Inside the abandoned building, the air was thick with dust and the faint stench of mildew. Dim light from a flickering bulb cast eerie shadows on the cracked concrete walls. The atmosphere was tense—charged with an electric kind of dread.
The killer stood near the center of the room, his dark eyes flickering toward the boarded-up windows. Through the cracks, he could see the flashing red and blue lights of police cars parked just meters away. The distant murmur of voices and shuffling footsteps told him that his time was running out.
Still, he smirked.
“They’re finally here,” he muttered, his voice dripping with amusement.
He tightened his grip on the knife and turned his attention back to Carla Simpson.
She was bound to a rusted chair, her wrists raw from struggling against the ropes
