Elias sat at his desk, the weight of the case pressing down on him like a slow, suffocating force. The preserved eye, floating in its murky liquid, remained sealed in an evidence bag across from him. It was watching. Not literally, but something about it made his skin crawl. The artificial lighting in the precinct cast a sickly glow over the jar, making the cloudy iris seem almost alive in its stillness, a silent accusation hovering between him and the answer he couldn't yet grasp.

  The note attached still lingered in his mind. It felt less like a question and more like a taunt, a push toward something he wasn't grasping yet. The words scratched at the back of his mind, demanding acknowledgment.

  Across from him, Rowan sat with his arms crossed, staring at the whiteboard where they had pinned everything they knew so far.

  Elias exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. He gazed at the board, where the case chaos sprawled out before him. And at the center were the crime scene photos of Milo Carter, his body slumped lifeless in the booth, the deep red of his blood is clear against the cracked diner tiles. The coroner's report was tacked beside them, detailing the chillingly precise incision across the throat, the careful removal of the right eye, and the unsettling absence of any defensive wounds.

  Around the edges of the board, sticky notes crowded for space—handwritten fragments of testimony from the witnesses: "Saw a figure, but didn't think much of it," "Thought he was just another customer," "Didn't hear anything unusual." Every statement carried the same eerie indifference, as though each witness had unknowingly glanced at something essential and dismissed it. Had they all overlooked the same shadow moving through their lives?

  Further down, a copy of the initial police report was placed. No forced entry. No sign of a break-in. Carter's personal belongings were undisturbed—wallet still in his pocket, phone untouched. The only thing missing was his eye.

  In another section of the board, autopsy details were listed: the throat was slit with a single, clean stroke—deep but controlled. The eye had been removed post-mortem with surgical precision, and the optic nerve severed cleanly. The coroner noted that whoever did it had knowledge of human anatomy. A scalpel or an extremely sharp blade had been used. There were no hesitation marks, no signs of uncertainty.

  Witness testimonies were stacked below—fragments of casual dismissals. The night worker at the gas station heard something outside but ignored it. The delivery driver spotted someone leaving but didn't think much of it. A pattern emerged—not in what was seen but in what was ignored.

  And then, at the very center of it all, pinned just beside the evidence bag containing the severed eye, were the two notes: Do you still not see it? and Pay more attention next time. The words clawed at his thoughts, their meaning just out of reach. The pieces were in front of him, waiting to be connected. But something—something crucial—remained unseen.

  "We're missing something," Rowan muttered, eyes scanning the evidence pinned to the board.

  "No kidding." Elias leaned forward, tapping a pen against the desk. "It's the phrasing. Pay more attention next time. Do you still not see it? Next time for who?, See what?"

  Rowan sighed, shaking his head. "Maybe it's just a scare tactic. You know, ooh, spooky message from a serial killer."

  Elias gave him a flat look. "Yeah, because they always leave cryptic notes just for fun."

  Rowan smirked. "I mean, if I were a deranged psychopath, I'd at least try to keep it interesting. Maybe throw in a riddle. What has one eye but cannot see?"

  Elias groaned. "You're not helping."

  "Hey, I'm just saying, if we're gonna deal with creepy murder messages, we might as well have a little entertainment." Rowan leaned back, but his smirk faded as he refocused on the board. "Seriously, though. Next time for who?, See what..where..?"

  The humor dissipated, leaving behind a heavy silence.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Elias grabbed the case files again, flipping through the initial witness statements. The night worker at the gas station. A delivery driver. Each statement was vague, the words blending into a fog of uncertainty. People who had been near had seen—but not enough.

  He traced his finger over the lines, reading slowly this time. The night worker mentioned hearing footsteps outside but had dismissed them as night drifters passing by. And then there was the delivery driver's statement—

  “I just thought it was some guy leaving. Didn't think much of it.”

  Elias frowned. The words settled in his mind like a weight pressing down his chest. These weren't just casual observations—they were blind spots, moments of inattention that had allowed something to slip through unnoticed. Had each of these people ignored something crucial? Had they unknowingly brushed past the same presence, a figure lurking just beyond their awareness, unseen but always there?

  A deep chill spread through him as he gripped the pen tighter, underlining the words in red.

  “Didn't think much of it.”

  He swallowed hard. It wasn't just one person. It was a pattern. Both witnesses had seen or heard something briefly, but none had truly looked. And if that was true—

  His throat felt dry. His fingers pressed against the underlined words as if they might yield some hidden truth. What if the killer wasn't just avoiding detection? What if he was counting on it?

  The realization clawed at him, cold and undeniable.

  "Rowan...?"

  His partner looked up, sensing the shift in Elias's tone. "Yeah?"

  Elias hesitated, his gaze fixed on the case file before him. "The delivery driver—he saw someone. But he didn't think much of it." His words echoed in his head, their weight pressing down. "What if he was supposed to?"

  Rowan's brow furrowed. "Supposed to what?"

  Elias tapped his pen against the page, the rhythmic sound filling the silence. "Supposed to notice." The realization settled in, slow but sure. "Everyone so far—each witness—they saw something, heard something. But they brushed it off. The night worker. The driver. They all ignored it."

  Rowan's expression darkened. "And what if one of them saw too much?"

  Elias's pulse pounded in his ears. His mouth felt dry as he forced the words out. "Then that means the driver... he's next."

  Rowan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Right, or maybe he just went home, cracked open a beer, and is completely fine while we sit here playing detective."

  Elias shot him a look, the tension in his jaw visible. "'Cause we already are fucking one—and if that were true, he'd be picking up the damn phone.."

  His fingers tightened around his phone as he dialed the number listed in the witness report. It rang once. Twice. Three times.

  No answer.

  Then silence.

  Elias swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the phone. His pulse thudded in his ears as he stared at the silent device, "We're already too late, aren't we?"

  Intermission #2

  A phone rang from across the station, cutting through the quiet chatter and keyboard clacking. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. A patrol officer sighed halfway through a sip of his stale coffee and put the cup down before grabbing the receiver.

  "Metro PD, what's your emergency?" the officer answered, his tone flat, barely masking his disinterest. It was just another call, probably another false alarm or a drunk dial. He leaned back in his chair, already preparing to hang up if it was nothing.

  For a moment, only static crackled through the line. Then, a muffled, unsteady voice emerged thick with uncertainty.

  "I—uh—I don't know if this is anything, but I think I just saw… a body. Maybe? I mean, I'm not sure. But it—it looked like someone's lying there. Not moving."

  The officer sat up straighter, the lazy disinterest draining from his face. His fingers tightened around the phone, and his once casual voice turned sharp. His gaze flicked across the room before raising a hand, signaling the other officers to shut up and listen. With a deliberate motion, he pressed the loudspeaker button, his demeanor now all business.

  "Where?”

  "An alley off 8th Street, near the old rail line," the caller said quickly, breath hitching. "It was dark, and I didn't want to get too close, but… I think something's wrong."

  The room fell into a tense silence as more officers turned their attention toward the call, their chatter replaced by a focused stillness.

  The officer leaned forward, his expression sharpening. "Are you safe? Can you stay where you are?"

  A hesitation. Then, softer—almost as if the caller was afraid to say it out loud—came the reply:

  "I—I don't know. Maybe. I felt like someone is watching me."

  The words hang like a cold draft, seeping into the room's bones. The officer exhaled slowly before turning back to the phone.

  "Listen to me. Don't go anywhere completely alone. Move somewhere with more people, but stay close to the alley. We'll have someone there soon."

  "O-okay," the caller said in a hesitating tone.

  The officer kept the line open, his grip tightened on the phone. "Stay on the line," he instructed firmly before turning to a nearby colleague.

  "Get someone to Rowan and Elias. They need to hear this now!"