John stood rooted, brow knotted tight, right hand cmped over his chin, his palm smothering his nose and mouth, like he could choke down the storm brewing inside. His eyes burned with anger and dread, worry swirling thick. His pupils darted sharp, locking tight onto what’s in front of him. Around him, the buzz of cops swarmed, pros in vests and badges barking orders, boots scuffing pavement, radios crackling static. But all of this didn’t matter to him, he’d tuned it all out. They were just a wall of white noise smming up between him and the scene. Even Seo-young yammering at his side barely registered, just a muffled hum he couldn’t be bothered to catch.

  He’d figured she’d dragged him out this early in the morning to chew over some case files, maybe some fresh crumb on Mina or that rapist fucker. But not this. Not to shove him face-first into a goddamn sughterhouse.

  The scene sprawled out ahead, a grimy dead-end alley, close enough to the city’s neon hum you could still hear bar chatter if you strained. Police tape stretched across the entrance, a flimsy yellow barricade holding back the gawkers, fluttering weak in the morning breeze. Inside, just a few steps past the line behind a dumpster, the real hell kicked in. A woman’s body, headless, sprawled naked in the muck. Her skull was also there, a foot away, sliced clean off. Clearly, someone took a machete or something else to her neck without a flinch. Her skin bruised purple and bck, ugly splotches blooming over her arms, thighs, ribs, mixed with shallow sshes and jagged little cuts, blood crusted dark where it wasn’t still wet. Looked like she’d been tossed around, carved up slow. Every mark was screaming she’d fought, or tried.

  Then that head—fuck, that head. Mouth gaped wide, frozen in a silent howl, her lips torn at the edges, cracked and bloody, like she’d screamed till something finally silenced her. Her nose smashed ft, the bridge snapped crooked, probably took a fist or worse. And those eyes—empty, gssy, no spark of life left—but still leaking terror and rage, locked in that st second when she knew it was over. The whole damn tableau, body spyed, head lolling, blood pooling sticky in the cracks, looked ripped straight from some underworld pit, the kind that’d make a devil flinch. John’s stomach lurched, but his feet wouldn’t budge. He’s stuck staring, mind cwing for sense in the gore.

  The carnage in front of John hit like a gut punch, despair and helplessness cwing up his throat, sour and cold. That half-baked pn he’d been clinging to—track down the [Charm] caster, force him to undo Mina’s curse? Crumbling to ash now. This wasn’t just some creep he could corner and crack. This was a rapist, a butcher. This sick fuck slicing heads off and leaving bodies like roadkill? No way he’d sit pretty and py nice, unraveling spells just cause John asked nicely. Worse, this bastard had magic—real, balls-out power—in a world where that made him a goddamn king. Every trick John had up his sleeve, every hustle he’d pulled? Jack shit against this. Catching him, breaking him, making him cough up the cure? That was just a pipe dream. This guy could snap John like a twig before he got close.

  Mina’s curse’s one thing. What gnawed deeper was the ticking clock: how long till this psycho’s bde found the women he cared about? Camil, his family, Vivian, Mar, Miko, and everyone else? He’d kill to stop this freight train of trouble, but staring down this raw, unhinged force, all his slick moves felt like pissing in the wind, cocky bullshit that’d get him nowhere.

  The crew around him didn’t clock his headspace at all. They were too busy drowning in their own mess. Cops buzzed like flies—some barking orders, some scribbling notes—but half the rookies couldn’t hack it, stumbling off to the alley’s edge to puke their guts out, retching loud over the gravel. Even Seo-young, a veteran who’d seen crazy shit, flinched hard, twisting her face away from the gore, that braid swinging sharp as she turned to John. But him? Same damn look, same damn stance, hand mashed over his mouth, eyes locked on the sughter, unblinking. Like he’d welded himself to the spot, a statue in the shitstorm.

  This is really fucked up, he thought, bile surging hot in his chest, but he swallowed it back, jaw clenched tight. He wanted to look away for sure, maybe even bolt from this nightmare fuel, but he locked his eyes onto the scene, because he had to keep it together, had to see. Every ugly detail, those bruises, that hacked-off head, the blood crusting bck, all might be a thread to pull, a scrap to grab onto. He forced his breath steady, slow, eyes raking the scene, hunting for something, anything, while his stomach screamed to let loose.

  “Hey, John, quit staring. Let’s get out of here, then you can tell me what you picked up. If there’s nothing, it’s all good too. Forensic report will fill in ter anyway.” Seo-young’s voice cut through the haze, softer than usual, edged with worry. He’d been a brick wall, ignoring her for too long, and she was starting to sweat it. Did I fuck up dragging him here? That bloodbath sprawled out in front of them—head hacked off, body mangled—maybe it’d cracked him, left him reeling in some mental ditch. She grabbed his sleeve, tugging gentle but firm, trying to haul him out of the alley’s stink.

  John shook her off, slow, deliberate, hand slipping free without a word. Still mute, he stood there, eyes glued to the mess, soaking it in for another full minute. Felt like a damn eternity, each second grinding his nerves raw, stomach churning, chest tight. Then—snap—like a switch flipped. He turned, held out a hand to Seo-young, voice low. “Give me gloves.” She passed him a pair of forensic tex, no questions, and he snapped them on, strode over to the corpse, and dropped to his knees in the filth. A couple uniforms lurched forward, ready to yank him back, barking something about contamination, but Seo-young waved them off.

  He got in close, real close, kneeling in the muck, hands hovering over the body, eyes raking every inch. Five minutes he stayed down there, fingers tracing air above the bruises, the cuts, that hacked-off neck, methodically, like he was reading a map in the blood. Cops nearby shifted uneasy, one gagging again into his sleeve, but John didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just worked, face a mask of cold focus. Finally, he stood, peeled the gloves off slowly, which were sticky with grime, and he tossed them aside. He then walked straight to Seo-young, voice rough. “I need a smoke. Let’s go outside.”

  She didn’t argue, just nodded, falling in step as they ditched the alley, hitting the open air beyond the tape. John fished a cigarette from his jacket, sparked it with a firm flick, and took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke coil out thick. Then he spoke, low and sure. “You’re right. This killer’s the same fucker spreading that two-week death ‘disease.’”

  “How’d you lock that down?” Seo-young skipped swatting the smoke this time, her arms crossed tight under her chest, eyes pinned on him, digging for every word.

  He shook his head, blew another plume, gray curling zy in the dawn light. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you now. Wait for the forensic report. You might believe then.” He dragged the cigarette hand across his brow, rubbing hard, then sucked another hit, deep, lungs burning. “Focus on the weapon from that report. Check this. Neck cut’s too clean, too smooth. So the bde’s gotta be really thin—crazy thin, thinner than any knife you can possibly find. Then look at the ground. There is a scrape mark near her neck. She was ft when he chopped her. So sample that dirt, and test it? Bet you won’t find a speck of metal in it. Again, suggesting there was no bde used.”

  Seo-young’s face was shifting now, shock creeping in, jaw going sck, those sharp eyes widening as he id it out. John didn’t clock it, or he didn’t care. He just dug into his pocket again, not for smoke this time. Instead, he pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper, and shoved it at her. “Here, some radio wave specs. Frequency, broadcast method, all on the paper. Get every signal tower in Nexis bsting it, full city coverage. Make sure it happens.”

  “What for?” Her voice hitched, half baffled, half demanding.

  He shook his head again. “Told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But you’ve gotta do this. For everyone in the city.” His eyes locked hers, hard, steady, no bullshit, like he was willing her to trust him. Seo-young froze for a beat, caught in that stare, then snatched the paper, fingers brushing his, still half-dazed.

  As they spoke, the alley mouth was starting to clog. Reporters started to trickle in like rats, shoving up against the police tape, necks craning, cameras fshing wild. Voices overpped, loud and grating—“What’s going on in there?” “Heard it’s a body—true?” “Any statement yet?”—a swarm of buzzards picking at the scraps. A young cop, pretty-boy type, all chiseled jaw and slick hair, stood front and center. He put his hands up, pying the gatekeeper.

  “It was just a homeless guy who died here,” he said, voice smooth, rehearsed. “Not even sure it’s murder yet. We are still doing our investigation.” Then a wiry reporter with a mic jabbed back, “Bullshit. We got witnesses saying it’s a woman, naked, head chopped off!” But this young handsome cop didn’t blink. He just fshed a tight smile, brushing it off. “That’s just rumors, my friend. Nothing big here. We’ll clean up and roll out. Just rex.” He waved them off like they were flies, cool as hell, while the crowd grumbled, unconvinced.

  John watched from the sidelines, jaw dropping—what the actual fuck? Sure, he got it—spill too much, and the city’d lose its shit. But this? Downpying a headless rape-murder to “homeless guy died, oops”? In his book, you at least tell folks a psycho’s loose, let the news scream at women to lock their doors and skip the midnight strolls. He shot Seo-young a look, pure disbelief, eyes bzing, and she caught it clean, stepping close. “That’s Min-jun,” she said, low, almost defensive. “He’s… a good cop, okay? He’s just following orders. Commissioner Miller’s got him on a leash. The commissioner’s running for mayor next round. So he doesn’t want this blowing up his campaign.”

  John cut her off, sharp, done with all this crap. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Keep this bureaucracy crap to yourselves, okay? And tell that Min-jun kid to go suck Miller’s dick. That’ll help him climb the dder even faster.”

  “Hey!” Seo-young’s voice spiked, eyes fshing, offended as hell. “How can you talk about Min-jun like that? He’s a good guy—”

  John was over it. Her words were dripping with that obvious soft spot for Min-jun, like she thought he wouldn’t clock the crush oozing out. This wasn’t jealousy—fuck no—just pure exhaustion at this pointless back-and-forth. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about her golden boy; he just wanted out of this dumbass sidetrack before it derailed the real shit. “You know what,” he snapped, cutting in again, “he’s a good guy and a good cop. I’m sold. Now can you just go hit up those signal towers already? I’m outta here. Got another appointment.” Then he spun on his heel, boots scuffing pavement, and didn’t wait for her reply, just left her standing there, mouth half-open, stuck between pissed and stumped.

  And of course, tonight the city’d be buzzing, news bsting about the serial rapist-murderer tearing through Nexis, today’s new case included. John’d made damn sure of it. He shot a quick text to Tammy as he peeled out, telling her to ping her media buddies and light that fuse. No holding back now; the public needed to know this, so they could beware.

  But this wasn’t his headache anymore. His next stop had nothing to do with TV crews or screaming headlines. He was headed to see Selena, Anthony’s mom. Part of him wanted to blow it off. Understandable, there was too much on his pte already, but a nagging itch in his gut wouldn’t let it slide. This meet-up? Could be tangled with the shitstorm he was wading through. Been weeks since he’d st spotted Anthony at the academy anyway. The kid’d gone ghost, and that wasn’t sitting right, especially with everything happening right now in the city.

  If this was all Anthony’s doing, it’d make sense, honest to God. Just the kind of twisted, petty py that fucking goddess would pull to screw with me—cssic her, tossing in a rival like him for kicks. Plus, this long, ugly rivalry we’ve been hauling around is prime meat for the “audience” out there. Give them a bloody good show, right?

  But really? That simple?

  John’s head swam with questions, doubts chewing at him, sharp and relentless, as he gunned it toward the academy to face Selena.