Life's only constant is its unpredictability.
When you find yourself submerged so profoundly that even the devil's abode lies above, remember—life is unpredictable; perhaps the devil is shielding you from humans or even God.
When you ascend beyond the heavens, touching realms uncharted, remember—life is unpredictable.
The individual you casually share tea with today might become the era's greatest actor.
The stranger you encountered a week ago could now be bound to his own bed, his body left to decay, licked by a silent, indifferent goat. No neighbors to hear the struggle. No screams to pierce the night. The killer might have simply soaked the man's feet in saltwater, allowing the goat to do the rest. Death, slow and unseen, nestled within the eerie quiet of an empty house.
---
Detective Colhoun's phone rang—a melody so sweet, yet it only ever signaled death.
He stood in a dim alley, its sole illumination a feeble penlight flickering at his feet. The air carried the sour tang of damp concrete, mingled with the faint stench of decay. He retrieved his phone, already anticipating the message.
"Another one," came the voice on the other end.
"Ninth."
No shock, no urgency. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a sigh that sounded more amused than concerned.
His partner, Eric, stood beside him, shifting uneasily.
"Are you going to say something?" Eric asked, already dreading the inevitable.
Colhoun pocketed his phone. Then, with the driest tone imaginable, he murmured,
"At least the target wasn't my dadda-base… that's the best place to save your dad jokes."
Eric groaned.
The two proceeded to the crime scene.
---
The house stood isolated, swallowed by darkness, the surrounding land vast and empty. It wasn't abandoned, but it might as well have been.
Inside, the air was thick with an unnatural stillness.
The body lay tied to the bed, ropes cutting into swollen, discolored flesh. The victim's feet—raw, stripped of skin—bore the unmistakable signs of prolonged exposure to saltwater. The goat had done its work well; its rough tongue had left jagged, uneven wounds along the soles. Some areas were licked so deeply that bone was exposed.
The man's face was frozen in a grotesque half-scream, his throat slit cleanly after hours—perhaps days—of torment. The scent of blood mingled with something earthier, almost… farm-like.
Eric swallowed hard. "What the hell is this?"
Colhoun crouched, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the scene, as if piecing together a puzzle in his mind. He donned gloves before carefully lifting the victim's jaw. Beneath the tongue, as expected—
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"A silver coin," he muttered.
He retrieved a pair of tweezers from his coat and lifted the coin, turning it under the dim light.
Eric exhaled, running a hand down his face. "So it's him."
Colhoun didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stood, his gaze sweeping across the room. Something was amiss.
"He's changing his game," Colhoun finally said.
Eric frowned. "How so?"
Colhoun turned the coin between his fingers. "There's always a pattern. Unless someone doesn't want there to be one."
His expression sharpened.
"Which, in itself, becomes a pattern."
Eric muttered under his breath as they stepped back toward the door. "So it wasn't the seven deadly sins. There's no pattern. He's just playing with us." He paused. "Or with you."
Colhoun shot him a sharp look, then, after a beat, deadpanned,
"Maybe he just doesn't like people who eat meat and people he meet."
Eric blinked at him. "I swear to God, Colhoun—"
But Colhoun wasn't listening. He was already lost in thought, reframing everything he knew about the case.
----
They both stood before the board that had been there from the beginning, reordering every detail, searching for cracks, inconsistencies, or new connections.
The Murders
1. The Feast of Betrayal
Victim: Anthony "Tony" Laskaris (36) – Restaurant Owner
Tony's diner was a second home to many, a place of warmth and excess. But indulgence has a cost.
His corpse slumped over his dining table, his abdomen grotesquely bloated as if he had gorged himself to death. A half-chewed burger, soaked in blood, jutted from his mouth—razor blades lining his shredded throat. His lips, cruelly stitched into a permanent grin.
But his true death was slower. His stomach lining was carefully punctured, his own gastric acid eating him from within. The pain would have lasted hours.
And then, the final mockery—his intestines, coiled around his neck like a grotesque necklace.
On the kitchen wall, smeared in blood:
"THE LAST SUPPER."
Beneath his tongue, hidden by his final bite, lay a silver coin—a signature of something far older than a mere killer.
---
2. Strength Without Authority
Victim: Daniel "Danny" Figueroa (32) – Gym Trainer / Bouncer
Danny built his life on strength—protecting others, defending his pride. He refused to bow. But power only matters if you're allowed to keep it.
His body was found in an alley behind his gym, slumped against the wall. A single bullet to the forehead—a clean kill.
But the scene was far from simple. His hands were bound behind him with his own resistance bands, stretched to the point of cutting into his skin. His jaw was broken, forced open by a dumbbell wedged between his teeth.
A statement. Strength does not dictate authority.
---
3. A Dance of Desperation
Victim: Detective Eric Nolan (42)
Eric chased shadows, but in the end, the shadows caught him.
His fingers still twitched, reaching for something unseen. He had fought—his ribs were broken, his knuckles split.
Two things were found with him:
A large marble, glistening under the streetlight. A puzzle piece that didn't fit.
A silver coin beneath his tongue.
The sins here were tangled. Was it sloth for not acting fast enough? Or was it something more—was he merely the wrong man at the wrong time?
---
4-7. The Others
Each victim, a different story. A former activist silenced. A social media star mutilated. A fighter robbed of his fists. A stockbroker drowning in greed—literally.
Each death was calculated. A message in every detail.
But then—
---
8. The King Without a Crown
Victim: Undisclosed (???)
The scene was pristine. Almost ritualistic. Unlike the others, this one bore no signs of physical suffering. Instead, the message was in the absence of violence.
A single chair in an empty room. A mirror placed before it. The victim's reflection, forever watching itself.
A single phrase was scrawled on the wall:
"What is a king, when the throne is gone?"
No name. No history. Just a lingering presence, as if the victim's identity had been erased entirely.Sometimes even the detective finds it difficult to remember this murder.
---
"And then there is the recent one ...hmm something's off," Colhoun muttered.
Eric frowned. "Yeah, no kidding. This one's a nightmare."
Colhoun didn't respond. He was delving beyond the scene, beyond the patterns, into the mind of the killer.
There was always a pattern. Unless someone didn't want there to be one.
And that meant...
The pattern itself was fracturing.
A slow smile—one that never reached his eyes—tugged at Colhoun's lips.
"This isn't part of the game," he murmured.
Eric raised a brow. "What?"
Colhoun turned toward him, tossing the silver coin once before catching it.
"The killer's changing the rules."
He flicked the coin up again, watching it spin.
"Question is..."
"Who's he playing with now?”