The rain finally remembered how to fall.It came down in thin, uncertain lines at first, tracing the grime on the station windows, then thickened into a soft, steady curtain that blurred the city into shapes and colors. Streetlights smeared into long yellow streaks. Headlights became brief, white ghosts sliding past and vanishing.From the outside, the homicide unit looked like every other floor in the building—strip-lit rectangles, tired silhouettes moving behind glass. From the inside, it felt like a submarine: too bright, too sealed, too far below the surface of anything resembling normal life.Adrian sat alone at a smaller desk near the back, a temporary island of ordered chaos.Two open files. \nOne notepad. \nHis phone, face down. \nA cold cup of coffee with a ring drying around its base.On the far wall, someone had pinned a printed photo of Lena's living room. The thin dark line on her throat was blurred out for "sensitivity." The sentence on the wall was not.SHE DIDN'T SLEEP FOR THREE YEARS.Below it, someone had written in red marker:
"Case 21-147: L. Hartman"Another line below:
"MERCY?" - circled twice, with a question mark that looked like it had been stabbed into the paper.The room hummed with the usual noise—keyboards, phones, low conversations—but there was a stiffness under it now, a new tension. Word had spread, in that way it always did, sideways and under doors.A serial. \nMaybe. \nProbably.And something else: \nThe killer had sent a message.Not to the department.To Adrian.He didn't like how quickly that had become folklore.He'd heard it already in the way one uniform had said "Cole's here" that morning—curiosity sharpening the syllables. He'd seen it in the sideways glances when he'd walked past the bullpen, in the way a young detective had straightened her posture, as if she were trying to look like part of the story instead of an observer.He ignored it.He adjusted the angle of the crime scene photo on his desk by half a degree, then forced his hand away.Control where it matters. Not where it doesn't.Across from him, the chair scraped.Detective Lara Hayes dropped into it with the gracelessness of someone whose joints were tired enough to complain.Her hair was damp at the edges from a brief trip out into the rain. Her blouse had a coffee stain near the cuff, not yet dry. There was a new stack of papers in her hand."You look like you're about to rearrange the timeline of the entire universe," she said, eyeing his files."Not the whole universe," Adrian said. "Just the last three years and one city block."She snorted, a sound that started like a laugh and ended like a sigh."Good," she said. "The rest can wait."She set the new stack down between them."Work records," she said. "Hartman's employer finally coughed up the full HR file. Plus copies of her sick leave forms, performance reviews, and one very defensive email from a manager who does not like the word 'liability.'"Adrian turned the pile toward himself, flipped the top page.Columns. Dates. Phrases."'Consistently meets expectations,'" he read aloud. "'Detail-oriented. Quiet. Needs occasional reminders to prioritize work-life balance.'"He almost smiled."Reminders," he said. "As if balance is a switch you forgot to flick."Lara leaned back, stretching her neck until it cracked softly."You see anything yet?" she asked."In her?" he said. "Or in him?""Both," she said.He tapped the file with one knuckle."In her? Yes," he said. "She did everything you're supposed to do to be a good, quiet cog. Stayed late. Took on extra work. Didn't complain too loudly when the stress started chewing through her sleep. Sent polite emails." He flipped to the next page. "There—you see? Three years ago. Request for flexible hours due to 'health concerns.' Denied."Lara leaned forward."Let me see," she said, pulling the paper closer.The email was short.Dear Ms. Hartman,
- While we understand your concerns, at this time the company is unable to accommodate individual schedule shifts.
- We appreciate your commitment and trust you will continue to perform at your usual standard.
- Best, \n> Team Lead"'At this time,'" Adrian said. "Which means 'never, but politely.'"Lara's jaw tightened."She tried," she said. "Formally.""Yes," Adrian said. "Which he will like. It reinforces his narrative."She looked up sharply."He?" she said."The killer," Adrian replied. "He believes he steps in when all the official doors have been closed. Every denial, every 'unfortunately,' is fuel."He turned another page.There: a medical note on file, barely legible, scanned at an angle.'… reports difficulty sleeping, racing thoughts, persistent fatigue… suggested referral to specialist… patient hesitant due to cost…'"Persistent fatigue," he said. "Translated: years of being told to 'hang in there.'"He set the page down carefully, aligning the corners."And in him?" Lara asked, quieter now.Adrian looked at the whiteboard where the word MERCY was circled."He needs witnesses," Adrian said. "Specific ones. Aziz, the clerk. Me. People who can articulate what he thinks he's already proven. He doesn't just want to end things quietly. He wants the ending to be read.""You make it sound like we're his editors," Lara said."In his mind, we are," Adrian said. "Doctors failed his victim list. Friends failed them. Employers failed them. We are the next layer of failure he wants to expose. If we ignore him, he'll work harder to make us look."She rubbed a hand over her face."You know," she said, "when I signed up for this job, I thought the worst part would be the bodies. Not the philosophy lectures.""You can transfer to Traffic," he said mildly."Tempting," she muttered.The door to the bullpen opened with a push that was a little too forceful to be casual.Elias Ward stepped in, raindrops still clinging to his hair, camera bag slung over one shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be here without permission. That had never stopped him.Heads turned.Doyle's voice rose from his glass office: "Ward."Elias lifted a placating hand without looking away from Adrian and Lara."Two minutes," he called back. "You can throw me out after."Doyle muttered something inaudible, but he didn't move. Not yet.Elias stopped at their desk, dropping the bag to the floor with a soft thud.He looked at Lara first."You've been avoiding my calls," he said."That should have told you something," she replied.He shifted his attention to Adrian."You really know how to pick your pen pals," Elias said. "Serial killers texting you now? That's… new, even for you."Half the room seemed to lean invisibly closer.Lara's expression went cold."Who told you that?" she asked.Elias tilted his head."You think information like that stays in here?" he said, tapping his finger lightly on the desk. "Come on, Hayes. A message like that is gossip catnip. You lowered your voice in a corridor, someone three doors away already had the headline in their head."Adrian watched him."How much do you know?" he asked.Elias's smile thinned."I know there's a woman in an apartment with a line on her throat and a sentence on her wall," he said softly. "I know the word 'mercy' is being thrown around in rooms where it doesn't belong. And I know a very specific phone in this building buzzed afterward."He pointed, not at Adrian directly, but at the pocket where his phone rested."You shouldn't be here," Lara said again. "This is an active investigation.""And I'm not asking for case files," Elias said. "I'm here to warn you."Adrian raised an eyebrow."Warn us about what?" he asked."About silence," Elias said simply.He dropped a folded newspaper on the desk.The front page wasn't about Lena. It was about a protest, a political scandal, a sports score. But a smaller column on the right carried a different photo: a grainy shot of police tape in front of an old apartment building. The headline read:"Mysterious Death in City Apartment – Police Tight-Lipped"Below it, a single line in smaller font:Neighbors report "no signs of trouble" before woman found dead."Not mine," Elias said. "Somebody else. Someone who heard 'no comment' and put their own spin on it. Right now, it's just a curiosity piece. Tomorrow?" He tapped the paper. "Someone will add the word 'ritual.' Or 'message.' Or 'mercy killing.' And then you won't control the shape of this at all.""So your solution is what?" Lara said. "We give you everything so you can paint it nicely?""My solution," Elias said, "is that when the word 'mercy' hits the public, it does it with precision. Not as a rumor that sends every insomniac in the city into a panic that someone's coming for them in their sleep."Adrian watched him closely."You think he wants a public stage," Adrian said.Elias met his gaze."Don't you?" he asked."Yes," Adrian said. "Eventually. But not yet. He's still building his script. The first scene wasn't for the public. It was for a very small audience."He did not say "for me."He didn't need to.Elias's eyes flickered, understanding without being told."So talk to me," Elias said. "Off the record, for now. Tell me enough that when some hack starts throwing the word 'angel' around, I can crush it with something sharp and specific."Lara hesitated."We can't—" she began."She's already a story," Elias cut in. "You don't get a vote on that. The only choice you have is whether the story will be true enough to help you, or wild enough to make your job hell."He had a point. That didn't make him less irritating.Adrian picked up the newspaper and studied the small column."…neighbors say she kept to herself…""…police have not ruled out foul play…""…one resident mentioned seeing a strange man in a hood several nights before…"He folded it once, precisely, then set it back down."Elias," he said. "What do you want, exactly?"Elias's answer came without pause."Two things," he said. "One, a phrase I can use that isn't 'mercy killer' or 'angel of sleep' or any of the other garbage I've already heard thrown around. Something that doesn't flatter him.""And two?" Adrian asked."Confirmation," Elias said quietly. "Is he talking to you because you're a convenient symbol… or because he already knew your name before this?"Lara's eyes slid briefly to Adrian, then away.She hadn't asked that aloud.Not yet.Adrian let the question hang between them for a heartbeat longer than necessary.Then he said, "He knew who I was before Lena died. He didn't pick a random number in the phone book."Elias's jaw tightened."University?" he asked. "Old cases? Lectures? Media?""Possibly all of the above," Adrian said. "But I won't speculate for print.""Who said I'd print that part?" Elias said. "I just needed to know whether we're dealing with someone obsessed with your work, or someone using you as a megaphone.""Those aren't mutually exclusive," Adrian said.Elias gave a humorless little huff."No," he agreed. "They're not."He looked at the photo on the wall."She didn't sleep for three years," he read aloud. "Catchy. In a horrible way.""It's not a slogan," Lara snapped."No," Elias said. "It's framing. And framing spreads."His gaze returned to Adrian."So?" he said. "Give me something cleaner. Something I can put on air that makes him less myth and more pattern."Adrian thought for a moment."In your article," he said, "if you insist on using a label at all, call him what he is: someone exploiting vulnerability, not healing it. Don't use words like 'mercy' or 'angel' or 'deliverance.' Use 'manipulator.' Use 'predator of the exhausted.'""'Predator of the Exhausted' is still a bit poetic," Elias said. "But it bites.""Good," Adrian said. "Let it."Lara rubbed her forehead."You're seriously doing this," she said to Adrian. "Feeding him through the media.""I'm insulating him," Adrian said. "If we don't shape the language, he'll pick up whatever narrative flatters him most. If the public starts seeing him as a dark savior, he'll lean into it. If they see him as someone who preys on the already drowning, he gets less glory.""Or more rage," Elias added. "From both sides.""That's your arena," Adrian said. "I'm only interested in how he reacts."Elias's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then slid it back into his pocket."Time's up," he said. "Old man in the glass box is giving me the execution look."He picked up the newspaper, folded it under his arm."I'll keep your name out of it," he said to Adrian. "For now. But if he keeps talking to you…" He let the sentence trail off.Adrian met his eyes steadily."If he keeps talking," Adrian said, "you'll hear about it from us. Not from a leak.""That, I'd appreciate," Elias said. "Monsters are bad enough. Monsters with fan clubs are worse."He turned, lifting a hand in a half-salute to Lara."Detective," he said."Get out," she replied.He grinned and obeyed.The door thudded shut behind him, cutting off a sliver of rain-cooled air.The room exhaled.Lara slumped in her chair, staring at the whiteboard."You shouldn't have given him anything," she said."I gave him less than he'll dig up on his own," Adrian said. "And more control than we'd have otherwise."She didn't argue. Not immediately.Instead, she said, "He asked if the killer knew your name before this.""Yes," Adrian said."You didn't sound surprised by the question," she said. "Or by the answer.""I'm not," he said.She studied him."How long have you suspected someone might fixate on you like this?" she asked.He took a moment to answer."Since university," he said. "When one of my professors told me, very dryly, that if I kept pulling people apart in public like that, one day someone would decide I'd done it to them personally.""What did you do?" she asked.He remembered the lecture hall. Rows of bored faces. One not-bored face in the back, staring too intently."I dissected a case a little too clinically," he said. "Some people don't like seeing their darkness turned into diagrams.""That's an understatement," she said.He shrugged."I made a career out of it anyway," he said.Lightning flickered faintly beyond the windows, followed by a low, delayed rumble of thunder.Her gaze drifted to his phone."You didn't tell him about the new messages," she said."I didn't need to," Adrian said. "They're not about him.""Are they about you?" she asked.He turned the phone over, screen up.The last message still sat there, hours old now:It's lonely being the only one who understands what mercy looks like.He'd left it unread for a while, the blue "seen" mark unsent. Then he'd opened it, because pretending he hadn't wasn't going to change the fact that it existed."No," he said. "They're about the gap between what he thinks mercy is and what I know it isn't.""That's a very pretty way of saying 'yes,'" she said.He almost smiled."Would it make you feel better if I said I feel nothing when I read them?" he asked."It would make me worry you're lying," she said.He appreciated the honesty.He looked at the message again."I feel… engaged," he said slowly. "Not in the personal sense. In the professional one. This is data. Ugly data, but still data.""And nothing else?" she asked.He paused."A recognition of the question he's circling," he said. "Not of the answer he's chosen."She nodded once, accepting that as much as he was willing to give.Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then stood."Captain wants us," she said. "Conference room. Tech found… something."She didn't elaborate.He followed her down the corridor.The conference room was smaller than the briefing room, more cramped. No whiteboard. Just a table, a screen, and the faint smell of stale pastries.Doyle stood at the head of the table, arms crossed. A young woman with close-cropped hair and thick glasses sat near the laptop—Cyber, probably. Her badge read: R. NASSAR."Cole," Doyle said as they entered. "Sit. This is going to ruin your evening.""My evening was already ruined," Adrian said."Good," Doyle said. "Less to lose."Nassar tapped a key. The screen on the wall flickered to life."We pulled what we could from your phone metadata," she said. "The messages came through a masked route, as expected. But whoever he is, he's not as invisible as he thinks."She clicked.A simplified map appeared. Dots. Lines. Arrows."This is the first contact," she said. "The 'You see her now, don't you?' message. Bounced through three different proxy servers, two outside the country. Impressive for a layman. Annoying for us. But—"She zoomed in on one corner."Between the last proxy and your device, there's a nine-millisecond lag spike here. That's consistent with routing through a specific ISP node. That node covers a three-block radius."She clicked again.A map of the city appeared. A circle glowed.Adrian recognized the area before she named it."Hospital district," he said.Nassar nodded."Exactly," she said. "Specifically, this cluster."She highlighted a block."Two private clinics. One sleep clinic. One mental health center. And a rehab facility," she said. "All under the same service provider. All within the lag footprint.""Sleep clinic," Lara said quietly.Doyle's jaw flexed."So our mystery Samaritan of mercy likes to text from near people who can't sleep," he said."Or works there," Nassar said. "Or is a patient. Or uses their guest Wi‑Fi while sitting in the parking lot. I can't narrow it further without a warrant and a better judge than the one we've got on call tonight."Lara's eyes met Adrian's."Three years of not sleeping," she said."And he spends his off-hours near a building full of people who lie awake staring at ceilings," Adrian said. "Of course he does."Doyle's gaze was heavy."You think that's where he met her?" he asked. "Hartman?""Possibly," Adrian said. "If she tried a sleep clinic at any point, he could have been staff. Or another patient. Or someone who just sat in the waiting room watching who came in shaking and left with pamphlets instead of relief.""Cameras?" Lara said to Nassar."There are external security feeds for the parking structures and lobbies," Nassar said. "Getting access will take paperwork. And time.""This buys us direction," Doyle said. "More than we had this morning."He looked at Adrian."And you," he said, "you stay away from that entire block unless you're with Hayes or another armed officer."Adrian blinked."You're restricting my movements now?" he asked."I'm restricting my liabilities," Doyle said. "He's already chosen you as his confessor. I won't make it easy for him to choose you as his next exhibit."Lara didn't argue with the order.Adrian didn't either.Not because he agreed.Because protesting would waste energy he needed elsewhere.He watched the circle on the map for another moment.Hospital district. \nSleep clinic. \nMental health.Places where people came when they were tired of hearing "It's just stress" from everyone else.Nassar clicked the screen off. The room dimmed."Any more messages?" Doyle asked Adrian."Not since earlier," Adrian said. "He'll wait. He likes timing.""Good," Doyle said. "Let him wait. In the meantime, we go knock on some clinical doors."As they left the room, Lara fell into step beside him."You realize," she said, "if he does work at one of those places, half his patients will match your 'quiet suffering' profile.""Yes," Adrian said. "That's what makes him feel like a hero in his own head.""Heroes don't cut throats," she said."No," Adrian replied. "But people who cut throats rarely call themselves villains."They reached the corridor junction where their paths split—her toward the bullpen, him toward the smaller offices and the stairs.She stopped."Adrian," she said. "One more thing."He turned."When he texts again," she said, "don't answer alone. Wait for me. For Doyle. For anyone who remembers that 'mercy' is not his word to define.""I remember," he said."Do you?" she asked.He held her gaze."Yes," he said again. "Very clearly."She studied his face for a heartbeat, then nodded once, as if accepting a fragile truce with something she didn't entirely trust.He watched her walk away.Back at his desk, he sat, picked up the HR file again, and flipped back to Lena's denied request for flexible hours.At the bottom, in a faint, almost invisible line, was a note from HR:Employee advised to seek external support if stress persists.He stared at the sentence for a long time.External support.That's what the killer believed he was.A last resort.A final, sharp "help" when all the soft ones had failed.His phone stayed silent on the desk.For the first time that day, Adrian was glad of it.Not because he didn't want new data.Because he'd just seen enough of how many quiet doors Lena had knocked on before his.And because in the growing circle around the hospital district, he could already feel the fault lines—thin, invisible cracks—running between people who believed in one kind of mercy and people who believed in another.Somewhere inside that circle, someone was waiting for his reply.Tonight, for once, Adrian let the waiting belong to someone else.