The Fifth
Rain pelted the crime scene like angry fingers drumming on metal. Blue tarps flapped in the wind as officers secured the perimeter, but nothing could block out the rot.
The body had been found in an abandoned lot near the edge of the city—no theatrics this time, no public display. Just dumped, as if in a hurry.
Inside the forensics tent, the air was heavy with the stench of soaked earth and the sterile tang of chemicals.
Dr. Holt pulled the zipper down and paused.
The body was twisted, bruised, but not butchered like the others.
No ritualistic signs.
No bones cracked into symbols. No grotesque messages carved into the skin. Just a dead man, throat slit, eyes open wide in horror.
The team worked quickly. Samples, photos, fluid tests.
"We got something," one of the techs called. "Running it through now."
The printer hummed to life a few minutes later. A photo. A name. A file.
"William Krane," Dr. Holt read aloud. "Thirty-five. Warehouse worker. Has a record—small-time theft, nothing violent. Missing for two days."
There was a pause.
"Wait," Holt said, frowning. "That was fast. Too fast."
Laura nodded slowly. "Like it was meant to be found."
Holt leaned over the table. The man's hands were intact. No signs of defensive wounds. And under his fingernails—perfectly clean.
"He didn't fight," Holt whispered. "Or he was dead before he could."
Then he noticed it.
A faint mark. A small, faint brand just behind the ear. Circular, almost burned in. He snapped on a fresh glove and looked closer.
"This isn't from the others," he muttered. "This is different."
The branding was too precise. Too clean. And it was new.
Something intentional.
Something that said: I did this. But this one doesn't belong to them.
In the distance, under the dim streetlights, a woman watching the crime scene from behind a fogged car window dialed a number. Her voice was cold.
"He's escalating," she said. "Or he's mocking us. Either way... he's telling us we're not even close."
.........
Detective Marin stood outside the morgue, smoking a cigarette she swore she wouldn't touch again.
Rainwater pooled in the cracks of the pavement, like veins under torn skin. The city had stopped sleeping long ago. People walked faster. Locked doors earlier. Whispered theories louder.
Five victims now.
The news screamed serial killer. Panic thrived. Every death was being tied to the nightmare of the first four.
But Marin... she had doubts.
Inside the lab, Dr. Holt wiped his gloved hands clean and looked up from the table where William Krane's corpse lay under harsh white light.
"It's not him," Holt said simply.
Marin blinked. "What?"
"Not the same killer. Not even the same kind of killer."
The room fell quiet except for the buzz of an overhead lamp.
Holt pulled up the reports. "The cuts are different. The tool used was sharp—industrial, clean slice to the carotid. The killer knew what he was doing, but he didn't display him. He dumped him. The others were arranged like... like statements. This one?" He pointed at the body. "This one's just dead."
"So it's just... a murder?"
"Yes. A brutal, personal one, but not part of that chain. The symbols, the missing fingerprints, the blood rituals—all absent. This guy just got in someone's way."
Marin exhaled. The room seemed to grow colder.
They had wasted resources. Time. Focused too hard on a pattern that didn't apply here.
And worse...
"Someone out there knows we're looking for monsters," Marin said slowly. "And they're using the chaos to hide."
Holt nodded grimly. "A copycat? Maybe. But more likely... opportunists. The city's cracking, Marin. People are scared. When fear rules, logic dies. Everyone starts seeing the Devil in every shadow."
Elsewhere, in a narrow apartment hallway, a woman ran her fingers over a cracked photo frame of William Krane. Her expression unreadable. A knife rested on the kitchen counter, still wet.
She lit a match and dropped it into the sink full of bleach.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "No one will remember you."
..........
Meanwhile, in the team thats tracking for Missing Detective: Joss Wayar
Commander Graye stood in the center of the operations room, the ticking wall clock pounding louder than any voice in the room.
Before him, the monitors displayed familiar things: grainy footage, empty alleyways, and the glowing red text of dead-end logs.
His team surrounded him—experienced investigators, digital forensics, psych profilers—but all of them sat in silence.
The investigation into Detective Joss Wayar's disappearance had spiraled into total darkness.
Weeks had passed, and the city had changed.
Fear crawled like fog down every street.
Four sadistic murders had turned public trust into panic—and now, one of their own had vanished. Without trace. Without noise. As if the earth had swallowed him whole.
"We've re-scanned every street cam from that night," said Agent Helvig, frustration sharpening his tone. "His trail goes cold near the industrial district, but there's nothing. No sightings. No movement. It's like he evaporated."
"What about financials, call logs, anything encrypted?" asked someone else.
"Clean," came the reply. "He didn't withdraw money, didn't make calls. No flagged patterns. No messages, not even to family."
A heavy sigh. Commander Graye looked at the large board filled with red string and scattered documents. It resembled madness more than strategy now. Leads were opened and closed in the same breath.
Informants came up with nonsense. The psychic they'd consulted after weeks of futility muttered something about "a door inside water" before disappearing.
"Sir," said Helvig again, quietly this time, "we have to consider the possibility that he's dead."
Graye didn't look up.
"No body," he said coldly. "Until there's a body, we work."
But they weren't working. They were digging through fog, and everyone knew it.
Every theory broke apart in their hands.
There was no ransom, no threats, no enemies that hadn't already been cleared. Even the murder case Joss had last handled turned up nothing—just another folder in the city's endless archive of horror.
Outside, the rain started falling hard. Another reminder of how the world kept moving, even while they stood still.
Back at his desk, Graye stared at the top of Joss's personnel file. The photo of the man who had once been their best. Sharp. Precise. Haunted eyes, yes—but eyes that always saw too much.
"Where are you, Joss?" he murmured to himself, knowing no answer would come.
And in the background, another monitor flickered. An empty hallway. Nothing but shadows.
No one knew that Joss was still trapped.
Just not in this world.