The killer crouched, steady and deliberate, and picked up the photo from the floor. They stared at it for a long moment—then tore it cleanly in half.

Outside, thunder rolled in from the harbor. The storm broke an hour later.

Sheets of rain hammered the tin roof of the storage warehouse drowning out everything but the sound of water and wind. The killer moved quickly, methodically, wiping the handle of the flashlight clean before slipping it into a small duffel bag.

They wore gloves—thin, surgical ones—and a black windbreaker with no logos. Everything about them was careful, practiced. This wasn’t the first time they’d done something like this.

Victor’s body slumped sideways against the crate. The killer crouched beside him, patting his pockets. No wallet, no phone—just a ring of keys and a folded piece of paper.

The paper was damp but legible just barely:

“47-B – Backup copy. Deliver to Hale only.”

The killer froze.

Hale.

They looked at the name again, lips tightening. “So, he still doesn’t know when to quit.”

From the duffel bag, they pulled a small metal cylinder—an accelerant canister used for igniting controlled fires. The same kind used in the Blue Harbor blaze.

They held it up, weighing it in their hand. One flick of the switch, and this whole unit would be gone. But something stopped them.

Instead, they reached behind the crate and retrieved the blue metal box Victor had hidden. They opened it just enough to peek inside: documents, a flash drive, a single photograph—now missing its top half.

“Insurance,” the killer murmured. “You always kept something for leverage.”

They closed the box, slid it into the duffel, and zipped it shut.

Outside, another car pulled up. The killer’s posture stiffened. Headlights swept across the far wall. Someone else was coming.

“Too soon,” they whispered.

They slipped out the back, vanishing through a maintenance door that led to the drainage alley. As they disappeared into the rain, a new voice called from outside the main corridor:

“Victor? You here? You said this was urgent!”

The voice was tense but familiar—steady, professional. It was Detective Marcus Hale. One of the best detective. Some say he is like a bulldog with a bone. The rain came down in heavy, slanted sheets, turning the parking lot into a mirror of gray.Detective Marcus Hale slammed his car door shut and pulled his collar high against the wind. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to come.