The tension in the room thickened, the glow of the holo-screen casting eerie shadows across their faces. The rain outside drummed harder, as if the city itself was listening.

  Maya was the first to break the silence. “Wait… if Wrecker’s not the killer, then what the hell is he?”

  Lance gestured to the footage, pausing on the haunting phrase scrawled on the wall:

  "HE SPEAKS TO ME TOO."

  Lance’s voice was low, controlled. “This isn’t the writing of a killer taking credit. This is someone following orders.”

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  Cursor frowned, adjusting his glasses. “You think he’s… what? A cultist?”

  Lance shook his head. “No. He’s more than that. A fanatic, maybe. An obsessive. But not the executioner.”

  Maya’s eyes darkened. “Then who is?”

  Lance stared at the twisted mural of the angel, the once-beautiful figure now a grotesque, corrupted form, smeared in dark, jagged strokes.

  “He’s a disciple.”

  Cursor let out a slow breath, rubbing his arms. “Okay. That’s somehow worse.”

  Sarge, leaning against the desk, let out a sharp exhale. “Then if he ain’t the one pulling the trigger…”

  Lance’s jaw tightened, his mind racing through the web of evidence they had gathered.

  “Then we’re still looking for the real killer.”