Detective Nikolov "Dragon" Dante returned to the station with a heavy sense of unease weighing on his shoulders. The bar conversation with John Miller had been unsettling, to say the least. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had just encountered a man who was every bit as dangerous as the evidence suggested. And yet, despite the eerie calmness of their meeting, there was something disturbingly human about Miller. A part of Dante almost regretted sharing his own story, knowing now that Miller had used his vulnerability to manipulate him in ways the detective hadn't anticipated.

Back at the station, Dante immediately dove back into the case. The murky files he had collected over the past few weeks felt heavier now, the weight of their grim contents pressing down on him. The more he read, the more he could sense the twisted narrative that Miller had written with his victims' lives. Each body revealed something new, something deeper. Dante stared at the photos of the bodies—young men, lifeless, mutilated beyond recognition. Each photo sent a chill down his spine, as he wondered how Miller could have done this with such cold precision.

He then reached for the file that had recently been handed to him: a photo of John Miller himself. It was a simple shot—just a basic police photo from his earlier run-ins with the law, but it was enough to make the hair on the back of Dante's neck stand on end. He studied it for a long time, tracing the lines of Miller's face, trying to decipher what lay behind the cold, almost serene expression. That face, so unassuming, could easily blend into any crowd, and that was exactly what made him so dangerous. Miller was a master of playing the part of the normal, charming man, but Dante knew better now. He had seen behind the mask, even if only briefly.

With the photo in hand, Dante left the station and went to the courthouse. He knew the next step in his pursuit of Miller was critical: he needed a warrant to search Miller's farmhouse. The reports indicated that Miller had spent much of his life in the secluded farmhouse, and it was there that many believed he had stored the bodies of his victims. Dante wasn't going to let Miller slip through his fingers, not after everything he had learned.

The courthouse was a flurry of activity as Dante made his way through the crowded halls. The judge overseeing the case was known for being tough but fair, and Dante knew that getting the warrant wouldn't be easy. He presented the evidence—photos, forensic reports, and witness statements—laying it all out in front of the judge. There was no denying the severity of the case, and after a tense silence, the judge nodded in agreement. He signed the warrant, and it was official: Dante now had legal access to Miller's property.

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Dante returned to his car, the warrant tucked safely in his jacket pocket. His heart raced, but there was a sense of hesitation in his chest. He knew what he had to do next—he had to confront Miller, to search his farmhouse for the evidence that would finally bring him to justice. But there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Miller was dangerous, more so than Dante had anticipated. The conversation at the bar had left him with an unsettling sense of vulnerability. The way Miller had talked so casually about his life, his twisted past—it had been like he was leading Dante into his own personal game.

Dante took a deep breath, staring out at the darkened sky. He knew the search wouldn't be easy. Miller wasn't the kind of man to go down without a fight, and Dante wasn't sure what he might be walking into. His hand hovered over the keys to his car, but something held him back. The last thing he wanted was to walk into that farmhouse alone and unprepared, but he also knew that he couldn't wait any longer. The longer Miller stayed at large, the more lives he could destroy.

But then, the thought of what could happen if he wasn't careful—if he underestimated Miller—reigned in his impulse. Dante had seen the carnage Miller left behind. He had seen the lives Miller had taken and the destruction he had caused. One misstep could be fatal.

So, instead of heading straight to Miller's farmhouse that night, Dante decided to wait. He would regroup, gather more information, and prepare himself. He couldn't afford to be reckless, not now. As much as he wanted to bring Miller to justice, he needed to be sure he was ready for whatever might lie behind those farmhouse doors.

The night passed slowly. Dante couldn't shake the image of Miller's face—the way he had spoken with such calmness, almost as though he were aware that his time would come. The detective knew the hunt for Miller was far from over, but he also understood that patience would be the key to his success. He had the evidence, the warrant, and the determination, but he needed to be strategic. One wrong move, and Miller might slip away again.

Dante knew the truth: in this game of cat and mouse, it was all about timing. And tonight, it wasn't the right time.