---
CHAPTER TWO: THE NOTE
Rain hadn't let up all day. The city was a blur of wet streets and glowing lights. Elias stepped into the crime scene, clothes soaked, heart racing.
Damien was already inside, moving past the yellow tape like he owned the place. Officers nodded as he passed. Elias hurried to catch up.
A bored-looking cop eyed him. "Intern?"
"Elias Vale," he replied.
The cop smirked. "Good luck. You're with the Reaper."
That nickname again. Damien Cross. The Reaper. Not because he was cruel, but because death seemed to follow him. Every major case he touched ended with someone dead—criminal, witness, sometimes even a fellow cop.
Now Elias was his shadow.
The apartment was a mess. Blood smeared across the floor. The body was gone, but the violence lingered.
"Take notes," Damien said, crouching near a shattered coffee table.
Elias flipped open his notebook, hands trembling. "Victim's name?"
"Veronica Dale. Elementary school teacher. No priors. No known enemies." Damien moved with purpose, stepping over blood smears. "Hands tied. Bruising around the throat. No signs of forced entry."
"So she knew the killer?" Elias asked.
Damien glanced at him. "Or trusted him."
Elias noticed something. "There's no struggle. Nothing's broken except the coffee table."
"She didn't fight back," Damien said.
"Or couldn't," Elias murmured.
Damien handed him a sealed evidence bag. Inside was a torn piece of lined paper with smudged ink.
"What's this?"
"Found in her pocket. Dated two nights ago."
Elias read aloud: "Meet me where the trains don't run. I'll tell you everything. Come alone." Below that, a name—scribbled quickly: Eli.
His breath caught.
"Is that—?" he began.
"Coincidence," Damien said sharply. "Don't overthink it."
But Elias wasn't convinced. The handwriting looked familiar. It scratched at something deep in his brain.
"Next time," Damien said, "leave your emotions at the door. You can't afford to feel anything here."
Elias nodded, swallowing hard.
They left the apartment in silence.
---
The drive back was tense. Damien's car was spotless—leather seats, soft classical music, no personal touches. Elias stared out the window.
"You're left-handed," Damien said suddenly.
Elias blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
"The way you write. Slanted. Looped e's."
"You analyze my handwriting now?"
Damien didn't answer. Instead, he said, "There's something you're not telling me about your brother."
Elias froze. "What?"
"That case—you recognized something."
"I didn't," Elias lied. "He died in a car accident. That's all I know."
"Mm."
Damien made a low sound, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief.
They rode in silence again.
But Elias's mind was spinning.
The note.
The name.
The way the victim died—restrained, suffocated, and left with no defense.
Just like his brother.
---
Back at headquarters, Damien dropped the evidence folder on his desk.
"I'm going home," he said.
"What about the report?"
"Write it. I'll read it in the morning."
"You don't want to supervise?"
Damien turned toward him. "If you're going to survive this job, Vale, you'd better learn to work alone."
Elias opened his mouth to argue—but Damien was already gone.
---
That night, Elias couldn't sleep.
He sat at his tiny desk in the dorms, the glow of his laptop casting harsh light across his face. The victim's file stared back at him.
Veronica Dale. No enemies. No suspicious calls.
Except one.
A blocked number, dialed twice the night she died. Same number called his brother a week before his supposed accident.
Heart pounding, Elias opened a secret folder on his drive—a folder marked only with the letter R.
Inside were his brother's old voicemails, saved from a recovered phone. One in particular he hadn't played in years.
He clicked it.
"Elias… if anything happens to me—look for the man with the silver ring. He's not who you think. He knows what happened. Don't trust—"
The audio cut off.
Elias stared at the waveform, heart in his throat.
A silver ring.
Damien wore one. Always.
Middle finger. Left hand. Worn smooth with age.
---
The next morning, Elias returned to the station early. Damien's office was locked, but he knew the intern passcode. He slipped in, heart hammering. He knows, he ought not to be here.
He needed to know.
Inside Damien's desk was nothing—empty folders, clean drawers.
Except one.
A single file, unmarked, tucked beneath a stack of blank report templates.
Elias opened it with shaking fingers.
Inside—an old photograph.
Two boys. Teenagers. One of them unmistakably his brother. The other—
Damien.
Younger, bruised, with blood on his lip—and smiling.
There was a note paperclipped to the back.
"You owe me, Cross. Keep him safe."
Elias nearly dropped the photo.
Damien knew his brother.
Knew him well.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Elias shoved the file back into place and spun around just as the door opened.
Damien stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed.
"You're early. What are you looking for, kid ?"
"So are you."
Damien stepped in slowly. Closed the door behind him. The click of the lock felt like thunder.
His eyes dropped to Elias's hands.
"Touch something you shouldn't have?"
Elias forced a smile. "Just cleaning up your desk. Figured you'd appreciate the help."
Damien didn't smile back. "Next time, ask. I also won't want you snooping around my desk anymore, do you understand?"
He walked past Elias, but there was something different about him. Tension coiled beneath his skin. His calm was too smooth—like a wire pulled too tight.
"Yes, Damien," Elias said.
The ex-detective stopped.
"Did you know my brother?"
A long pause.
Damien didn't turn.
"We previously worked together and yes, I do know him. He was my friend"
And he walked away.