"The serial killer that made everyone tremble in fear… finally got arrested. Ethan Voss, the suspect, confessed to seven murders, six of which were written in his diary… and was classified as conclusive evidence, along with an additional murder he had previously committed." the newscaster's voice echoed on every television screen and radio station across the city.
The news spread like wildfire. The streets buzzed with whispers, televisions glowed with breaking headlines, and radios carried the same chilling story from one ear to the next. By evening, people were gathered outside the police station, their curiosity and fear holding them in place.
Inside the station, Detective Irish stood stiff by the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes betrayed her thoughts. She kept them fixed on the holding cell door where Ethan Voss sat slumped against the bench, wrists cuffed in front of him. He was quiet, too quiet for someone who had just admitted to seven murders.
"Time to move," one of the officers said, jingling a set of keys.
Ethan lifted his head slowly, his hood shadowing most of his face. The mask covered his mouth and nose, hiding his expression, but his eyes were dark and heavy, the kind that sent shivers down a man's spine.
The officer unlocked the door and tugged at his arm. "On your feet."
Ethan stood, his movements deliberate, as though each step was a choice. The cold metal of the handcuffs dug into his skin, but he didn't flinch. He didn't resist. He simply walked, calm, like a man going to meet his fate.
The hallway echoed with the sound of boots as the police escorted him toward the main entrance. Through the glass doors, the flashing lights of cameras exploded, and the loud hum of journalists waiting outside spilled into the building.
"Ready?" Detective Irish muttered to the escorting officers. They nodded.
The doors opened.
At once, chaos erupted. Journalists surged forward, their cameras firing non-stop, the sound of shutters clicking like gunfire. Microphones and recorders stretched above the heads of the crowd, hands pushing to get closer. The flash of light caught Ethan's eyes, making him squint beneath his hood.
"There he is!" someone shouted. "The murderer!"
Questions fired in quick succession, each one overlapping the other.
"Ethan, why did you kill them?"
"Were the murders planned?"
"Do you feel any guilt for what you've done?"
"Are you insane, Mr. Voss?"
The journalists' voices clashed together, but Ethan kept walking. He didn't look at them. His head was slightly bent, and the hood cast a shadow across his face. The mask hid his expression, giving him the faceless appearance of a phantom.
Detective Irish stepped ahead, raising her hand. "Stand back, please. We have not completed a full investigation. Nothing has been confirmed at this point. Give us space."
Her voice cut through the noise, but only for a moment. The crowd pressed harder, hungry for a headline.
"Detective Irish, is it true he admitted to killing seven people?"
"Did you find the diary in his possession?"
"Is he psychotic or just dangerous?"
Ethan stopped suddenly at the top of the station's steps. The officers tightened their grip on his arms, confused by his pause. He looked at the swarm of flashing lights and shouting voices. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands to his face.
The officers stiffened. "What are you doing?" one barked.
Ethan ignored them. With a deliberate tug, he pulled the mask down, revealing his mouth. The noise outside dropped to a heavy silence, as if the crowd itself was holding its breath.
His lips parted, and his voice carried clear and steady across the gathering.
"I'm not crazy," Ethan said. His words were low but sharp, cutting through the silence. "I'm a psychopath. I'm a murderer."
The world seemed to shatter at that moment.
Gasps rose from the crowd. Journalists shouted over one another, microphones shoved forward, cameras snapping frantically. People screamed from the sidelines, some cursing, others weeping. A woman fainted at the back, caught by her husband before she could hit the ground.
Detective Irish spun toward him, her eyes blazing with disbelief. "Ethan, stop talking!" she snapped, but it was too late.
Ethan chuckled to himself, a sound that sent waves of panic through the air. It was not loud, not wild, but soft and deliberate, the kind of laugh that crawled beneath the skin. He bowed his head slightly, shoulders shaking with the sound, before lifting his gaze toward the sea of chaos. His eyes glinted with something unreadable, something that made every flash of light seem darker.
The journalists screamed questions again, louder this time, fighting over each other for his words.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why did you kill them, Ethan?"
"Are you saying you enjoyed it?"
Ethan didn't answer. He only laughed again, soft and broken, like the world around him was an inside joke only he understood.
The officers shoved him forward, pushing through the wild crowd as cameras blinded and voices attacked from every direction. Detective Irish barked at the journalists, "Enough! Move back! Give way!"
But her words were swallowed by the storm. The police van waited at the curb, its engine humming like a beast ready to swallow him whole. They dragged Ethan inside, slamming the door shut. The sound echoed like a final verdict.
The crowd outside roared, their voices mixing into a storm of fear, anger, and shock. Some screamed for his death. Others demanded answers. Journalists called out headlines as if they were writing history in real time.
Inside the van, Ethan leaned his head against the cold metal wall, a faint smirk still lingering on his lips and as the van pulled away, leaving the chaos behind, Ethan's eyes drifted shut.
The world outside blurred and suddenly, everything faded into the sound of rain.
Three months before his arrest…