The rain pounded against the city streets, blurring the lights of Veridium into a haze of neon. The air smelled of damp concrete and stale smoke, a reminder of the city’s eternal struggle between life and decay. The city never slept. Neither did its demons.

Damien Blackwood stood on the edge of the rooftop, his silhouette barely visible against the storm, the soft hum of his cigarette the only sound breaking through the downpour. His eyes were fixed on the scene below—another night, another case.

Down in the alley, the body of a young woman lay in a pool of crimson. Her clothes, once vibrant, now soaked in blood, her face frozen in a scream that would never be heard. The rain seemed almost apologetic, washing away the evidence as quickly as it appeared, but Damien was already steps ahead.

He had been summoned by the local police, though they knew better than to pretend to have control over this case. Most murders in Veridium were chalked up to another tragedy, another victim swallowed by the city’s insatiable hunger. But not this one. This was different.

He took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the side, his eyes scanning the scene with laser precision. The woman’s posture was too perfect, too staged. The knife wound wasn’t the fatal blow—her throat had been slashed, but the angle suggested the killer had taken their time. Damien wasn’t the type to believe in coincidences, and this felt like one of those rare moments when fate laid the pieces of a puzzle before him.

The flashing red and blue lights of the police cars reflected in the rainwater, their chaotic dance amplifying the sense of disorder. But Damien wasn’t swayed by the sight. He didn’t wait for orders, didn’t need them. The police knew they had little to offer in this case, and it was always better when he was left to his own devices.

“Detective Blackwood,” a voice called out behind him. It was Inspector Rachel Hennessey, a woman who had seen far too many corpses to be unsettled by the sight of one more. Still, there was something about this case that seemed to rattle her. “We’ve confirmed her identity. Sophia Burns. Thirty-two, no criminal record, no apparent connections to any gangs. She was a nurse. Single. No enemies.”

Damien didn’t turn to face her. His eyes remained fixed on the body, piecing together the fragments of the scene.

“You don’t need to tell me her life story, Rachel,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Tell me why I’m here.”

“Because you’re the only one who can make sense of this,” she replied, her tone laced with frustration. “The wounds, the way she’s positioned—it doesn’t add up. We’ve seen similar cases, but this... this is something else.”

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Damien’s gaze flickered to the woman’s face, her features twisted in a silent scream. Something gnawed at the back of his mind—a feeling, an instinct he couldn’t quite place. He stepped forward, crouching beside the body, ignoring the discomfort in his knees as his fingers lightly brushed her neck. The cut was deep but surgical, deliberate. Her hands, however, told a different story. They were clenched into fists, the nails broken, almost as if she had fought back. But that didn’t fit with the positioning of the body.

His eyes shifted to the side of the alley. Blood droplets, still fresh, led toward the shadows. But it wasn’t just blood. There was something else—something out of place.

“Look,” Damien muttered, his voice suddenly sharper. He stood up and motioned to the edge of the alley, just beyond where the body lay. “I need to see that.”

Rachel frowned but followed his lead, her boots splashing through the puddles behind him. “What is it? Just tell me, Blackwood.”

He crouched again, this time beside a rusty dumpster. The remnants of a black silk scarf hung from the corner, its fabric torn, stained with the same blood as the woman. It wasn’t the scarf that caught Damien’s attention—it was the faintest trace of a fingerprint, smeared across the dumpster’s side.

“Not hers,” he said flatly, tapping the surface. “Whoever did this was careful, but they slipped up here.”

Rachel stepped closer, squinting at the mark. “A print? It’s barely visible.”

Damien shook his head. “It’s not the print that matters. It’s the message.”

He stood, his mind already racing. The killer was sending him a message, deliberately laying the pieces for him to find. The woman was meant to be found, but this—this was the clue that made it personal.

“You think this is connected to the other murders?” Rachel asked, her voice uneasy.

Damien didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned back to the woman’s body, his mind shifting gears. There were patterns in the chaos, patterns only he could see. He had solved countless cases like this, but none had ever felt so much like a trap. A trap that was slowly closing in on him.

“Get me the report on her family,” he said, standing up. “I need to know everything about Sophia Burns. There’s something we’re missing.”

Rachel nodded, taking out her phone. “I’ll have it for you in twenty minutes.”

“Good. And get me access to the surveillance footage from this block,” he added, his eyes scanning the alley once more. “The killer’s not done yet.”

As Rachel moved off to make the calls, Damien stood in the rain, his thoughts swirling. He had seen this before—cases that felt too personal, too carefully crafted to be random. Someone was testing him. But why?

A sudden gust of wind made the rain sting against his skin, and for a brief moment, Damien felt it—the weight of his own unresolved past.

There was something he wasn’t seeing. Something bigger than this case. But for now, he would follow the clues, no matter where they led. Because one thing was certain: the killer had made a mistake. And Damien Blackwood never let a mistake slip by unnoticed.

The scent of blood lingered in the air, and with it, the promise of more to come.