The station buzzed with artificial light and the low hum of overworked processors. Rain drummed against the reinforced windows, a constant reminder of Apex Prime’s endless storm. Inside the Special Investigations Unit, the team gathered around the central holo-table, their expressions grim.

Sarge had just finished locking Dr. Simon Moore in an interrogation room. The psychiatrist sat slumped in the chair, his nose bruised, his gaze distant—like a man who had just realized his carefully constructed world had crumbled beneath him.

But Moore wasn’t their priority anymore.

The real danger was still out there.

Lance leaned over the holo-display, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but there was tension in his jaw.

"Alright," he said, tapping the console. "Let’s see who this bastard really is."

The screen flickered, and a file unfolded in front of them.

Subject: WRECKER

Real Name: Unknown

Age: 32

Known Affiliations: None

Previous Charges:

Drug possession with intent to distribute

Armed robbery (charges dropped due to lack of evidence)

Illegal cybernetics modification

Breaking & entering (suspected, never convicted)

Assault on an officer (charges dismissed on mental instability grounds)

Cursor let out a low whistle. "Damn. This guy’s greatest hits could fill an album."

Maya frowned. "Mental instability?"

Lance’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the details. "Several psychiatric evaluations. Multiple hospitalizations for psychosis, paranoia, and obsessive behaviors. But no institutional records. Means he always slipped through the cracks."

Sarge folded his arms. "Sounds like a walking disaster."

Maya skimmed through the file, her fingers hovering over the data. "There’s more. He’s been flagged multiple times for ‘disturbing online activity.’ Message boards, dark forums. Obsessed with serial killers and… suicide methods."

Cursor adjusted his glasses. "So he’s not just some street junkie. He’s a collector. A fanatic."

Lance continued. "And Moore’s been feeding him drugs."

Sarge cracked his knuckles. "Where does this piece of shit live?"

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Cursor swiped across the display, pulling up a last known address. "Got it. Sector 12, Lower Docks. Some rundown apartment complex called The Black Row."

Lance nodded. "We move now. We go in quiet."

Maya shifted. "What if he’s home?"

"Then we handle it," Sarge said, rolling his shoulders. "One way or another."

Lance gave the order. "Gear up. We’re going hunting."

The Lower Docks were the city’s gutter—where society’s forgotten were left to rot. The streets were a labyrinth of derelict warehouses, flickering neon signs, and crumbling apartment blocks, all drenched in the constant toxic rain.

The team moved with precision, clad in dark tactical coats, sidearms holstered, silent but ready.

Cursor checked his tracker. "He left about twenty minutes ago. Probably out scoring more drugs."

Lance gestured toward the rusted apartment entrance. "Let’s not waste time."

They moved fast. Maya picked the lock, and the door creaked open into darkness.

The moment they stepped inside, a wave of unease washed over them.

The air was thick with rot—a mix of sweat, mildew, and something else. Something metallic.

Blood.

Cursor muttered under his breath. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this."

Lance gestured forward. "Fan out. Keep it quiet."

The place was filthy. Broken furniture, stained sheets, discarded bottles, cybernetic wires tangled with old drug vials. The floor crunched under their boots—scattered pills and shattered glass.

But it was the back room that stopped them cold.

Maya froze in the doorway. "Oh my god…"

They had found the altar.

The room was small and windowless, lit only by a dozen flickering red candles.

The walls were covered in newspaper clippings, digital screenshots printed out and pinned up with erratic handwriting scrawled over them.

"The Beauty of Death."

"Suicide is Art."

"They Transcended."

"We Can All Be Free."

Photos of dead bodies were plastered everywhere—crime scenes, high-profile suicides, even police case files that should have been classified.

Maya covered her mouth, looking away.

In the center of it all was a crude wooden table.

On it lay meticulously arranged items:

A bloody switchblade.

A set of surgical scalpels.

A hacked police scanner.

And a severed mannequin head, drenched in red paint.

Cursor’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. "No shit."

Lance moved closer, studying the chaotic collage. Then he saw it.

A painting.

Pinned to the center wall was one of Eleanor Vance’s last pieces.

But it had been defiled.

The angelic figure she had painted—the one that had disturbed them so much—had been scribbled over. Dark red streaks covered its wings, its eyes blackened, its mouth twisted into a horrifying grin.

Maya took a step back, shaking her head. "He’s been following everything. The suicides. The hotline deaths. The victims."

Cursor’s eyes darted around. "You think he’s the one who killed Eleanor?"

Sarge clenched his fists. "Feels like a confession to me."

As they were leaving Wrecker’s hideout, Maya pulled Lance aside.

“You’re pushing too hard,” she said.

Lance arched a brow. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m serious, Lance. You haven’t slept. You barely eat. And now you’re chasing ghosts.”

“That’s the job, Carter.”

“You keep saying that,” she shot back, frustration bubbling over. “But this case is different, isn’t it? It’s getting inside your head.”

For a second, she swore she saw something flicker in his expression—recognition, maybe even agreement.

Then, like always, he shut it down.

“Go home, Maya,” he murmured.

She should have left, but she didn’t.

Instead, she reached out, her fingers grazing his wrist. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Lance didn’t move, but he didn’t pull away either.

And that was almost worse.

Because for a brief moment, it felt like he wanted to hold on.

Then he stepped back, and the cold night filled the space between them.