---
You're free.
Not because they cleared your name—no. You're free because "E" wanted you to be.
Three hours after the third body dropped, the station was flooded with anonymous tips, all leading to a fake suspect with a fake address and a fake manifesto. The brass needed a win, and they took the bait. You were "officially" released.
But you know the truth. This wasn't justice. It was theater.
And you were part of the act.
You spend the next 48 hours buried in files, leads, old case notes. You track every connection between the victims. You chase rumors. You interrogate shadows.
Nothing.
Eden City whispers now. Murmurs of a serial killer who toys with the police. A phantom artist painting the streets in red. A public obsessed. A system embarrassed. And a detective—you—a punchline on every news channel.
You're sitting at the edge of the old pier again. Same place as the first murder. Smoking the last cigarette in your pack. You feel him before you see him.
A figure steps from the fog. Black coat. Calm. Familiar.
He sits beside you. Offers you a lighter. "Fire?" he says softly.
You don't take it.
"I know who you are," you mutter.
He smiles, just barely. "Of course you do. You've always known. You just didn't want to admit it."
You grip your revolver under the coat.
He nods, almost amused. "Go ahead. Won't matter."
You draw—but he's already gone. Mist. Footsteps vanish behind you. He leaves something on the bench.
A canvas.
You open it slowly.
It's a painting. Watercolor. Masterful. In the center: you. Sitting right here. Same pose. Same cigarette. Same grief in your eyes.
At the bottom, one word, hand-painted in crimson.
> "Finished."
You realize then: you were never chasing E.
You were his subject. His greatest work.
The fall of a detective. The illusion of a hunt. The unraveling of a man.
He's not trying to escape.
He's signing off.
---
End of Chapter 4
E wins. Always has. Always will. The masterpiece is complete.
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