Chapter 21
The night felt colder than usual.
Jonas sat in his car just outside the last known address tied to Howard Flint. It was a crumbling apartment block in the outer part of the city—far from where anything ever felt safe. A place where forgotten people disappeared into broken routines.
He'd spent the day combing through death records, public registries, and every digital footprint Flint had ever left behind. The trail was thin—too thin for someone who once held a high-profile medical role. Which only meant one thing: Flint didn't want to be found.
Jonas killed the engine, stepped out, and walked cautiously toward the door. The building smelled like rot and loneliness. As he climbed the stairs, he went over the facts again. Flint's son—Mark—had died in a house fire five years ago. Official ruling: accidental gas explosion. But now? It all felt off.
Apartment 4B.
He knocked.
No answer.
Another knock.
Still nothing.
Jonas turned the knob, expecting resistance, but the door creaked open with an eerie slowness. His hand instinctively moved to the gun at his waist as he stepped inside.
The room was empty. Furniture stripped. Dust danced in the shafts of moonlight coming through the cracked blinds.
But there, on the floor, was a single photograph.
Jonas picked it up. It was scorched at the edges, but still clear enough to see—Flint, smiling beside a young boy. The same boy from the file: Mark Flint. Behind them was a tall white fence. A clinic. The rehab center?
As Jonas studied it, he noticed something else: a handwritten note on the back.
"Pain is a language. And he taught me to speak it."
Jonas didn't have time to react. A shadow moved behind him—quick, fluid—and by the time he turned, the intruder was gone.
Across town, Cole stood by the window of his apartment, phone pressed tightly to his ear.
"You're spiraling," he said into the line. "I didn't sign up for this."
The voice on the other end was muffled. Calm. Calculated.
"You signed up the moment you took a life," it said. "We're bound, Cole. You and I. Your teacher can't protect you forever."
Cole's jaw clenched. "What do you want?"
A chuckle. "I want you to remember what it felt like. I want you to admit you liked it. And then, I want you to help me finish what he started."
The line went dead.
Cole stared at the phone in his hand. He didn't know who the voice belonged to. It didn't sound like Damien. And it certainly wasn't Jonas. But the voice knew him. Intimately.
He sat down, running his hands through his hair. Damien had warned him—once you step into this world, the only way out is through blood. But Cole had believed he could control it. That he could choose not to kill again.
He was starting to realize how wrong he was.
Damien watched the news on his office TV.
"Another murder rocks the city tonight as police investigate the brutal slaying of a retired counselor. The victim, identified as Jacob Traynor, was found with his eyes removed and the word 'LISTEN' carved into his chest. Authorities believe this is the work of the same killer who left a similar message at last week's alley crime scene."
Damien muted the TV and leaned back in his chair.
Jacob Traynor.
He remembered the name. The man had been on staff at the rehab center alongside Howard Flint. Which meant this was the second former employee dead. The killer was picking them off—one by one. But why now? Why after all this time?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock.
Jonas entered without waiting.
"I found the address," he said. "But Flint's gone. Apartment was empty. Found this though."
He handed Damien the photograph. Damien's eyes narrowed at the handwriting.
"This is his son?"
"Yeah. Died five years ago. I'm starting to think that death wasn't an accident."
Damien nodded slowly, keeping his expression unreadable. The boy's face—there was something off about it. Like the smile wasn't real. Like he had learned early that masks were better than feelings.
"Did you see anything else at the scene?"
Jonas hesitated. "Someone was there. I felt it. Just missed them."
Damien tapped his fingers on the desk. "Flint might be the connection, but I don't think he's the killer."
"Then who is?"
Damien looked up. "Someone who lost more than we realize. Someone who sees this as a message. A revenge story. Maybe even… a legacy."
Jonas frowned. "You think the killer is related to someone from the rehab days?"
"Could be."
"Could also be someone connected to Flint's son."
Damien didn't respond. He couldn't—because Jonas had just accidentally landed closer to the truth than either of them realized.
Elsewhere, in a basement lit by a single flickering bulb, a man in a black hoodie sharpened a knife against a whetstone. Beside him were photos—grainy, printed from surveillance cams. One of Cole. One of Damien. One of a group of patients outside the old rehab facility.
He picked up one photo—the burned one from Flint's apartment—and carefully folded it into a small box. Then he whispered:
"He forgot about you. But I didn't."
He sealed the box and placed it on the table.
There were three more boxes already lined up, each with a name etched into the lid. Each one ready.
Ready to be delivered.