You never get free—lamb to the slaughter.
Whatcha gonna do when there is blood in the water?
The only thing left behind other than a dead millionaire and wings painted in blood.
The Angel had struck again.
It's been a week, and I'm still circling shadows. No faces. No leads. Just a trail that feels less like evidence and more like a game. Whoever this sick-headed killer is, he's leading me somewhere—and I can't tell if it's closer to him or straight into a grave.
He punishes those he deems worthy of death. Every execution mirrors their sins. But how? How does he know so precisely what filth hides inside his victims? Is this Angel a devil worshiper, a vigilante, or something worse? We know nothing of him—nothing except the messages.
Each time, the killer leaves a slip.
The priest's corpse carried one: "False Judgment." That led us to the mayor.
The mayor's body bore another: "Stealing from the poor." That pointed us to the millionaire.
Now… another slip. But what does this one mean?
Something glinted in the corner. A slip again—but I missed it at first, blinded by the gore.
When I saw it clearly, my stomach twisted. The killer had given not just a clue—he gave a time and date.
My phone rang. The cops were already calling me in. A hospital. Another town I'd never stepped foot in.
I followed them into the emergency room. That's when the smell hit us—the metallic stench of blood, mixed with antiseptic. Then we saw them.
Jars. Dozens of them. Stacked neatly, like trophies. Inside each: organs. Hearts, livers, kidneys—harvested from poor patients who thought they were being healed.
The doctor wasn't a healer. He was a butcher.
And opposite the jars, there it was—an aquarium.
Inside, the doctor's own body, half-devoured by piranhas. The water boiled red. A poetic death. A predator drowned in the feeding frenzy he once controlled.
I whispered, almost to myself:
"Blood in the water. The truth came out. Lamb to the slaughter. The innocent-looking doctor wasn't innocent. You will never be free. Your sins will always drag you to your death."
I turned toward the jars. I expected another slip, another clue. But instead, there was only a single message:
"Truly Incomplete."
The cops closed in on me.
"Do you think he did it? There are no wings this time."
I glanced back once. Calm.
"They are wings. Look closer. From above—the jars, the aquarium—they form a pattern. He left his mark."
I left the room and went home, restless. I tore through my files, desperate. Truly incomplete… what the hell could it mean?
After hours, after 2,008 cases, I found it. One detail. One ghost.
An orphanage. Burned down years ago. Officially, the cause was never found. Everyone inside perished—children, staff, the helpless. Reduced to ashes.
The report's final words burned into me: "Case remains truly incomplete."
But something doesn't fit. How could the Angel punish the people of the orphanage for their sins… when they had already suffered the worst punishment imaginable? When every single soul in that orphanage, even the children, burned alive?