The Crime Scene
The morning was gray—thick, heavy, as if the clouds had settled right onto the ground.
Water dripped from the pipes hanging off the roofs, forming thin, almost silver threads. Cars moved slowly, leaving tracks on the wet asphalt. People hurried by, heads down, shoulders hunched into their coats, as if afraid of this morning.
Detective Mark Raines stopped at the abandoned warehouse and looked at the yellow tape stretched across the rusty gates.
He exhaled—a long, weary breath, the kind of sigh a man lets out after seeing death too often and good things too rarely.
Detective Lindsay Hale was already inside, talking to a patrol officer. Seeing Mark, she raised her gaze. Dark circles under her eyes showed that she had also been woken in the middle of the night.
"So," Mark approached, exposing his face to the cold air. "What do we have?"
Lindsay gave him a brief look, then glanced at the warehouse doors.
"I don't think this is something you want to see on a full stomach."
Mark raised an eyebrow.
"Do I look like someone who had breakfast?"
She snorted dryly, without a trace of a smile.
"Then let's go."
They stepped inside. The air in the warehouse was heavy and damp. The smell of mildew hit Mark's nose instantly, mixed with something metallic, coppery—the scent of blood.
Forensic lights illuminated the large space. Somewhere near the ceiling, an old lamp flickered, casting shadows on the walls that seemed almost alive.
In the center of the room stood a chair.
Gray, industrial, battered. On the floor around it, dried blood had spread in a wide circle.
And on the chair—was the body. Peter Holt.
Mark recognized him immediately.
This man had appeared in the news often enough: a construction contractor, millions in the bank, reputation issues… yet it always seemed to slide. Mark had never liked people like that.
But now, Holt looked different.
Too human.
Too fragile.
He was tied to the chair, his head drooping forward. A metal contraption, resembling a horrifying mask, wrapped around his skull. The jaw… Mark gritted his teeth—it was torn. Bones were visible through the bloody splits.
His eyes were open, as if he had glimpsed his own death.
"Damn…" Mark whispered.
Lindsay stood nearby, watching his reaction closely.
"See this?" she pointed to Holt's shoulder.
Mark leaned closer and saw on the skin a neat, almost perfect puzzle-shaped cut.
"This…" he frowned.
Forensic scientist Dr. Hoffman approached—a large, balding man, always calm, even when blood flowed like a river around him.
"The trap triggered instantly," he said, looking at the body. "A homemade mechanical device, modified from the concept of an industrial clamp. Designed for use on a human being. Death occurred within seconds of activation."
"How professional is it?" Mark asked.
Hoffman smirked reluctantly, as if embarrassed to judge someone's cruelty as craftsmanship.
"Very professional. I've never seen mechanisms like this. Looks like a bear trap… only this one opens instead of closing. I'd call it a reverse bear trap.
Such devices are built either by engineers or…"—he hesitated—"or by maniacs who think like engineers."
Mark glanced at Lindsay.
"Heard that?"
She nodded. On the table, opposite the chair where the victim had sat, was a television—old, black, switched off.
Mark whistled.
"Who even uses this junk nowadays?"
"Those who like the style," Lindsay replied. "Or those not used to new technology."
"Turn it on," Mark said.
Lindsay pressed the button.
After a brief pause, the screen lit up, and a fragment left by the killer began to play.
On the screen appeared a doll—a sinister mannequin, resembling an old theatrical puppet with disturbingly human features.
Its face was smooth, deathly pale, like porcelain, with small cracks and wear, as if the doll had survived decades of human suffering.
While the doll finished its monologue, Mark approached Peter's body. He examined the fastenings, the chains, the trap mechanism carefully. His mind raced with dozens of thoughts.
"Professional," he muttered. "Cold. Precise… Could someone have considered Peter responsible for accidents?"
"He was guilty," Lindsay said. "I checked the records. Three deaths at construction sites. Safety violations. Forged reports. He concealed responsibility."
Mark shrugged.
"Guilty or not doesn't change the fact he was killed."
"Still," Lindsay leaned toward the mechanism, "I don't think the killer sees himself as a murderer."
He looked at her.
"So he considers himself a judge?"
"Maybe a judge. Maybe a teacher," Lindsay said. "He 'teaches' through games. The question is—what?"
Gradually, the warehouse emptied. Forensics finished collecting evidence. Peter's body was placed in a bag. The trap was removed separately—as the main exhibit.
Yet Mark felt: something was off.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
He was about to head for the exit when he noticed a faint gleam in the shadow by the wall.
"Wait…" he said and approached.
A chair stood against the concrete wall.
Mark sat on it, looking toward the place where Peter's body had been.
"He watched," Mark whispered. "Sat here. Watched… while he struggled."
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
"A maniac who watches his trap work. That's…"
"That means," Lindsay met his gaze, "he's confident. And he's not done yet."
Outside, they stopped under the rain.
"Alright," Mark switched on the recorder. "Forming a working theory. Unknown uses mechanical traps.
The victim has a long list of violations and hidden crimes. The trap is professionally designed. Seems like revenge. Or a ritual. Or…"
"Or a 'lesson,'" Lindsay added. "The killer apparently wasn't seeking revenge. He gave a chance. And only executed those who didn't take it."
Mark turned off the recorder.
"Excellent. A psycho who thinks of himself as a moral authority."
Lindsay gave him a strange look.
"You know, Mark… he's more dangerous than most maniacs."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't see himself as a killer.
He sees himself as a doctor. A teacher.
To those who 'correct' the world."
Mark muttered grimly, "People like that never stop."
They were about to get into the car when an officer ran out of the building.
"Detectives! You have to see this!"
They returned inside.
The officer led them to a wooden box by the wall. Previously, it had blended in with old equipment.
Now—it was open.
Inside lay a cassette player.
Mark pressed play.
A voice came through.
Even. Mechanical. Yet strangely warm.
"Hello, detectives. If you are listening, that means the game has begun."
Mark froze.
Lindsay tensed.
"In this world, there are too many who live causing harm. Too many who hide behind the law, money, and connections. If you want to catch me, ask yourself one question…"
Pause.
"…are you ready to face the truth when you see it?"
The voice softened.
"That was the first lesson. The game is just beginning."
The recording ended.
Mark swore.
"Perfect… He's already playing with us."
Lindsay stared at the player, her eyes narrowed.
"He's not just playing. He's inviting us."
Mark frowned.
"To what?"
She whispered, "To the next game."
Somewhere in the city, in a one-room apartment, a man in black sat calmly in front of a laptop.
On the screen—Peter Holt's file. The man deleted it and closed the laptop.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
Next to him on the pillow was another cassette.