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Dawn hasn't broken, but the city's already stirring. You step out of the warehouse onto slick cobblestones, the cherry-red note still pressed in your gloved hand. Captain Reyes is busy barking orders at the techs, but you don't join him. Instead, you walk to your car, heart thudding against your ribs.
Taped to the windshield, the paper flutters in the damp breeze. You peel it off and unfold it:
> "Every masterpiece needs a signature. Find mine."
— E.
Your pulse quickens. The killer's mocking you now—taunting you to chase him deeper into Eden's underbelly. You tuck the note into your coat pocket and scan the fog-shrouded docks. No sign of the figure from last night. Whoever "E" is, they know how to vanish.
Reyes approaches, coffee in hand, his face drawn. "You okay, Cade?" he asks, voice low. You nod, but don't meet his eyes. "Lab's analyzing the chrysanthemum—tells us it's fresh, grown locally. And the note's got traces of lacquer and printer ink from that little print shop on 5th and Marlowe."
You feel a spark of hope. A print shop is a solid lead. "We hit that shop," you say. "See if he's sloppy enough to leave fingerprints—or better yet, security footage." Reyes cracks a half-smile. "On it."
Inside your car, you dial your tech contact, Garcia. She picks up on the second ring. "Cade, I got preliminary on the bloodwork—no matches in the system. And the victim's ID came through: Alicia Morrow, twenty-seven, local artist. Small gallery shows, a few whispers of talent. That note—'she saw beauty where there was none'—fits. He's obsessed with twisted artistry."
You rub your temples. A killer who crafts corpses like canvases. It fits too neatly. You hang up and glance at the rearview mirror. In the glass, the alley behind you is empty—no shadows lurking. Still, you check the lock twice before sliding in behind the wheel.
At the print shop on 5th, the neon sign buzzes. Inside, paper cutters and stacks of glossy brochures line the walls. You flash your badge at the nervous clerk. "Midnight print job. A4, matte finish, heavy stock. Paid in cash."
The clerk swallows. "I—I remember. Big order. Came last night around 11. Masked. Voice distorted. Said 'strictly private.' Took the prints himself." You nod, then ask the question that matters: "Security cameras?"
He hesitates. "We—uh—we had a camera, but it's broken. Went down last week. We're waiting on repairs." You note the date—last week. The killer planned ahead.
Outside, Reyes is waiting by the cruiser. You share the clerk's story. He runs a hand through his hair. "No footage. No prints. He's always two steps ahead."
You stare at the shop's flickering sign. The killer's trail is cold—but not frozen. Somewhere in Eden, there's a garden of secrets, and you've just planted your foot inside. You light a cigarette, watching the ember glow.
"Next?" Reyes asks.
You exhale smoke into the morning air. "We dig into Alicia's life—friends, enemies, clients. And we warn the galleries. If E's targeting artists, we're racing against time."
Reyes nods. "Let's move."
You pull away, tires hissing on wet pavement. The chrysanthemum's petals are beautiful and deadly, just like this city. And "E" is painting a masterpiece in blood—one that you're determined to unravel, before the final stroke falls.
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End of Chapter 2
The chase deepens. Who is "E"? And which masterpiece will be next?