Liam kept his gaze moving, eyes flitting from one image to the next with a growing sense of disbelief. Each pinned photo, each sared bloodstain, and every article headline told a chilling story. There were at least thirty separate murders—thirty—brutal, grotesque, and disturbingly artistic in their violence. All of them recent. All of them signed with a word that haunted him: Nightcrawler.
And they had all happened within a single week.
"This... this doesn’t make any damn sense," Liam muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. "I’ve only been out of the loop for seven days. Just one week."
Vanessa stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes dark with frustration. "Yeah, and in that one week, all hell broke loose. It’s a national matter now, Liam. You don’t even know. The city’s flooded with detectives. FBI, special units, forensic teams. Everyone’s crawling all over this like ants."
Liam’s mind reeled. He’d been inside, secluded in his house, sleeping, recovering, explaining things to Dickson and avoiding complications. Sohow, he’d been completely unaware of a storm building right outside his door.
"Detective Ryan..." he said slowly. "Does he still think I’m the Nightcrawler?"
Vanessa shook her head. "No. They ruled you out. Said they checked for any gunshot wounds on your body after your supposed ’accident.’ Found nothing. And on top of that, we confird you were in Russia during the killings."
Liam raised an eyebrow and gave a slow nod. That was at least one thing off his shoulders. No cops breathing down his neck, no tracking, no suspicion. He could walk free.
"Good. That simplifies a lot," he muttered.
Vanessa tilted her head toward the wall of chaos. "So... what do you think about all this? About the Nightcrawler?"
Liam glanced back toward the images. He took a step forward, squinting at the small details most would miss. The positioning of a corpse’s arms in one. The consistent angle of incisions. Another had the word Nightcrawler scrawled with blood in perfect symtry. His eyes moved like scanners, processing quickly.
"See this one?" he pointed. "Victim’s throat was slit left to right, but the killer is clearly right-handed. The blood trails show overcompensation in the first swipe. That’s not sloppiness. That’s showmanship."
Vanessa blinked. "How can you tell that?"
"Because of the angles. Look at how the blood flared outward. He wanted the spray to hit the wall behind. And this one... look at the hands. The victim was posed. The palms are pressed together. This wasn’t soone trying to kill quickly. This guy took his ti."
He moved to another image. "And here, the smile was carved after death. No scream, no strain. You see how clean the cheek lines are? That’s not a torture smile. That’s a ssage."
Vanessa frowned deeply. "Christ, you’re giving the creeps."
"This isn’t about revenge," Liam said quietly, more to himself than her. "This isn’t soone settling a score. It’s not vigilante work either. No pattern in victims—different ages, race, genders, backgrounds. This guy doesn’t hate these people..."
He turned toward her slowly, eyes calm and cold.
"He likes it. That’s the point. He enjoys the kill. The prep. The aftermath. He does this because it gives him purpose. Satisfaction."
Vanessa shivered involuntarily. A slow wave of unease crept down her spine. There was sothing about the way Liam spoke—so clinical, so composed—that made her feel like she was staring into the sa kind of mind as the killer.
"You... sound just like Detective Ryan," she muttered, unsettled.
Liam chuckled and retied the loose belt of his robe. "It’s not that hard to figure out if you pay attention to the details."
He turned from the room and started walking down the hall.
Vanessa followed, then paused and locked the door behind her. As she turned to catch up with him, she asked curiously, "What were you doing in Russia anyway?"
Liam coughed awkwardly. "Sightseeing."
She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She could sll the lie from a mile away, but she chose not to push. Not now.
As she walked a little ahead of him, brushing close to his side in the narrow hall, Liam furrowed his brows. Her scent hit him like a wave—faintly floral, sharp, intoxicating. Her jawline, the gentle sway of her hips. It was too much.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away.
What the fuck is wrong with ? he whispered under his breath, glancing at his hand as if expecting to see sothing unusual about himself.
Vanessa paused mid-step. She’d heard it.
She turned around slowly and stepped closer, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
Liam looked up, and Vanessa’s face was just inches from his. Her eyes were wide, filled with concern, her lips slightly parted as if about to say sothing. Her closeness made everything worse.
"Move back a little," he muttered under his breath, voice strained and raw.
But she didn’t move. Maybe it was the tone of his voice—pained but not forceful. Maybe it was the way his gaze didn’t quite et hers. She was worried. Sothing wasn’t right. He wasn’t joking, not this ti.
"Liam," she said softly. "Are you okay?"
He didn’t respond. Instead, he lifted his head slowly. When their eyes finally t, Vanessa froze.
His gaze was nothing like the Liam she knew. Gone was the playful smirk, the teasing glint in his eyes, the calm calculation that usually sat behind his confident stare. What she saw now was... hunger. No, not hunger. Lust. Pure, unfiltered, and intense.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"L-Liam," she stamred, trying to step back, but the hallway was narrow. Her back touched the cold wall as he took another step forward.
He didn’t say a word. Just kept walking toward her, his eyes locked onto hers like a predator zeroing in on prey.
Her heart raced. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Liam. The intensity in his eyes made her stomach flip, not from fear, but from sothing deeper, sothing she didn’t want to admit.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He didn’t answer. He leaned forward, his face now inches from hers, his breath brushing against her cheek. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. She was too stunned to move.
But then, just when their lips almost touched, Liam moved.
Not to kiss her.
His hand slid into her chest pocket, careful, precise, and without brushing her clothing. He plucked the hundred-dollar note that had been sticking out slightly.
No contact. No touch. Nothing but the money.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away.
"I’m sorry," he muttered, voice low and tight.
And then he turned around and bolted.
Vanessa stood frozen against the wall, eyes wide, mouth parted, heart still thundering in her chest. What the hell just happened?
She didn’t even call after him. She just watched, confused and dazed, as he disappeared down the hallway.
Liam didn’t look back. He just kept going. The mont he reached the front gate, it slid open automatically. He stepped out barefoot, robe fluttering in the wind, and raised his hand to flag down the first taxi he saw.
The cab driver, a wrinkled man with a long grey beard and a cigarette dangling from his lip, stared at him through the windshield, eyebrows arching so high they nearly vanished into his hairline. Still, he pulled over.
Liam yanked the door open and slid inside. He slamd it shut, not caring about the fact that he was dressed like soone who just escaped a psych ward.
The driver slowly pulled out into the road, glancing up at Liam through the rearview mirror every few seconds.
Liam was already irritated.
The rush of emotion, the strange lust that had gripped him like a vice... it had passed the mont he left Vanessa’s house. Now all that was left was a dull headache and mounting frustration.
He stared out the window, jaw clenched, fingers twitching. What the fuck was that back there?
Then he noticed the driver still glancing up, eyes darting between the road and the mirror. The constant watching scratched at Liam’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
He finally snapped.
"You got sothing you wanna say, old man?" he growled.
The cabbie chuckled, completely unfazed. He reached up and scratched his beard thoughtfully, smirking into the mirror.
"Lem guess..." he said slowly, his voice gruff and worn, "you get caught cheating on another man’s wife?"
Liam blinked. "What?"
"Son, I’ve been driving cabs for thirty-five years. I’ve seen every type of ssed-up situation there is. You look like you just escaped a murder scene wearing your bathrobe, barefoot, with lipstick on your face."
"There’s no lipstick," Liam snapped.
The man chuckled again. "Sure there isn’t."
Liam leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t have the strength to argue.
That mont with Vanessa... it wasn’t natural. Sothing had triggered it. Sothing inside him. A shift. A pull. As if his body responded to sothing invisible.
He didn’t even want to touch her. He wanted to devour her. And that scared him more than he cared to admit.
"I didn’t cheat," Liam said after a pause.
"Good," the old man replied casually. "Cheaters always get hit by karma... or bullets."
Liam gave a dry, joyless laugh. "Yeah... bullets."
The cabbie didn’t ask more questions after that.
But Liam’s mind was already spinning. Whatever was happening to him—it wasn’t just lust or fatigue. It was sothing else. Sothing darker.
And he needed answers. Soon.
And only one person could give it to him.
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