The Crime Scene
The morning fog clings to the park, wrapping the world in a muted gray haze. The scent of damp earth lingers, but beneath it, Damien catches something more distinct. Copper. Blood. Familiar.
The body lies sprawled beneath a streetlamp, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, the throat slit cleanly. Precise. Elegant. Efficient. Damien hides a smile as Jonas kneels beside him, snapping on latex gloves.
"Victim's name is Thomas Rayner. Twenty-eight. Worked finance downtown. No criminal record." Jonas glances up at Damien. "Anything standing out to you?"
Everything.
But Damien only hums, tilting his head like he's still putting the pieces together. He knows this work. The blade was steady. No hesitation. No wasted movement. It's his work.
Well… almost.
Jonas frowns. "What do you mean, 'almost'?"
Damien hadn't meant to say it out loud. He straightens, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I mean, the cut is perfect, but something's different. Look at the way the body is positioned."
Jonas studies the corpse, brows furrowing. "He's… posed."
Yes. The arms. The angle of the legs. The slight upward tilt of the head. Like an artist experimenting with a new brushstroke.
Jonas lets out a low whistle. "Our killer's got a signature."
Not yet.
Damien's lips curve slightly. But he's getting there.
A uniformed officer approaches. "Detectives, we have a witness."
The Witness
The woman is young—mid-twenties, still shaken, arms wrapped around herself. Jonas steps forward, voice gentle. "Ma'am, I'm Detective Carter. This is Detective Hale. Can you tell us what you saw?"
She swallows. "I—I was jogging. It was still dark, but I saw a man standing over the body."
Damien doesn't react.
Jonas pulls out his notepad. "Can you describe him?"
"T-Tall. Maybe six feet? He had a hood on, so I couldn't see his face, but…" She hesitates, fingers twitching at her sides. "He wasn't scared. He wasn't running away. He just stood there. Looking at the body. Like he was… admiring it."
Admiring it.
Jonas scribbles something down. "And then?"
She exhales shakily. "Then he turned and walked away. Not fast. Just… normal. Like he wasn't worried about being seen."
Jonas mutters a curse under his breath. "Cocky bastard."
But Damien? He's pleased.
Cocky? No. Confident. Bold. Controlled.
Cole is learning.
The Call
That night, Damien sits in his apartment, the city skyline glowing beyond his window. The crime scene photos are spread out before him. The blood. The blade work. The precision.
A father's pride swells in his chest.
He picks up his phone and dials. The line rings twice before a familiar voice answers.
"Dad."
A slow smile spreads across Damien's lips. "Cole."
A pause. Then Cole chuckles. "I was wondering when you'd call."
There's no nervousness in his voice. No guilt. Just satisfaction.
Damien leans back in his chair, tracing a finger along the edge of one of the photos. "There was a murder this morning."
Cole hums. "Northside Park."
Damien's smile widens. "You've been paying attention."
Another chuckle. This one softer. "Was it perfect?"
Damien studies the photo again. The cut. The placement. The artistry.
"Not quite," he murmurs. "But you're getting there."
Cole says nothing for a moment. Then—
"I'll do better next time."
Damien closes his eyes, soaking in the moment. His legacy is in motion. His work will continue.
And soon… Cole will be ready for his next lesson.