Once again, I found myself waking in darkness. Through the pain in my head, I felt the dryness of my throat and the clenching of my stomach. I felt my chin brush my chest. My neck had grown stiff, but I had no energy to move it. I have no idea how long I sat like that, unable to do anything. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Finally, I heard the door open. Footsteps crossed the room and and something turned on. The same screech as last time sounded, followed by the same awful voice.

"I'm really growing tired of waiting. What kind of person rescues a little girl to whom no harm was even threatened, but will stand by while one person after another is shot through the head?" Just how many people had died? Why was this person so concerned about who had let my hostage go? "One bullet, two bullets, three bullets, four. I've wasted several on this venture already, do I have to waste more?" Of course, no one answered the question. My head was snapped back sharply as a bag was pulled off my head. I was plunged into uneven light and my fuzzy vision caught sight of red. Lots of red. I wanted to lift my stiff arms, to run on unsteady legs, but they wouldn't move. My head dropped back and I forced my eyes to focus, finally seeing the ropes binding me to my chair. There was nothing I could do. "As many bullets as I have to use, as many people as I have to shoot, I will keep this up until someone tells me what I want to know. If no one comes forward, then I'll just have to shoot everyone in the city. One of you is bound the be the person I'm looking for." What sort of person was this? Eyes rolling forward as far as possible, I used what little strength I had to lift my head a few inches as look at the person holding me here. There, on the other side of the room, slowly loading an old fashion revolver, stood... me. Wearing a costume that looked just like mine, down to the last detail, stood a copycat of Phantom Banshee, in appearance at least. I wouldn't have done something like this, not to this extent, would I? I'd known walking into this job that I'd have to do things that would make Hitler cringe, but had I really understood. not that any of it mattered now. This fake was moving towards me. Eyes focusing past her, I stared into the camera as the cold barrel was pressed to my head. My head fell forward. My eyes closed. My breath halted. I didn't want to die.

Pounding. Pounding broke through my panic. I found myself watching the door. The sound apparently had caught "Phantom Banshee's" attention as well. She had her eyes locked on the same place as mine. It was when the door flung open that my head finally cleared. My torso dove forward, pinning itself against my knees as someone shot the copycat's hand. The gun fell and she backed away. Caught in a corner with nowhere to run, she still smiled. Detective Matthew Corum stood facing her, glare and gun steady. Another uniformed figure entered the room and started untying me, but I was watching the face off.

"What happened to 'Don't point your gun at me?'" Whoever this was had been paying very close attention.

The detective ignored the question. Taking slow, careful steps toward her, he spoke in a low voice. "You have nowhere to run this time."

"Oh, but don't I?" This small room was suddenly echoing with a harsh scream. Had there been any glass around, it would have shattered. I slammed my newly freed hands to my ears, from which blood might have been dripping. Corum, however, didn't move. He was learning. When her plan didn't work Copycat instead set off a smoke bomb. I heard a gunshot and the detective's order to shut the door. I myself fell from my chair. I reached out, trying to catch her, but I think I knocked over the camera. The smoke cleared. Somehow, even with the door closed, the smoke cleared. "Phantom Banshee" was gone.