The Puppeteer's Game

Chapter 6

Fractures and Patterns

That morning, the precinct thrummed with an unsettling tension that lingered deep within. News had spread: another victim had been discovered during the night. The scene was brutal, marked again by those strange ritual carvings.

This wasn't just a series of random crimes anymore. It was something bigger. A pattern. And that pattern was growing.

Captain Reyes didn't bother hiding his frustration. He paced in the briefing room like a caged animal, eyes sharp as they swept over his team.

"Public pressure's mounting," he said, voice tight with urgency. "We need results. Yesterday's pace? Not good enough. Miguel, Emily—follow every lead. Recheck everything. We don't have time to miss anything."

Miguel felt the words settle like a heavy weight. He glanced at Emily—jaw clenched, dark circles under her eyes. They'd both been running on empty for days. The connection they'd built—the quiet rhythm of teamwork—was starting to fray under the pressure. Every shared look now seemed to ask the same question: How much more of this can we take?

The table was a mess of case files, photos, and forensic reports. Victims stared up from the pages—different names, different lives—but all marked by the same chilling symbols. They were too precise, too intentional. Like a calling card left behind. A message. But what the hell was it trying to say? And why them?

Time blurred as the hours passed. Low murmurs filled the room, punctuated by the soft rustle of papers and the scrape of chairs. Clues surfaced, were examined, and discarded. Every piece they found only led to more questions.

Outside, the city waited. Holding its breath. Watching. And with each hour that ticked by without answers, the fear crept in a little deeper.

***

Miguel rubbed his eyes as red string stretched across photos and maps, connecting ritual symbols that raised more questions than answers.

Emily entered, folder under her arm, expression tight. "I matched the markings to the 1998 Phantom case—two victims with the same symbols under the sternum. No arrests. Lead detective transferred, case went cold."

Miguel sat up straighter. "Same symbols?"

"Almost exact. I had the lab confirm it. There's a link, Miguel. Something buried in those old files."

They spent hours reviewing discarded reports. The Phantom case was dismissed as satanic nonsense, but the precise details couldn't be ignored. One name, The Lumen Order—once deemed an urban legend—kept resurfacing.

The days that followed were a blur of interviews and dead ends—informants, fringe historians, even a jittery ex-con who refused to be recorded.

"I don't know nothin'. But if you're asking about them, you'd better be sure," he whispered, eyes flicking to the corners of the diner like the walls had ears. "They see everything."

Emily left that meeting gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual. "We can't rush this," she said, voice low. "They're probably already watching. If we slip up—"

"We don't have the luxury to wait," Miguel cut in. "Reyes is on our backs. And the next victim could already be in play."

The silence after that wasn't just uncomfortable—it was a crack forming between them. Small, but growing.

Over the next few days, the case weighed heavily. Their desks were piled with cold coffee, old files, and scribbled notes. One night, Emily caught Miguel staring too long at the photo of the second victim—a boy barely twenty—his eyes hitting too close.