CHAPTER 2: The Profiler’s Map
389 Words
Raen’s apartment was a study in chaos masquerading as control.
Stacks of old case files lined the walls like grave markers, red strings stretched between them like veins. The corkboard near the window was the heart of it—photos, maps, timelines, and now… the latest victim's Polaroid pinned dead center.
He stared at it in silence.
No forced entry. No clear motive. But always that number.
9.
Why not 1, 2, or 3? Why start with 9?
Raen poured himself a cup of black coffee—strong enough to burn, bitter enough to remind him he was still alive—and sat. As steam curled into the air, he studied the woman’s smile in the photo. She looked... happy. Too happy. Like someone had told her she was safe.
But safety was a lie. He knew that better than anyone.
His phone buzzed.
Elara Min.
He answered, already knowing she wouldn’t call without reason.
“There’s something else,” she said. Her voice was low, tight. “The victim’s bloodwork. It had a synthetic compound I’ve never seen before. Not a drug. Something engineered. And Raen…” She paused. “The blood was laced with trace amounts of silver. Actual silver.”
Raen leaned back slowly, absorbing that. “You think this guy’s experimenting?”
“I think,” she said, “he’s testing boundaries. Body, mind, even time.”
He frowned. “Time?”
There was a long silence. Then she spoke again, quieter now.
“I know how this sounds, but… that Polaroid you found? It’s dated two weeks from now.”
Raen sat still, heartbeat stalling.
“That’s impossible.”
“I checked. The ink’s fresh. The paper’s old. And the timestamp is chemically imprinted. Unless someone found a way to fake future tech—”
A knock echoed through Raen’s apartment, sudden and sharp.
He dropped the call and approached the door, hand on his gun.
Another knock.
Slow this time. Like someone knew he was listening. He opened the door.
Nobody.
But lying on the floor was another Polaroid.
This time, it wasn’t the victim.
It was Elara.
Alive, yet different—eyes wide with fear. Standing alone in what looked like Raen’s morgue. And behind her… was a shadow. Tall. Faceless.
A number was scratched into the bottom of the photo.
8.
- Writer
