The rain hadn't stopped since morning, turning the city into a monochrome smear of flashing lights, drenched asphalt, and half-dead umbrellas. Elias's clothes clung to him like skin as he stepped into the crime scene, nerves dancing beneath every soaked inch.
Damien didn't wait for him.
He pushed through the yellow police tape, coat flaring like a cape behind him, nodding at officers who parted without a word. Elias hurried after him, swiping his ID badge at a bored-looking uniform who glanced him up and down.
"Intern?" the man asked, unimpressed.
"Vale. Elias Vale."
The officer snorted. "Good luck. You're with the Reaper."
That nickname again.
The name whispered through the halls of headquarters like a ghost. Damien Cross. The Reaper. Not because he was cruel—but because death followed him. Every major case he touched, someone ended up dead. Criminal, witness, sometimes even a fellow cop.
And now Elias was his shadow.
The apartment was a mess of blood and silence. A single woman, mid-thirties, found strangled in her living room. The body was gone, but the echo of violence hung in the air like perfume.
"Take notes," Damien said without turning.
He crouched near a shattered coffee table, fingers gloved in black, eyes scanning like a predator.
Elias flipped open his notebook with trembling hands. "Victim's name?"
"Veronica Dale. Elementary school teacher. No priors. No known enemies." Damien moved with purpose, stepping over blood smears, eyes calculating. "Hands tied. Bruising around the throat. No signs of forced entry."
"So she knew the killer?" Elias asked.
Damien shot him a look. "Or trusted him."
The air was cold. Not from the open window, but from the feeling that something unseen was watching. Elias walked carefully, avoiding the red splatter trailing from the couch to the rug. He noticed a detail—small, but odd.
"There's no struggle," he said. "Nothing's broken except the coffee table."
Damien nodded once. "She didn't fight back."
Elias frowned. "Or couldn't."
A flicker passed through Damien's expression. Approval? Amusement?
"Come here," Damien said.
Elias stepped closer.
Damien handed him a sealed evidence bag. Inside was a torn piece of lined paper with ink smudged across it.
"What's this?"
"Found in her pocket. Dated two nights ago."
Elias read aloud:
'Meet me where the trains don't run. I'll tell you everything. Come alone.'
And below that, a name—scribbled quickly, shakily: Eli.
His breath caught.
"Is that—?" he began.
Damien's voice cut through. "Coincidence. Don't overthink it."
But Elias wasn't convinced.
The handwriting looked familiar. He couldn't place it yet, but it scratched at something deep in his brain—like déjà vu soaked in dread.
"Next time," Damien said sharply, "leave your emotions at the door. You can't afford to feel anything here."
Elias swallowed hard and nodded.
They left the apartment in silence.
---
The drive back was tense. Damien's car was immaculate—sterile leather, soft classical music, and no trace of personality. Elias stared out the window as the city bled past.
"You're left-handed," Damien said out of nowhere.
Elias blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
"The way you write. Slanted. Looped e's."
"You analyze my handwriting now?"
Damien didn't answer. Instead, he said, "There's something you're not telling me about your brother."
Elias froze.
"What?"
"That case—you recognized something."
"I didn't," Elias lied. "He died in a car accident. That's all I know."
"Mm."
Damien made a low sound, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief.
They rode in silence again.
But Elias's mind was spinning.
The note.
The name.
The way the victim died—restrained, suffocated, and left with no defense.
Just like his brother.
---
Back at headquarters, Damien dumped the evidence folder on his desk.
"I'm going home," he said.
"What about the report?"
"Write it. I'll read it in the morning."
"You don't want to supervise?"
Damien turned toward him, slow and deliberate. "If you're going to survive this job, Vale, you'd better learn to work alone."
Elias opened his mouth to argue—but Damien was already gone, coat swishing behind him like the curtain falling at the end of a show.
---
That night, Elias couldn't sleep.
He sat at his tiny desk in the student dorms, the glow of his laptop casting harsh light across his face. The victim's file stared back at him.
Veronica Dale. No enemies. No suspicious calls.
Except one.
A blocked number, dialed twice the night she died. Same number called his brother a week before his supposed accident.
Heart pounding, Elias opened a secret folder on his drive—a folder marked only with the letter R.
Inside were his brother's old voicemails, saved from a recovered phone. One in particular he hadn't played in years.
He clicked it.
"Elias… if anything happens to me—look for the man with the silver ring. He's not who you think. He knows what happened. Don't trust—"
The audio cut off.
Elias stared at the waveform, heart in his throat.
A silver ring.
Damien wore one. Always.
Middle finger. Left hand. Worn smooth with age.
---
The next morning, Elias returned to the station early. Damien's office was locked, but he knew the intern passcode. He slipped in, heart hammering, every nerve screaming.
He needed to know.
Inside Damien's desk was nothing—empty folders, clean drawers.
Except one.
A single file, unmarked, tucked beneath a stack of blank report templates.
Elias opened it with shaking fingers.
Inside—an old photograph.
Two boys. Teenagers. One of them unmistakably his brother. The other—
Damien.
Younger, bruised, with blood on his lip—and smiling.
There was a note paperclipped to the back.
"You owe me, Cross. Keep him safe."
Elias nearly dropped the photo.
Damien knew his brother.
Knew him well.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Elias shoved the file back into place and spun around just as the door opened.
Damien stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed.
"You're early."
"So are you."
Damien stepped in slowly. Closed the door behind him. The click of the lock felt like thunder.
His eyes dropped to Elias's hands.
"Touch something you shouldn't have?"
Elias forced a smile. "Just cleaning up your desk. Figured you'd appreciate the help."
Damien didn't smile back. "Next time, ask."
He walked past Elias, but there was something different about him. Tension coiled beneath his skin. His calm was too smooth—like a wire pulled too tight.
"Damien," Elias said.
The ex-detective stopped.
"Did you know my brother?"
A long pause.
Damien didn't turn.
Then—softly—he said:
"He saved my life."
And walked out.