Rain slammed against the windshield like it was trying to pick a fight. Elias gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. His hands were shaking. Part nerves, part cold, mostly dread. October in the city hit different. The kind of cold that made your bones feel like glass. He really hated the cold.
He sat in the car outside District Nine Homicide Division, just breathing. Or trying to.
"You asked for this," he muttered. "You begged for this. Come on get yourself together, what's the worst that can happen?. You dying like your brother?"
Nineteen years old, and already deep in the place where nightmares were born. The same station that screwed up his brother's case, never solved it , ruled it as an accident. Elias knows that's not true. And now he was walking into it. Voluntarily.
He shoved the door open and ran through the rain like it owed him money. Yeah, now his clothes are partially cold. What a way to start a first day.
Inside, chaos. Phones ringing. Cops yelling. A guy in cuffs screaming about his innocence. No one even glanced at Elias. Just another intern. Just another body.
"Elias Vale?"
He turned. A woman in a wrinkled trench coat waved a clipboard like a sword. Short, sharp eyes. Didn't smile.
"That's me."
"Detective Rowan. You're late. Or early. Honestly, I don't care. Follow me, kid."
She turned and didn't check if he was coming. He had to jog to keep up.
"You're the youngest intern we've had in years, you must be lucky". She said over her shoulder. Yeah, he could use that luck today since everything is going horrible already. "Don't faint if someone throws up in front of you."
"I don't faint," he said, trying to sound like he meant it.
"Cute. Let's hope you don't cry either. It's tough out here, kid"
They turned a corner. Then another. Everything started looking the same—white walls, flickering lights, tired faces. Eventually, they stopped at a door with no name, just a beat-up sticker: Consulting Division – Access Restricted.
Rowan knocked. No answer. She rolled her eyes and pushed it open.
The room looked like a crime scene itself. Papers everywhere. Crime scene photos pinned all over the walls. Red string like some kind of murder spaghetti map. It smelled like coffee, cigarettes, and something metallic. Elias starting to think for a minute if this "Damien" was mentally stable cause why the fuck would someone say somewhere so odd like this.
And there he was.
Damien Cross.
He was standing by the desk, back to them, smoking like this was a noir movie and he was the star. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, lean frame, dark hair messy like he didn't give a damn. He turned—and Elias felt like the air left the room.
Late thirties, maybe. Cold gray eyes. A stare that didn't just look at you—it dissected you.
"Intern," Damien said, voice dry. "You're early."
Elias opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Damien tossed a file on the desk. A photo slid out.
Blood. Alley. Young woman. Mouth open like she died mid-scream.
"Solve it," Damien said.
"Excuse me?"
"You said you're here to solve murders, right? Start with this. Or go home."
Rowan looked at Elias like: good luck, kid. Then she left and shut the door behind her.
Elias stood there, soaked and awkward. Finally, he sat. Opened the file. Read.
Victim: Serena Locke. 22. Strangled. Behind a club. No DNA. No leads. Cold case.
Ten minutes of silence.
Then Elias spoke, voice shaky: "Her body was clean. Too clean. No struggle marks. No drugs. No booze. Whoever did this—she knew them. Trusted them."
Damien raised an eyebrow. "Keep going."
"The bruises—they're too perfect. Not like real strangulation. They were placed. Like... posed."
Damien walked over, slow. Crouched right next to him. Too close.
"So what does that tell you?"
Elias's throat tightened. "It wasn't where she died. The scene's fake. He wanted us to find her—but not the truth."
For a second, Damien's eyes lit up. Not warm. But interested.
"Smart," he said. "But this isn't just one body."
He pulled another photo off the wall. Different girl. Same death. Same creepy, peaceful look.
"Five women. Four years. Same signature. No one connected them. But I did."
Elias stood. "Then why are you the only one working on it?"
Damien's jaw tightened. "Because I don't trust anyone. Not after last time."
That landed heavy. Elias didn't push.
Damien turned back, eyes sharp again. "Let's get something clear. I don't like interns. I don't need babysitting. And I especially don't like pretty boys who think they're smarter than they are."
Elias didn't flinch. "Then why am I here?"
Damien smirked. Not nice. Not friendly. Just... amused. "Because something about you feels familiar."
Before Elias could even blink, the phone rang.
Damien picked it up. "Talk."
Pause.
His whole vibe changed.
"I'll be there in ten."
He hung up. Grabbed his coat. Looked at Elias.
"New body."
Elias's heart jumped. "Same pattern?"
"Fresh kill. Two hours ago."
"I'm coming."
Damien looked at him like he was deciding if Elias was worth the air he was breathing.
"Fine," he muttered. "Don't slow me down."
---
They drove through wet streets, the city looking like it was holding its breath. Elias stared out the window, trying to act calm. He wasn't. This was real. Not school. Not theory. Real.
The alley reeked of piss and death. Blue lights flashing. Cops whispering. Camera clicks.
And the body.
Same age. Same setup. Same twisted peace on her face. But this one had something the others didn't.
A note. Pinned to her blouse.
Damien crouched. Peeled it off. Read it. Went still.
He handed it to Elias without saying a word.
It read: You missed one, Cross. Want me to kill him too?
Elias's hands shook. He looked up. Damien was still staring at the body.
But his face—
All that stone-cold, know-it-all control?
Gone.
For the first time since Elias met him, Damien Cross looked scared.
Like really scared.
And somehow, that terrified Elias more than the body ever could.