."
"City worker found her checking flood drains. Thought it was a mannequin.
Now he's chain-smoking behind the van."
"Scene touched?"
"No. We sealed it fast."
"Where is she?"
Gustavo pointed toward the floodlights.
"This way."
Ray followed, boots sucking at mud.
They ducked under the tape, sinking into wet earth.
No sirens. No chatter.
Just radios crackling — static crawling through fog.
The body emerged before they reached her —
Nude. Pale. Slumped in the mud, her skin ghostly under a cold ring of floodlight.
Nineteen, maybe.
Mud streaked across her spine like black paint.
No clothes. No shoes.
Ray stopped just short of the light. His boots didn't cross into the circle.
Gustavo stood beside him, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Her jaw hung wide — unhinged, as if torn open mid-scream.
Not broken. Just… stretched. Forced.
Her tongue was gone.
Not cleanly cut — but ripped out.
Brutal. Blunt.
As if something had reached inside and taken it like a trophy.
Her eyes bulged skyward, unblinking, almost bursting — like she died realizing something.
She was posed. Deliberately.
Arms bent, hands tucked behind her head like someone relaxing in the sun.
Legs straight. Ankles crossed.
A nude body, arranged like it remembered life — but was very much dead.—
Except she was dead, and the earth beneath her was cold and rotting.
It didn't look peaceful.
It looked mocked.
Like death itself had been put on display.
A rookie behind them turned and vomited into the grass.
Gustavo whispered, "We'll wait on the coroner but... yeah."
Ray didn't respond.
He just stared at her face.
Not scared. Not calm.
Like she was caught mid-thought.
As if even death hadn't answered her.
Ray's legs trembled.
He stepped closer to the body —
closer than protocol allowed.
There was no doubt.
It was her.
The same nineteen-year-old who tapped on his window
last night at 10:03 PM.
Rain streaked her cheeks,
makeup running,
voice calm:
"A thousand. You look like someone who needs it."
Ray was fifty-six.
She was nineteen.
He let her in. He shouldn't have.
She smelled like roses — it felt like a trick.
They didn't talk.
Not until after she made him come. Twice.
Afterward,
wrapped in one of his towels,
she looked at him and said:
"I'm not a hooker. I just needed the money.
You seemed... safe."
She left at 2:03 AM.
Now she was here.
Naked.
Arranged like art —
fingers placed,
mouth parted,
eyes open.
Cold.
"She died here," Ray said. "He wanted her found."
He scanned the area.
No prints. No tire tracks. No drag marks.
Just her. Centered. Exposed.
"No message," Ray said. "No signature. Just the body. That is the message."
Gustavo shifted.
"Her arms… the pose. It's like some kind of… offering."
"It's not a ritual," Ray muttered. "It's erasure. The way predators leave bones."
He crouched closer.
The air thickened with the scent of wet iron and rotting weeds.
A line of ants crawled toward her hand and stopped —
as if they, too, had seen enough.
Ray stood up slowly, brushing the mud from his coat.
He looked at the officers behind the tape.
Most were still, pale, shaken.
A few couldn't meet his eyes.
Ray raised his voice —
firm, hard,
clear through the fog:
"Get your shit together."
He looked directly at Gustavo,
then the rookies.
"We owe her more than tape and lights."
He stepped forward.
Cold. Calm.
"He wants to be seen."
A beat.
"Fine.
Let's stare back."
Silence.
Then—
Footsteps running through mud.
A uniformed officer jogged up, panting. "Detective!"
Ray turned, already reading the urgency in his face.
"We've got something," the cop said, breath sharp.
"A witness."
Ray's expression barely changed — but the air around him did.
"They say they saw the whole thing."
Gustavo blinked. "A witness? Wait — what?"
The officer nodded, eyes wide.
"Yeah. They say they saw everything. Will only talk to you, Detective Ray."
Ray didn't move at first.
Then — a quiet breath.
He stepped forward, past the body, past the tape, eyes locked on the flashing lights ahead.
"Where are they?"
The officer pointed toward the van.
"Inside. Not saying a word. Just… staring."
Ray nodded once.
Then, cold and steady:
"Let's go see what they saw."
The wind picked up, dragging the fog sideways.
Somewhere in the distance, another siren began to howl...
CHAPTER 2
The fog hadn't lifted.
It never did anymore — just hovered, pressing down like a curse.
Ray walked toward the parked police van, boots thudding through the wet earth,
his coat heavy with damp.
Behind him, Garcia and two other officers followed.
"Finally," one of the younger cops muttered.
"We got a witness. We actually have a damn clue."
Ray said nothing.
He already didn't like the feel of it.
Not the timing.
Not the silence.
Not the way the fog clung tighter here — thicker —
almost watching.
He reached the back of the van.
A uniformed officer leaned against it, looking pale.
"She's inside," the officer said.
"Won't talk to anyone else. Said your name like she already knew it."
Ray opened the door.
A dim yellow dome light flickered overhead.
The interior stank of wet clothes, boiled herbs, and old breath.
She sat in the corner —
small, hunched, wrapped in a faded green shawl.
Her skin looked like old rice paper — cracked and tired.
Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed... but alert.
Too alert.
She didn't flinch when Ray entered.
"You saw something," Ray said.
She nodded slowly.
Lips trembling.
Her voice was soft, accented, broken but clear:
"I saw it in the fog.
The creature."
Ray stayed still.
Let her speak.
"Tall. Too tall. Legs like shadow.
Chest wide like ox.
Skin… not skin. Smoke.
Like fog made it.
But… it had hair."
She touched her shoulder.
Fingers trembling.
"Long hair.
Down here.
Long… black hair. Like a girl's.
Beautiful."
"It waved at me."
"Not like hello."
"Like... goodbye."
Behind Ray, Garcia shifted uncomfortably.
The woman's voice cracked.
She whispered now:
"I worshipped it. For a second.
It was... spirit.
The old kind.
The cruel kind."
Ray narrowed his eyes.
"Did you see a face?"
She shook her head —
slow, deliberate.
"Many faces.
One with horns.
One with no mouth.
One… smiling. Too big.
No eyes.
All wrong."
Then her gaze snapped toward Ray.
Her tone changed —
faster, almost frantic:
"Fog is not fog.
Fog is it.
Fog hides it.
Fog is it."
She began speaking in Vietnamese —
low, intense.
The officers outside glanced in, confused.
"Cái quái có hai mặt," she hissed.
"Một khóc. Một cười."
"One cries. One smiles.
The demon has two faces…"
Ray blinked.
That phrase.
He had heard that before —
a Vietnamese folktale Evan used to mumble about as a kid.
One face for the world.
One for what you hide.
Then the woman grabbed his wrist —
sudden and strong.
Her voice dropped to a whisper:
"It had long hair.
Like the girl.
She was not the first.
And she will not be the last."
She let go.
Then she began to wail —
loud, high, painful.
Like mourning.
Like prophecy.
Ray stood.
Garcia stepped in, unsure.
"Sir… what the hell was that?"
Ray didn't answer.
He was staring through the van's small window —
out into the fog.
"Long hair…" he muttered.
"She saw something.
Maybe not what she thought.
But something."
Back outside, the officers were buzzing.
"So what? We're looking for Bigfoot with hair extensions now?"
"Could've been a wig. Could've been a woman."
"Could've been nothing."
Ray stepped out.
Closed the van door behind him.
He lit a cigarette.
The flame trembling in the breeze.
Then, to no one in particular:
"Find me anyone in a five-mile radius with long hair.
Man or woman.
I want footage.
Statements.
Missing wigs — everything."
Garcia raised a brow.
"You think that old lady gave us something useful?"
Ray took a drag.
Exhaled into the fog.
"I think she saw the killer.
She just doesn't know it."
He turned toward the field,
where the girl's body had been —
now covered, tagged, zipped.
"And the killer knows she saw him."
Three days later.
South Seattle was quiet.
Too quiet.
Evan walked down a dim, empty street —
hands buried in his pockets, head low,
listening to pop.
Even in summer, the air felt heavy —
like the sky was holding its breath.
No fog.
No rain.
Just the soft squeak of his sneakers on damp pavement
and the pulsing thump of music in his ears.
♪ "Murder Murder in my mind …" ♪
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it out:
[Sender: HR - Paragon Logistics]
Subject: Application Status
Thank you for your interest in Paragon Logistics. Unfortunately, we've decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best in your job search.
Evan stared at it.
No anger.
No surprise.
Just... that tired flicker of disappointment.
That's when the first drop hit.
Then another.
Then the sky opened without warning —
a summer downpour, sudden and merciless.
The sound shifted instantly —
harsher now, flatter.
The beat in his ears felt like it was struggling to breathe beneath the rain.
He blinked up at the clouds, letting the water soak his hood, shoulders, chest.
And that's when it came.
Fog.
It rolled in fast —
not creeping, not gentle.
It poured from alleyways like floodwater,
spilled across sidewalks,
crawled low and fast across the street like it had been released.
And then—
A scream.
Sharp. Long. Piercing.
But not human.
Not even close.
Evan stopped.
One earbud still in.
He pulled the other one out, frowning.
The scream faded.
He rolled his eyes and muttered:
"Probably the damn track…"
Cool.
Unbothered.
Like a guy who watches too many horror movies to fall for a cheap jump scare.
He slipped the earbud back in.
Took another step forward.
There it was again.
Same scream —
but closer.
Lower.
Hungrier.
He froze.
Pulled both earbuds out this time.
The silence hit harder now.
The rain was louder than before —
pounding the ground, turning gutters into rivers.
The fog curled at his ankles.
Evan frowned, now more annoyed than scared.
He looked down at his phone.
The screen was dim — flickering.
1%... 1%... 0%...
Then black.
He tapped it.
Nothing.
Just one flicker of the battery icon —
0%.
Dead.
And suddenly —
the fog was thicker.
And he was alone.
At least —
that's what he told himself.
But the air had changed.
The silence felt shaped.
Intentional.
Evan slowed.
Glanced behind him.
Nothing but vapor
and streetlight ghosts.
Still — he knew that feeling.
The kind that grabs your spine
before your brain can name it.
Someone was watching.
His steps quickened.
A wet crunch behind him.
He stopped.
Then heard it again —
heavier, closer.
Footsteps.
Evan didn't look this time.
He just ran.
His boots splashed through puddles,
the six-pack of beer swinging in his fist,
slamming against his leg with each stride.
No music.
No sound.
Just the rush of blood in his ears
and the sick certainty he wasn't going to make it.
The fog swirled tighter around him.
He cut into an alley.
Something moved.
Then—
Impact.
Something grabbed Evan's shoulder.
He spun, heart pounding, ready to punch — or scream — or both.
But it wasn't a monster.
It was a man.
Older. Thin. Out of breath.
"Evan?" the man gasped.
"Evan Drael?"
Evan blinked.
"...Professor Kwon?"
The man nodded, shaking, his glasses fogged over.
"Thank God. I—I thought I was alone.
Someone's been following me in the fog."
Evan exhaled hard, adrenaline still surging.
"I thought I was being followed too."
They looked at each other —
two men swallowed by mist,
drenched in rain,
hunted by something neither could name.
Kwon glanced down the alley.
"There's a light up ahead.
Looks like a busier street.
Maybe there are people."
"Let's go," Evan said, gripping the six-pack tighter.
Then, despite everything:
"Didn't think I'd run into you like this after two years."
Kwon almost smiled.
"It's good to see you, Evan."
They ran.
MEILIN'S BEDROOM – NIGHT
The city glowed like a wound outside the window.
Neon reds.
Police sirens somewhere far.
The kind of night where everything tastes like risk.
The rain tapped against the windows like it wanted in.
Dim light spilled across the sheets,
tracing the curve of Meilin's legs,
her bare feet brushing Evan's under the covers.
They lay side by side.
Her thighs were bare,
glistening from earlier sins.
Then —
the phone buzzed.
MEILIN
(low groan)
Shit. It's Seo-yeon. I have to—
EVAN
(low, into her ear)
No, you don't.
She grabbed it anyway and rolled to her side.
Her voice shifted —
suddenly composed. Professional.
Evan watched her lips move,
forming quiet, careful words.
He noticed the way her thigh shifted as she sat up slightly,
the silk of her shorts riding just enough.
His breath deepened.
She caught his look.
Gave a slow, knowing smirk.
Evan misread it as:
If you dare.
He dared.
Evan slid out from beneath the covers. Shirtless.
His fingers brushed her knee,
slowly drawing up.
Meilin's mouth parted —
then she caught herself,
pressing the phone tighter to her ear.
He didn't stop.
She arched slightly as his hand slipped under her shorts.
A slow stroke. A tease.
She shot him a warning glance —
but her hips tilted forward.
Her voice remained steady on the call,
but her breaths grew shorter,
trembling between syllables.
Then his mouth replaced his fingers.
A sharp inhale.
Meilin bit her lip softly.
She kept talking.
Barely.
Her voice rising and falling
as Evan explored her with unbearable slowness.
The person on the other end of the phone
thought Meilin was the best listener in the world.
Whereas Meilin didn't know a word of what was being said.
She had no interest in listening anymore.
She reached back to swat him —
but her hand lingered on his shoulder instead.
Still no stop.
No resistance.
Then —
He pushed inside her.
Meilin's eyes snapped wide.
A breath caught in her throat.
MEILIN (ON PHONE)
(nodding, trying to stay composed)
Yes… mmm-hmm… I understand…
Her hand fisted the sheet.
Evan showed her his missile, fully ready to strike.
He looked at her with that devil's smirk.
Her eyes got wider — shock.
She glared. A warning in her eyes: Don't.
But her thighs never closed.
That was all he needed.
His dragon was fully erect —
long, thick, veins pulsing with intent.
She saw him.
Froze.
Mouth opened.
Evan climbed on the bed,
gripped her hips,
and slid just the tip inside.
Meilin arched — breath hitched.
But her hand never left the phone.
He pushed deeper.
Deeper.
Until she gasped —
not ready, not entirely, but too far in to stop now.
MEILIN (ON PHONE)
(tight voice)
Sorry—there's… interference…
She tried to stay composed,
but Evan was relentless now.
He gripped her hips and began to move —
hard, fast, each thrust rougher than the last.
EVAN
(whispering)
You wanted this.
You said I could have you any way I wanted.
Then he started to fuck.
No rhythm. No patience.
Just raw, unfiltered desire.
Skin slapped skin.
The bed creaked, loud.
Her voice trembled on the call.
She bit her lip softly so it wouldn't hurt.
He gripped her hair.
Pulled it just enough.
She was melting beneath him.
Every thrust pushed her closer to the edge —
of pleasure, of exposure, of disaster.
MEILIN (ON PHONE)
—ahh—! …Yes. Yes, I agree. Completely.
The person on the other end
thought Meilin was the world's best listener.
And then —
Evan stopped.
Pulled out.
He slammed back in.
All of him.
She screamed.
Not loud.
Not enough to tip the caller.
But enough to shake.
Her legs trembled.
Her back arched.
Her free hand clawed into his skin.
He kept going.
Harder. Deeper. A man possessed.
He slammed again.
One final thrust.
And came.
Hard. Hot. Deep inside her.
Meilin's mouth opened in a silent scream —
half bliss,
half pain.
Her voice cracked.
She let out a sharp, stifled sound —
half-moan, half-gasp —
right into the ear of the person on the other end of the line.
MEILIN (ON PHONE)
(suddenly breathless)
—mmmhhEvan…!!
A pause.
Silence on the line.
MEILIN'S BEDROOM – LATER – NIGHT
The storm outside had softened.
Just drizzle now.
Soft taps against the glass like a ticking clock.
The room was quiet.
Evan and Meilin sat side by side on the edge of the bed.
Naked under the low light.
The sheets behind them wrecked.
The air still thick with heat… but colder now.
Meilin clutched the edge of the sheet across her chest.
Evan was smiling faintly —
glowing, chest rising and falling in the afterglow.
He looked at her, eyes soft.
EVAN
(low, playful)
That… was insane.
She didn't answer.
Just kept looking ahead, jaw tight.
His smile faltered.
EVAN
What? You okay?
A beat.
Then — quietly, almost like she didn't want to say it:
MEILIN
It was painful.
You filled me too deep.
My body's still shaking.
Evan froze.
Like a switch had been flipped inside him.
All the fire in his veins turned to ice.
EVAN
(serious now)
Wait — what?
He turned to her fully.
She looked at him now.
Eyes not angry, not cold — but wounded. Honest.
MEILIN
You didn't mean to, I know,
but I felt… stretched past my edge.
It didn't feel like love tonight.
He blinked.
His heart thudded in his chest —
not with lust this time, but panic. Guilt.
He suddenly saw her face.
Her hands.
How they were curled up around her thighs.
EVAN
(soft, stunned, guilty tone)
Shit… Meilin… I'm so sorry.
I thought —
I thought you could take it.
You did yesterday, remember?
MEILIN
It was… bigger today.
Harder.
Evan clenched his jaw,
looked down at his hands.
Shame crawling up his spine.
He reached for his pants and slipped them on quickly —
not out of modesty, but out of instinct.
He looked at her again.
She still wasn't angry —
but she wasn't relaxed, either.
He reached his arm around her shoulders.
Gently. Slowly.
He wrapped his left arm around her,
pulled her against his chest.
Held her like glass.
EVAN
I didn't mean to.
I swear to God.
Oh! I'm such a fool.
He kissed her neck.
Not lustful this time.
Not desperate.
Just… sorry.
EVAN
We don't have to, okay?
Not again.
Not unless you want to. Ever.
I promise.
She closed her eyes.
Leaned into him, just a little.
MEILIN
Let's just talk, okay?
No sex.
She said that,
getting brightened up.
Evan responded:
EVAN
Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.
MEILIN'S GUEST ROOM – NIGHT – 11:00 P.M.
The city outside sleeps under steady rain.
Inside, stillness.
Two white cotton floor quilts lie side by side, puffed soft with blankets and pillows.
Evan on one.
Meilin on the other.
Between them — a low wooden table with two cups, steam curling from honey green tea.
The A.C. hums, cool air wrapping the room.
Soft. Almost too perfect.
They'd eaten hours ago — Chinese corn noodles, tofu, quiet laughter.
Then each brushed teeth, swished mouthwash, and took a bath.
Now they simply sit.
Now—clean, moisturized, relaxed, barefoot—
they sit across from each other, just sipping and talking.
EVAN
(staring at the screen)
Fucking A.I. knows everything —
except vaginas, apparently.
(scoffs)
Says the average one can take six inches easy.
(sips)
MEILIN
(smirks, unbothered)
I think you're bigger than six.
Six-three, maybe.
MEILIN'S LOUNGE – NIGHT – 11:20 P.M.
The green tea is half-finished.
Steam fading.
The air is thicker now —
not just from the rain,
but from what's unspoken between them.
Meilin scrolls on her phone.
MEILIN
(grinning)
Look. This movie's already out on torrent.
Came early. Want me to download?
She shifts forward —
from face-to-face to right across Evan.
Her bare cold feet, still damp from the shower,
brush against his.
Cold. Soft. Real.
She keeps talking —
excited, light —
unaware of how still Evan's become.
His eyes don't leave her.
But his body shifts slightly back, just an inch.
He forces a smile.
She notices none of it.
Just inches closer again, unaware.
She's still speaking when he takes a final, long sip of the honey green tea.
Then —
he reaches out.
Takes her hand.
Gently.
Purposeful.
Firm.
She stops talking mid-sentence.
MEILIN
(hushed)
What?
She looks at him —
confused at first.
Then she sees it.
His eyes.
Full. Open. Burning with restrained hunger. With want.
His voice is low. Heavy.
EVAN
Meilin...
(a beat — then he exhales, voice barely above a whisper)
EVAN
You're too pretty….
Please….
He says to her,
his face half begging, half desperate.
She doesn't speak.
Just stares at him, suddenly still.
He touches her face —
the left side, cool from the A.C.
He touches it.
He feels her.
He leans in.
Slow. Deliberate.
Wraps an arm around her waist.
His forehead brushes hers.
Then —
He kisses her.
At her shoulder (which has a shirt on),
at her hand,
at her ear.
And then he kisses her —
Soft. Focused. At her chin.
Meilin looks at him in the eye.
EVAN
(whispering in her ear)
Last night...
You were so good.
So compatible...
His lips trail gently toward her mouth.
He stops.
Teases.
Meilin breathes in sharply —
then closes the space.
She kisses him.
Deep. Needy.
She wants it.
Just as much as he does.
The green tea is forgotten.
The rain, a fading heartbeat against the window.
Clothes are peeled back, not thrown.
Breath mixes.
Skin on skin.
MEILIN
(whispers in his ear)
You fucking machine...
Evan growls into her neck,
pulling her closer.
She moans.
Two storms colliding.
Both wild.
Both willing.
Both unstoppable.
NEXT DAY
RAY – HOUSE – NIGHT
8:13 PM.
Rain tapping faintly outside.
Dim lights in the lounge.
TV murmurs in the background — muted crime show.
Ray sits alone at the dining table, two plates set.
Evan walks past with his own plate, heading toward his room.
RAY
(quietly)
Sit down. Let's eat together.
EVAN
(without turning)
No, thanks.
(He keeps walking.)
RAY
(slightly louder, confused)
Why?
(Evan stops in the hallway. Doesn't look back.)
A pause.
EVAN
(flat)
Met the neighbor this afternoon.
Julia.
(Ray waits — doesn't follow.)
EVAN
You fucked a teenage hooker.
(Ray doesn't speak. His eyes tighten. His fork pauses midair.)
EVAN
(voice rising)
Teenager! And you — what? Fifty-six?!
(He steps closer. Not yelling — just sharp.)
EVAN
I can't sit with you.
I won't.
You're disgusting.
(A beat. Rain louder now.)
Ray finally speaks — barely audible.
RAY
It wasn't—
EVAN
(cuts him off)
Even animals don't do what you did.
(A moment. Evan almost turns away — then looks again.
His tone colder. Surgical.)
EVAN
(quiet, like he's speaking to himself)
Disgusting insect.
(Ray flinches — almost imperceptibly.)
EVAN
If I wasn't in financial crisis —
I'd walk out that door and never see your face again.
You're too disgusting.
(He stares one last time — eyes dry, voice level.)
FIVE DAYS LATER – SOUTH SEATTLE – 2:14 AM
Heavy rain.
Sirens.
Flashing blue and red.
The storm hadn't let up all night.
Rain hammered the windshield like fists.
The wipers struggled to keep up.
Inside the car, Ray sat in silence.
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Eyes fixed on the scene ahead —
floodlights stabbing through the fog, casting long, twitching shadows over the soaked ground.
Garcia sat beside him, chewing at the corner of his lip.
"Second victim in five days," Garcia said, voice raised over the thrum of rain. "Same M.O., same sick display. And now the feds are sticking their nose in."
Ray didn't respond.
"He's not slowing down, sir. And we've got nothing.
No prints. No tool marks. No hair. No goddamn footprints. Just fog and fear."
Still, Ray said nothing.
His eyes stayed glued to the shape in the rain —
a stretcher. A body bag.
Floodlights reflected in puddles
like blood in mirrors.
Garcia sighed.
"How the hell are we supposed to catch a ghost?"
Ray opened the door.
The rain greeted him like a slap.
They stepped out.
Boots splashing through mud.
Cold wind clawing at their coats.
Then —
A voice from ahead.
"Detective Ray Stark?"
Ray turned.
Tall man approaching. Early forties. Dark skin. Close-shaved beard. Bulletproof vest under his trench.
Confident stride.
Steel in the eyes.
"Special Agent Kendrick Moss," he said, flashing a badge. "FBI. I'll be working this case with you."
Ray shook his hand — barely.
"Didn't know we were sharing custody."
"Two victims, same signature, under two weeks. You're not the only one worried this guy's back."
They walked toward the taped-off area.
Flashlights cut through the mist.
The corpse lay on the grass.
Male. Early forties. Overweight.
Nude.
Posed.
Arms behind the head.
Legs straight.
Ankles crossed — like he was sunbathing.
Only —
His eyes were bulging.
His mouth was pried wide — not just open, broken.
And his tongue was gone.
Garcia gagged.
"Jesus…"
Moss crouched beside the corpse.
"Same as the girl. Staged. Mocked."
Ray stared in silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"Who does this?"
"To pose them like that…"
A beat.
"This isn't rage.
It's design.
Like someone's proud of it."
Garcia shifted beside him. Silent.
Ray's gaze lingered too long on the jaw.
Then he exhaled — slow. Tight.
"Any evidence? Prints? Tracks? Anything?"
A uniformed officer stepped forward. Cleared his throat.
"No witnesses. No physical trace. Just… a dog, sir. Black. Found beside the body. Shaking."
Ray turned.
The dog — a black mutt, soaked and shivering near the edge of the field.
Its eyes wide. Unfocused.
It didn't bark.
Didn't move.
Just stared into the fog.
Ray, Garcia, and Moss stood silently. Watching.
Garcia murmured, "It's like it saw something…"
Ray didn't look away.
"No," he said quietly. "It's like it saw something it was never meant to."
SEATTLE POLICE BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT
Click.
A projector flicked on.
The first victim's photo lit up the wall — eyes bulged, jaw unhinged.
A dozen eyes stared.
Some hardened.
Some couldn't.
Garcia leaned against the back wall. Arms crossed. Rain still dripping from his sleeves.
Ray stood at the front. Marker in hand.
Staring at the board like it might blink.
FBI Agent Moss stepped forward. Flipped open a case file.
"Two victims. Five days. Same posing. Same mutilation."
Click.
A second photo replaced the first.
A man this time — eyes wide, tongue gone, same grotesque grin.
"No footprints. No fingerprints. No goddamn evidence.
But this?"
He tapped the screen.
"This isn't random.
It's deliberate.
Calculated.
He wants us to see it."
Click.
The next photo appeared.
"Same body language. Same mutilation.
It's a pattern — not a mistake."
Ray exhaled quietly.
Eyes fixed on the image.
Moss continued, voice tight:
"We're not dealing with impulse.
This is true evil. Methodical. And it's escalating."
The door opened.
Heads turned.
In stepped Agent Melanie Tran — mid-thirties.
Sharp suit.
Sharper eyes.
Behind her, a tall man followed. Early forties. Angular face. Notebook in hand.
"Profiler team from New York," Moss murmured.
"Just arrived."
Agent Tran stood before the board.
The room silent.
She didn't look at her notes — she didn't need to.
"This wasn't random," she said.
"This was curated."
She studied the photo — not with revulsion, but with forensic detachment.
As if the brutality only sharpened her focus.
Then she spoke — clear. Firm. Unwavering.
"This is male.Late thirties to early forties. Highly intelligent — not average, not slightly above. High-functioning. Educated. Methodical. Doesn't act on impulse."
Her partner, Agent Holt — mid-forties. Ex-cop demeanor. Voice like gravel — stepped in beside her.
"He's invisible because he built himself to be," Holt added.
"The kind of guy you pass every day. Quiet. Clean. Polite.
Maybe even charming in short bursts.
But inside?"
He tapped the board.
"Obsessive. Controlled. And cruel."
Tran nodded.
"He lives alone. Or pretends to live normal. Keeps a routine.
A job that keeps him close to people — but never too close.
He doesn't just cover his tracks.
He removes the path behind him."
Garcia shifted in his seat.
"You're saying he's doing this for fun?"
"No," Tran said.
"For dominance."
Holt continued.
"This isn't about bloodlust. It's about superiority.
Every pose. Every scene — it's a statement."
"To who?" someone asked.
Tran didn't blink.
"To us."
She stepped back.
Scanned the faces in the room.
"This man believes he's better than all of us.
And honestly?
He might be."
Another silence.
Then Holt exhaled through his nose.
"You don't catch a guy like this by chasing him.
You catch him by thinking like him."
Tran looked at Ray.
Held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
"You've seen this before, haven't you?" she said quietly.
Ray's eyes were still on the photo —
like he'd been looking at it for years.
"Yes," he said.
"We were on it. Thirteen years ago.
But we failed to catch him."
He drew in a slow breath.
Jaw tight.
"That part never left us."
Ray stepped forward. Arms crossed.
"We were right on him.
Days — maybe hours — from making the arrest.
Then he vanished. No trace.
Like he'd been swallowed by the damn fog itself. As if he never existed."
She nodded to Holt, who flipped a case file open.
Laid it flat under the projector.
"Thirteen years ago," Tran continued.
"Twenty-six victims. Eleven women. The rest, men.
Same posture. Same missing tongue.
Same eerie absence of trace.
They called him the Fog Killer — unofficially.
And then… it all stopped."
No suspect.
No pattern.
No closure.
He was never caught.
Tran glanced at the board.
Then back at the room.
"This could be a return," she said.
"Same M.O. Same signature.
Same ghost in the fog."
Ray shook his head.
"Or it's someone who wants us to think it's him.
We believe this is a copycat — someone recreating the scenes down to the smallest detail.
Maybe even someone who studied the original case obsessively."
Ray stepped forward.
Closed the folder in his hand with a dull snap.
"We believe the original suspect — John A. — realized we were closing in.
He slipped out of town.
Quiet. Clean."
He paused.
Jaw tight.
"For three years, we chased shadows.
Then nothing. Not a trace.
Maybe he vanished into a new life.
Maybe he died.
Either way… the trail ended cold."
He set the folder down on the table.
"This new killer — we believe it's a copycat.
Someone who studied the original murders.
Studied us."
He looked around the room.
Eyes grave.
"Autopsy's underway.
If there's a crack in the method — even the slightest — we'll know."
A beat.
"But if it matches…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Garcia spoke up. Voice lower now.
"Sir, what if the autopsy shows it's the same guy from thirteen years ago?"
The room fell silent.
Then — from the back — a young patrol officer.
Grinning like he didn't read the mood:
"So he was a ghost then…
and now he's back for round two?"
CHAPTER 3
Rain hammered the windows in steady sheets, turning the world outside into a blur of headlights and trembling reflections.
Inside the café, it was cool and dry — the kind of comfort that made you linger without meaning to.
Evan and Meilin sat by the glass, watching people hurry past under umbrellas.
A waiter appeared with a notepad and a practiced smile.
"Good evening. May I take your order?"
"I'll have iced peppermint mocha," Meilin said.
"Black tea," Evan added.
The waiter nodded. "Got it. Would you like some water while you wait?"
"Sure," Evan said.
The waiter gave a small nod and walked off.
"You always go for black tea," Meilin said, tapping her fingers softly against the table.
Her smile faltered as her gaze landed on a couple by the window — the woman cradling a baby, the man gently wiping milk from the child's chin.
For a moment, something passed over her face — not jealousy, but a quiet ache, like she'd remembered a life that never quite began.
Her voice dropped.
"I used to see us like that."
Evan looked at her but said nothing.
"Part of me still does," she murmured.
Evan let out a small laugh, missing the weight behind her words.
"Love doesn't keep the lights on does it?"
She glanced down, then met his eyes with an empty smile.
"You know I make enough for both of us, right? We'd be okay..."
Evan didn't answer right away.
"I'm telling you," he said finally, "once this novel's done… it's going to change everything."
Her hand tensed into a quiet fist beneath the table.
"Evan… what's the novel about? You figured that out yet?"
He perked up, eyes sparking.
"Yeah, baby! I've got it all mapped out. It's about how the Japs could've won World War II!!"
Meilin blinked.
"World War what?"
Jesus Christ. Fucking hell, she thought.
You beautiful, unemployed maniac.
Evan leaned in, eyes bright... like he was plotting it himself.
"I'm starting at Pearl Harbor," he said. "Imperial Japan knew they couldn't win a war of attrition. So what should they have done? Hit fast. Hit hard. ...then vanish into the jungle."
Two sharp jabs at the table.
"They should've gone full defensive. Dig in. Tunnel deep. Wire every beach. By the time America landed... it'd be straight into hell!"
He leaned closer, voice low... electric.
"Bleed them for every inch. Force a deal while you're still holding ground. "That's what a smart empire does"
A scoff.
"Pearl Harbor wasn't strategy — it was suicide. You don't sucker punch the country you want to negotiate with... you starve it. Let it rot from exhaustion."
He sat back, a crooked grin spreading.
"They should've pushed east. Fortify. Drain them slow."
A long pause.
Cold as a gun barrel...
"Turn the Pacific red with America's blood."
Meilin blinked — not at the words... but at the way he said them.
Like it thrilled him.
She threw her hands up.
"Maybe they just wanted to bomb something, Evan! Maybe they were sick of the bullshit and wanted to blow it all up!"
She froze — startled by her own outburst.
Hell yeah, baby!!!
"Total failure in execution," Evan went on, as if she hadn't spoken. "Yamamoto ordered the carriers hit. Nagumo hesitated. He had a perfect window — no counterattack... no resistance — and still pulled back after the first wave."
Evan's voice tightened, hands clenching.
"A second strike would've crippled the Pacific Fleet. Fuel depots... dry docks — gone. The carriers sunk. That was the moment."
He leaned in, eyes locked on hers.
"And they blinked."
Meilin stared at him — smiling politely, but her eyes were wide, glassy.
In her head —
Alarms were going off. Fire drills. Red lights.
One half of her wanted to nod and wait for her tea.
The other half wanted to grab a chair and swing it.
Meilin's fingers curled around her cup, trembling slightly.
She stared at Evan, talking like a war general, eyes lit up over hypothetical bloodshed.
Something in her cracked.
She stood.
Walked to the couple at the next table.
Calm. Controlled.
"May I borrow this chair?" she asked, voice sugar-smooth.
The couple blinked.
The man nodded slowly.
She picked it up.
Gripped it with both hands.
Then — without a word —
SLAM.
Straight across Evan's jaw.
He flew sideways, crashing into the marble, blood fanning across the floor like spilled ink.
Meilin stood over him, panting.
Her knuckles white on the chair.
"Go ahead," she said, voice trembling. "Say more fucking crap. Go!!!"