The crime scene photos lay scattered in front of me, a grim mosaic of violence and twisted intentions. I’d been staring at them for hours, combing through each image, each angle, and each detail. This one didn’t match Dominic’s precise work—it wasn’t careful, it wasn’t clean. It was another copycat, but something was different this time. The killer had gone rogue, abandoning any attempt at imitation and leaving behind a sloppy, chaotic mess.
The scene showed a woman sprawled on the pavement below an open window, her body twisted at unnatural angles. There was no note, no sign of struggle in the room itself, nothing suggesting a typical suicide. But the clues on her body told a different story. Her arms were broken, positioned as if she had tried to stop herself mid-fall or, more chillingl
