It started with a missing persons call.
Then another.
Then a third.
All within six hours.
Different parts of the city.
All inside the radius.
All last seen alone.
One delivery driver. One warehouse cleaner. One homeless man who slept near the rail yard.
No connection between them.
Except time.
And location.
---
Pocho heard about it from Harris.
"You're suspended," Harris said over the phone. "So technically I shouldn't be telling you this."
"Tell me."
"Three missing since yesterday evening."
Pocho was already standing.
"Pattern?"
"Yes."
"Blunt force history?"
"Too early."
"Where were they last seen?"
Harris gave him the addresses.
All inside the circle.
Pocho didn't hesitate.
"I'm coming in."
"You're suspended."
"Not for this."
He hung up.
---
When he arrived at the station, no one stopped him.
The board had changed.
Three photos.
Underneath them:
Missing.
Morrison stood near the board.
"You're not authorized," Morrison said.
"He's accelerating," Pocho replied.
"Yes."
"This is the finale."
Morrison didn't argue that.
He just looked at the map.
"They vanished within a four-hour window," Harris said.
"That's coordinated," Pocho said.
"Yes."
"Which means he prepared."
"Yes."
Pocho stepped closer to the board.
"This isn't random abduction," he said. "It's staging."
"For what?" Morrison asked.
"Control."
Silence.
"He's gathering," Pocho added.
---
By afternoon, a break came.
A patrol officer found a van abandoned near an industrial district.
Inside:
Rope. Metal pipe. Blood stains.
Fresh.
Not enough for confirmation yet.
But enough.
Pocho stood beside the van.
He didn't speak for a while.
"He's not killing immediately," he said finally.
"How do you know?" Harris asked.
"He wants something."
"What?"
Pocho looked at the empty driver's seat.
"A performance."
---
At 5:48 p.m., a package arrived at the station.
No return address.
Inside:
A cheap prepaid phone.
It rang before anyone touched it.
Morrison looked at Pocho.
"Answer it," Morrison said.
Pocho picked it up.
"Yes."
The killer's voice came through clearly.
"You found the van."
"Yes."
"You're getting faster."
"Where are they?"
Pause.
"Alive."
Pocho didn't blink.
"For now," the killer added.
"What do you want?"
Silence.
Then:
"I told you there would be an ending."
"Release them."
"No."
"You want me?"
"Yes."
There it was.
Simple.
Clear.
"You think this is a trade?" Pocho asked.
"No."
"Then what?"
"A witness."
Pocho didn't understand immediately.
"You've been watching," the killer continued. "Now you get to see."
The line went dead.
---
The room was silent.
Harris spoke first.
"He wants you there."
"Yes."
"That's a trap."
"Yes."
"And you're going."
"Yes."
Morrison stepped forward.
"You're not going alone."
"He wants me," Pocho said.
"He's abducted three people," Morrison replied. "We're not negotiating that."
Pocho didn't argue.
But inside, he already knew.
This wasn't a negotiation.
This was the final stage.
The killer didn't just want to hurt people.
He wanted Pocho to watch.
He wanted validation.
He wanted an audience.
And that meant one thing.
The location would matter.
It wouldn't be random.
It would be symbolic.
---
Back at his house that night, Pocho stood in front of the map again.
Three missing.
Three older victims.
Three recent survivors.
Three confirmed.
Everything was built in threes.
He stared at the industrial district.
Metal yard. Storage units. Abandoned warehouses.
Then he realized something.
The killer had said:
"You're watching the wrong door."
He had assumed buildings.
He had assumed hiding places.
But what if the door wasn't physical?
What if the door was timing?
Shift changes. Empty windows. Blind spots.
He grabbed his keys.
Harris called as he stepped outside.
"Where are you going?"
"I think I know the zone."
"You don't go alone."
"I won't."
But his voice didn't fully convince even himself.
Because this time, it wasn't just about catching him.
It was about ending him.
And he could feel it.
The killer was done playing small.
Which meant the next move would be loud.
And irreversible.