UNSEEN MURDER

THE SCENE

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of the cordon. Red-and-blue lights cut across the night, bouncing off wet asphalt. Reporters huddled behind yellow tape, microphones ready. Officers moved in hushed urgency, their faces grim.

Sloane unbuckled slowly, her playful smirk fading as the weight of the moment pressed down. She glanced at Jude, but his expression had already changed, the teasing gone, replaced by that sharp, unflinching stare she’d mocked minutes ago.

He stepped out first, shoulders squared, voice low when he spoke to the nearest officer. “Keep the press back. No details leave this site.”

Sloane followed, the damp wind biting through her coat. The smell hit her before she reached the body, coppery, metallic, and final. Her stomach turned, but she forced her stride to stay even.

Ramirez was crouched near the sheet-covered corpse, jotting notes. Trent stood off to the side, jaw tight, arms crossed as if he owned the entire perimeter. Both men looked up when Jude and Sloane approached.

“You’re late,” Trent said flatly.

“Traffic,” Jude replied without missing a beat. His voice was calm, but there was no room left for jokes. He crouched, lifted the sheet just enough to see the mutilation beneath, then lowered it again. His face gave nothing away.

Sloane’s throat tightened. Even after everything she’d seen, the hollow where the heart should have been still made her stomach clench. She steadied her breathing and spoke, voice softer than usual. “It’s the same. Pattern’s holding.”

Ramirez nodded grimly. “Victim was found less than an hour ago. Witnesses say he was at a fundraiser earlier tonight. No one noticed him slip away.”

Jude straightened, pulling his gloves tighter. “Then the killer’s moving faster.”

Sloane crossed her arms, eyes narrowing at the body beneath the sheet. Her voice was steady, but something sharp edged it now. “They’re not playing games anymore. Whoever this is… they’re sending a message.”

The air around them grew heavy, the earlier banter buried under the reality of death. For once, none of them had a comeback.

Only silence. And the promise of more blood.

The four of them stood over Marcus’s body, the city noise muffled under the weight of the crime scene. Rain pattered against the tented cover, soft and steady, like it had all night.

Trent broke the silence first, his voice edged with skepticism. “You’re both too quick to assume it’s the same killer. Politicians die every day in this city. Could be a rival, could be personal.”

Jude’s gaze snapped to him. “Heart missing, chest cavity precise, no signs of struggle. It’s the same.”

Ramirez lifted his head from his notes. “He’s right. Same surgical efficiency. Whoever this is, they know what they’re doing.”

Sloane knelt down beside the covered corpse, her eyes sharp despite the heaviness in her chest. “Marcus was tied to the Mayor’s circle. Just like the others. Don’t you see? It’s not random. It’s a climb. A deliberate one.”

Trent scoffed. “Or maybe you’re just seeing what you want to see.”

Sloane rose, her expression cold. “And maybe you’re ignoring the obvious because you don’t like the idea that someone’s smarter than you.”

Jude’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t intervene. He wanted to. God, he wanted to, but the truth was she had a point.

Instead, he pulled his gloves off and handed them to an officer. “Ramirez, get the autopsy fast-tracked. I want tax screens, time of death, everything. Trent, you can run your own theory, but for now, we follow the pattern.”

Trent’s lips pressed thin, but he didn’t argue further.

Sloane folded her arms, muttering just loud enough for Jude to hear. “Finally, the monkey makes sense.”

He shot her a sharp look. “Careful, Calloway. I don’t mind throwing you out with the trash bags.”

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing more.

The four of them stood there a moment longer, the city pressing in around them. Whoever was doing this wasn’t slowing down and that meant none of them could afford to, either.

The sterile chill of the morgue pressed in like ice. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off steel tables and glass cabinets. Dr. Elara Monroe, the medical examiner, already had her gloves on, her expression hard as stone.

“Third politician this month,” she muttered as the team filed in. “At this rate, I’ll be stitching more suits than tailors.”

Jude gave her a curt nod. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Monroe peeled back the sheet. The room filled with that unmistakable metallic tang, and Sloane stiffened. She forced herself closer, not willing to give Trent the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

“The cuts,” Monroe began, gesturing with her scalpel, “are exact. Same as the others.

Whoever’s doing this isn’t just skilled, they’re meticulous. Almost… reverent.”

Sloane frowned. “Reverent?”

Monroe met her eyes. “The sternum is cut with care. The heart’s removal, no tearing, no rushing. It’s deliberate. Surgical, but also… ritualistic.”

Trent scoffed, pacing near the wall. “So now we’re chasing some cult lunatic?” “Better than ignoring patterns like you always do,” Sloane shot back.

Trent turned on her. “Funny how you always have the answers, Calloway. Almost too funny.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re still on that? Maybe you should stop blaming me for being smarter than you and start doing your job.”

Jude’s voice cut in, sharp. “Enough.” His eyes burned into both of them. “We’re here for the body, not your pissing match.”

Monroe continued, unfazed. “Time of death between ten p.m. and midnight. Toxicology’s pending, but…” She pulled a small evidence tray closer. “We found something in the wound channel.”

The team leaned in. A fragment of dark red cloth sat on the tray, soaked through but intact.

Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not from the victim’s clothing.”

“No,” Monroe said. “It’s thicker. Wool. Could’ve been part of a glove or sleeve. The killer slipped this time.”

Jude studied it, silent for a long moment. His jaw worked, his eyes unreadable. “Bag it.

Fast-track the analysis.”

Ramirez scribbled notes, while Trent’s lips curled in skepticism. “A scrap of cloth isn’t a trail. For all we know, it was planted.”

Sloane crossed her arms. “Keep doubting, Trent. Maybe that’s why the killer’s still ahead of us.”

Jude’s eyes flicked between them, then back to the body. The silence stretched, heavy as the morgue’s cold air.

The killer was escalating. And now finally they had a thread to pull.

THE KILLER'S POV: THE FOX

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. It beat against the windows of the high rise like a steady applause, a rhythm the killer had long since grown fond of.

He sat in the dark, the city stretched out before him, a thousand lights blinking like dying stars. A glass of whiskey trembled in his hand not from nerves, but from the thrill still humming through his veins.

Marcus had begged. Pathetic, really. Clutching at his chest even before the blade had touched him, as though instinct knew what was coming. They all begged in different ways. Some with money, some with tears, some with silence. But their hearts they all sang the same when cut free.

The killer leaned back in the chair, savoring the memory. Clean work. Quick. Surgical. A masterpiece.

And yet, there was irritation gnawing at the edges of satisfaction.

The thief. The woman. Calloway. She hadn’t been meant to see the trail not yet. She was reckless, yes, but clever enough to see the pattern. Too clever.

The killer smiled thinly, dragging a finger through the condensation on the glass. It didn’t matter. Let her tug at threads. Let the detective play the loyal hound. They would circle, fight, gnash their teeth at one another, and all the while the plan would move forward.

Because this wasn’t about them. It had never been about them.

This was about power. About order. About cleansing the rot that had festered at the heart of the city for too long. And when the final piece was carved out, when the fox had feasted on the last name that mattered, there would be silence. A silence the city had earned.

The killer stood, placing the glass neatly on the table, and moved to the desk. A single sheet of paper lay there, folded once. On it, another name, scrawled in ink. The next step.

The fox mark was drawn in the corner, sharp and deliberate. “Soon,” he whispered to the empty room. “Soon, they’ll understand.” And with that, the killer snuffed out the light.