The police department was no longer a place of order.
It felt like a mind unravelling—
Papers scattered like unspoken truths.
Voices muttering down long hallways.
Tension clinging to the walls like dried blood.
Then—
A crack.
Fist on wood.
Inspector Rayhan's voice cut through the silence like a whip.
"Why the hell did you let that old man go?!"
He stood over the desk, hunched, knuckles pale from pressure.
"He's the one, isn't he? The killings. The markings. The goddamn whispers—you know it's him!"
But across from him, Isarish didn't move.
Still in his coat, still seated.
Not present. Only paused.
One leg crossed.
One finger tapping the edge of the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
As if time were a piano, and only he knew which key cracked the room.
"You're looking at it the wrong way," he said softly. Measured.
Rayhan turned sharply, disbelief flaring beneath the rage.
"Then explain it to me. Why let a monster walk?"
Isarish's gaze drifted toward the open window—
Where dusk bled gold across rooftops like a confession.
Then back to Rayhan.
"Because monsters like Rafiq don't run when they think they've already won."
"He's not the killer, Rayhan. He's the needle."
"Someone else threaded it."
A pause.
The words hit the floor like bone dropped in quiet water.
Rayhan leaned back; jaw clenched.
"If he's not pulling the strings… then who the hell is?"
Isarish rose slowly.
The room didn't still from respect.
It still from gravity.
"He's the link. Not the lock."
"He connects the bodies. The notes. The patterns."
"But he didn't write the story."
"He's part of the ritual—just not the god it serves."
From the edge of the room, a small voice broke the static.
Alice.
Soft. Barely formed.
"So, we let him go... because he's the only door left open?" Isarish nodded.
Eyes sharp. Voice sharper.
"Exactly."
"He thinks we're chasing his shadow."
"But I'm watching the space it doesn't fill."
"And when he walks into the next part of his little performance—"
"We close the curtain."
Rayhan's arms fell to his sides.
The fire hadn't died.
It had simply changed colour.
"So, we wait?"
"No," Isarish said. "We move with him."
"Let him lead. Let him believe."
"And when he reveals the stage—we make him forget his lines."
Just then—
The door flew open.
An officer. Breathless. Eyes wide.
"Sir! We found him!"
Every head turned.
Rayhan was first.
"Where?!"
"He was seen near the agricultural fields. He's headed toward the old warehouses."
Alice took one step forward. Her voice shook—but stood.
"The warehouses… What's there?"
Isarish turned toward the window again.
Twilight now.
Everything sharp in silhouette.
"The next move," he said. "That's what's there."
Another officer stepped forward, awe leaking into his voice.
"Sir… how did you know he'd go there?"
"No one even considered the warehouses."
Isarish's smile returned.
Thin.
Like a blade pulled just enough to catch light.
"Because predators don't run."
"They return."
"He's circling his own crime scene. Like a man waiting for applause."
He reached for his coat.
One motion. Crisp. Certain.
"He believes in patterns."
"I believe in catching them."
Alice looked up.
Hope tangled with fear.
"So, we're really going after him?"
Isarish didn't look back as he stepped through the doorway.
"We're not just going, Alice."
"We're ending Act One."
"The game is on."