GHOST DETECTIVE

The second body was found exactly six days later.

And just like the first, it was grotesque—almost theatrical.

This time, the scene was a public restroom in an abandoned train station, long since sealed off and forgotten by the city. Dust coated everything like ash. 

The only reason the body was found at all was because a group of teenagers dared each other to break in and explore the "haunted toilets."

What they saw made one of them vomit, another faint.

The corpse sat on the toilet, fully clothed in a suit that didn't quite fit—like a child playing dress-up. The hands rested in the lap, palms facing up, fingers snapped at every knuckle. The lips were sewn shut with black thread. The throat had been slit, deep and surgical, but again—there was no blood pool. No splatter. No sign of struggle.

Like the body had been cleaned, then posed.

But what disturbed investigators most was the mirror.

Written in something dark—possibly blood, possibly ink—were the words:

"WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

The victim's wallet was missing. No phone. No ID. No fingerprints.

The face had been shaved, plucked, and stripped of anything identifying.

Again, the fingertips were removed.

Nothing connected this man to the first corpse—no facial structure, no clothing brand, no known missing person report. Only the method matched. Deliberate. Precise. Cold.

Detective Marin, lead on the case, stared at the crime scene photos back at the precinct, her cigarette burning low. Two bodies, no names, no pasts. No mistakes made by the killer. 

No cameras. 

No footprints. 

No stray hairs. 

No DNA.

Just questions.

The profiler whispered what no one wanted to say out loud yet:

"We have a serial."

The crime scene pulsed with tension.

By the time the second body was bagged and removed, the derelict train station had become a hive of activity—officers shouting, flashlights flicking, and forensics teams muttering beneath their breath. The rain hadn't reached underground, but everything still felt damp, like the air itself was soaked with decay.

Detective Marin stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, jaw locked. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her coffee had gone cold hours ago.

"This isn't random," she said sharply, cutting through the noise. "This isn't some sadist who gets lucky twice. This one's a ghost."

Around her, voices clashed.

"Could be cartel—maybe a message."

"No, no, look at the precision. Military maybe?"

"Organized crime wouldn't clean this clean. No calling card, no signature, nothing."

"Maybe we're dealing with a professional hitman?"

"Professional hitmen don't make statements with sewing kits."

The medical examiner, Dr. Holt, knelt near where the body had been. He shook his head slowly, gloves now smeared with a thin, dark residue that still hadn't been identified.

"No bruising," he muttered. "No signs of a struggle. Not a single defensive wound. It's like they were already dead—or drugged—before the throat was cut. But even that... I mean, the tissue's too clean."

He held up a tiny sealed bag with one thing in it: a black thread, still slick with what looked like old oil and blood.

"This wasn't done in haste. Whoever did this took their time. This is ritualistic."

One of the junior detectives barked from the far end of the platform, waving a flashlight. "No footprints. Not even a smudge. Dust everywhere but around the body—it's like the killer floated in."

Another voice snapped: "This whole station's full of goddamn rats, but not one came near the body. You telling me that doesn't mean something?"

Marin rubbed her forehead. "No rats. No prints. No blood outside the throat. No identity. Nothing to connect this to the first victim except the technique. The silence. He kills the victim... then kills the evidence."

All the while, the tension mounted.

One investigator paced, convinced it was a digital hack—maybe deepfake IDs or scrubbed surveillance.

Another sat hunched, rechecking blueprints of the station—maybe there was a hidden tunnel, an unseen route in or out.

Dr. Holt whispered to himself, unnerved. "He's not just killing people... He's killing history. Like they never existed."

The press was already outside, barking through yellow tape. The mayor's office wanted answers. And all the police had were shadows.

It was as if the killer wasn't just removing identity—he was erasing meaning.

Reducing the victims to objects. Silhouettes of who they used to be.

Back inside, Detective Marin looked once more at the mirror.

The words still glared back at her: "WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

She didn't realize how deep the question would soon cut.

Because the third murder was already in motion.

And the killer was standing just beyond the reach of the flashlight glow.

Watching. Listening. Smiling.