The clock ticked past midnight. The office was drenched in silence, save for the scribble of a pen and the occasional clink of a coffee cup being set down too hard. Papers covered every inch of Callum’s desk—autopsy reports, witness statements, photographs, maps. The scent of caffeine and ink hung heavy in the air.

Callum sat hunched, dark circles under his eyes, his usually sharp hair ruffled, a wildness creeping into his gaze.

The phrase burned into every photo like a curse: "I SEE YOU."

He whispered it aloud, tasting the malice in it. “I see you... again and again. Why the same damn words?”

Callum grabbed the photos of the warehouse, the apartment, even the police files on previous unsolved cases with similar kills. He flipped between them, muttering, connecting threads invisible to anyone else.

"Tied. Tortured. Bled out. Same positioning. Same words. And then that scent—" He paused, jaw tightening.

The phantom scent Emery reacted to. No Alpha caught it. No trace was found. But Emery felt it.

Callum reached for another cup, only to find the pot empty. He swore. His hands trembled slightly—part caffeine, part obsession.

“Come on, come on…” he whispered to himself, fingers dancing over old notes. Then his eyes fell on something—something stupid. Insignificant.

A case photo. A wide shot of the crime scene.

There it was. The sentence.

But suddenly—
It wasn’t just the sentence.

It was the placement.

Every time, “I SEE YOU” was placed in the victim’s direct line of sight. It was the last thing they saw.

It wasn’t a message for the world.
It wasn’t a taunt for the cops.

It was personal.

Callum sat up straight, heart pounding. “He wanted to be seen. Not just by them… but by someone else.”

He pulled up security photos. None of the cameras ever caught the killer. But in the background of one image—a blurred, barely visible reflection in a broken mirror—was a shadow. A person standing in the exact line of sight.

Callum’s eyes flared.

“I SEE YOU.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a claim. A conversation.

He grinned, a slow, hungry grin that curled at the edges like smoke. “You arrogant bastard.”

He grabbed his coat. The cold wind outside barely registered as he jumped in his car and drove through the quiet, sleeping city, headlights slicing through fog like a blade.

Emery’s Apartment – 1:17 AM

BANG BANG BANG

“Open the damn door, Emery!”

The door flung open. Emery stood in boxers, hair wild, eyes furious—and a baseball bat in his hand.

“What the hell, Callum?! Are you insane?! You scared the shit out of me!”

“I got something.” Callum pushed past him like a storm. “Big. We missed it. It’s so obvious now.”

Emery blinked, staring as Callum dumped files onto his kitchen table like a madman.

“…You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

Within seconds, Callum laid out the photos, tracing the connections, his voice sharp, fast, animated. “Look here. Look at the placement of the words. Look at their line of sight—every time. It’s not just theatrical. It’s intentional. He wanted them to see him. And in this image—here—” he pointed to the blurry shape, “—he stood right there. Watching them die.”

Emery’s eyes widened. “How did we miss this…?”

Callum smirked. “That’s why I came. We need to go now. Hit that clue before it gets cold.”

“No.” Emery grabbed his arm. “Callum, look at you. You’re dead on your feet. You haven’t eaten, you haven’t rested. You want to chase a killer while shaking on your fifth cup of shitty coffee?”

Callum opened his mouth, but Emery held up a hand.

“You stay. Crash on the sofa. I’ll make something. We’ll go in the morning, together.”

Callum hesitated—then dropped into the sofa with a groan. “…Fine.”

Emery disappeared into the kitchen, and the smell of eggs and toast filled the room.

Callum leaned back, eyes scanning the apartment. It was modest, warm. A far cry from the sterile boxes detectives usually lived in.

Then his eyes caught the photo on the wall.

A man with the same eyes as Emery.
Sharp. Clever. Cold.
Raphael Vance.

His mentor.

Callum’s gaze hardened. He muttered under his breath:

“I don’t want him to be like you, teacher.”

His eyes drifted back to the hallway where Emery’s voice softly hummed a tune from the kitchen.

“…But he’s exactly you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“…What can I do? It’s in your blood.”

To be continued.