Chapter 5 – The First Body
589 Words
The deeper Damian and Isadora moved into the woods, the darker it became. As if the sun itself refused to shine on Blackwood Park. Damian’s flashlight cut a pale path through the trees, but even its beam looked weak—like the darkness was swallowing it whole.
Isadora walked a few steps ahead, silent, graceful, unbothered. Almost floating.
Damian hated how calm she looked.
Like she knew the ending to a story he was only just beginning.
“How long have you known?” Damian asked, his voice low.
“Since before you arrived,” she replied without turning.
“At the warehouse?”
“Before that.”
Damian stopped. “Isadora. Who are you, really?”
She paused. A slow smile curved her lips—mysterious, dangerous, beautiful.
“Someone who already knows you don’t trust me.”
Before Damian could respond, a terrible smell hit him.
Rot.
Metal.
Blood.
His muscles locked.
Isadora’s eyes flicked toward him in quiet warning.
“You’re going to remember this moment,” she murmured. “Whether you want to or not.”
They stepped into a small clearing.
And everything inside Damian went still.
A body
hung from a tree.
Suspended by a rope, swaying gently in the breeze.
Head tilted unnaturally.
Eyes open—frozen in terror.
A young man.
Maybe nineteen.
His throat slit cleanly from one side to the other.
And carved into his chest—
the jagged triangle symbol.
Damian’s breath shook as he approached.
The metallic scent made his stomach twist.
Isadora stood behind him, her voice soft.
“You asked for something concrete.”
Damian crouched, analyzing the scene.
No signs of a struggle.
No defensive wounds.
Whatever happened… the victim never stood a chance.
But then Damian noticed something—
a folded note tucked between the victim’s fingers.
Placed deliberately.
Waiting for him.
He pulled it free.
Unfolded it slowly.
A single line of handwriting sprawled across the paper:
“Tell me, Damian—how many more will bleed before you confess?”
His pulse spiked.
Confess?
To what?
To who?
Damian tightened his grip on the note.
“This… this is insane. They’re trying to push me—corner me—make me slip.”
Isadora knelt beside him, her perfume mixing with the scent of blood.
“You’re not cornered yet,” she said quietly. “But you will be.”
Damian snapped his gaze at her.
“Why do you always sound like you know more than you’re saying?”
She didn’t deny it.
She didn’t flinch.
She simply stood, coat swaying, eyes unreadable.
“Because,” she said, voice low,
“you’re not the only one with a past, Damian Blackwood.”
Before Damian could process her words, the woods erupted with a sharp sound—
a twig snapping.
A fast, deliberate movement.
Not animal.
Human.
Damian drew his gun instantly, pointing toward the treeline.
“Show yourself!” he barked.
But the only answer was silence.
Then—
a soft metallic click.
A camera shutter.
Someone was taking pictures of them.
Of the crime scene.
Of Damian holding the note.
“Damian,” Isadora whispered, stepping closer, “we’re being watched.”
Damian’s heart pounded as he backed toward the clearing, eyes scanning every shadow.
But whoever was there…
was gone.
Not a sound.
Not a trace.
Just the victim hanging silently in the dark.
And the suffocating realization:
This killer wasn’t just taunting him…
They were building a case against him.
And Damian Blackwood had no idea why.
- Writer
