The diner was empty except for Milo Carter, wiping down the counter with slow, lazy circles. His shift was almost over. Outside, the streets were quiet under flickering streetlights, the air heavy with the smell of stale grease and burnt coffee. He yawned and checked the clock. 3:12 AM.

  The bell above the door jingled.

  Milo looked up, expecting a late-night trucker or some tired college kid looking for coffee. Instead, a figure in black stood in the doorway. Hood up, face covered, hands gloved. They moved without hesitation, slow, steady footsteps across the scuffed tile.

  A chill ran down Milo’s spine. “Uh, we’re about to close.”

  No response.

  Just a flash of silver, a knife? Then pain. Milo hit the floor hard, the cold tile against his cheek. Warm liquid pooled beneath him. His body jerked. He tried to scream, but no sound came.

  The figure walked to him, crouched over him, calmly. A knife in one hand. The other pressed down on his forehead, forcing his head still. Milo’s chest heaved, but his arms wouldn’t move. He couldn’t fight. Couldn’t run.

  His mind raced. No, no, this isn’t happening. Please— He tried to lift his arms, his fingers barely twitching, but his body betrayed him. Panic filled his lungs, drowning his thoughts in terror.

  The blade hovered for a moment. Then it cut deep, sliding under his right eye. Fire tore through his skull as metal sliced through muscle, nerves, and veins. A wet squelch. A slow, twisting motion. His whole body seized as the final tendons snapped.

  A sickening pop.

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  Milo’s breaths turned to weak gasps. Blood poured down his cheek, pooling in his ear. His vision blurred, but he was still aware—aware of the gloved hand prying open the empty socket. A folded piece of paper slid inside, pressed deep into the hollow.

  The figure waited, watching.

  Then, slowly, they reached out and placed a single finger against the remaining eye—just for a moment, just enough pressure to make sure Milo felt it. A silent farewell. A confirmation.

  Milo gave one last shuddering breath.

  Then, silence.

  The figure stood, slipping the knife back into their coat. No rush. No panic. They stepped over the body, their boots smearing red across the floor.

  The bell jingled again.

  And then silent.

  -

  Detective Elias Nurthea took a sip of his cold coffee, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape. The bitter taste did nothing to shake off the weight settling in his gut.

  Another body. Another mess. Ten years on the force, and murder still had ways of getting under his skin. But this? This was wrong.

  Milo Carter lay behind the counter, his uniform soaked in blood. But it wasn’t just the blood that made Elias’s stomach tighten.

  It was the empty socket.

  A crime scene tech stood nearby, snapping photos. He exhaled, adjusting the camera’s focus with a slow, measured breath. "Jesus. The bastard didn’t just take the eye. He left something behind. Like a goddamn psychopath."

  Elias crouched, the faint metallic scent of blood clogging his nose. He used a pen to lift the edge of the paper wedged into the hollow. A thick smear of red coated the crease. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the neat, deliberate handwriting:

  “Pay more attention next time”

  Elias exhaled sharply through his nose, the words sinking like stones in his stomach. His fingers tightened around the note, smearing a streak of blood across the corner.

  “Pay attention to what?”

  The crime scene buzzed around him—voices, camera flashes, the hum of conversation. But all he heard was silence. His jaw clenched. The writing wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was a statement.

  A warning.

  The crime tech shook his head, lowering the camera. "I’ve seen things, but this? This is new”

  Elias straightened, shoving the note into an evidence bag before glancing at him. "Get this to the lab. I want a full analysis."

  "Now what the fuck does it mean?"