Page 5 of The Arbiter
The police found nothing. No hair, no fiber, not a single smudge of a fingerprint. Just a trail of bodies and a name that tastes like copper on the tongue.
I step closer to the body. The overhead lights hum, shining bright on his naked, pale figure. Maybe the killer is here. Or was. Maybe the lights didn’t glitch, maybe they were silenced. Either way, the internal examination can’t wait. My duty is to the dead, even if it puts the living at risk.
The cause of death is clear: a large slit across the neck. But he didn't actually die from the blade. His neck is bruised in a way that shows someone used incredible, calculated strength. He was choked to death first. The wound was just an afterthought. A signature, or a precaution. This man has major trust issues.
My fingers wrap around the scalpel. The cold metal feels like an extension of my own fear. I listen, holding my breath, searching for any sound that doesn’t belong in a room full of corpses. Silence. Absolute and suffocating.
I perform the V-cut, dragging the blade down the chest. The skin parts like wet paper. But then, I stop.
Something is wrong. I look at his right palm. It’s burned. A fresh chemical burn, still weeping. It wasn’t there when the body arrived. I’m certain. I did the scan of fingerprints myself. I always do.
I leaf through the papers on the cart, looking for anything I might have missed. Not in a panic, but with frantic, focused energy. I check once, then twice. Not a single mention of a chemical burn. It's impossible.
Unless someone was here.
Someone broke in while the lights were out, hiding a trace right under my nose. And now, he knows I’m the one uncovering his secrets. I’ve just put a target on my back. A perfect, surgical target.
A thousand terrible scenarios flash through my mind, but I won’t let them paralyze me. If he is watching from the shadows of the cooling units, I’ll show him exactly who he’s messing with. It’s a bad idea. The kind of stupid confidence that gets girls killed in movies. But my voice finds its way out anyway.
"Really smart, buddy," I say, my voice echoing off the tiled walls, sounding smaller than I feel.
A long, agonizing pause follows. The cooling units hum. A drop of water hits the floor.
"But not smart enough," I state, my tone dropping into a cold, serious edge.
The second those words leave my mouth, the air shifts. The pressure in the room changes, like a storm about to break. I know I'm no longer alone. I wasn't alone in the first place. But now?
Now the silence is no longer empty. It’s watching me back.
Did I just criticize a serial killer? What is wrong with me? I'm convinced I can feel his eyes now. The Arbiter's eyes. He's probably planning how to dismantle me piece by piece.
I tilt my head, turning slowly toward the darkness behind the glass. I've been studying his crimes for six months; I feel like I’ve crawled inside his brain. The bodies he leaves me tell a story. A gruesome, rhythmic masterpiece. And I'm afraid that my curiosity is about to become the final chapter.
I stare at the dark observation window. I'm not looking for shadows anymore; I'm looking for one in particular. I take one last look at the files and shake my head, my hands trembling as I close the folder. Finally, my self-preservation kicks in, and I practically bolt from the room.
Back in my office, the smell of cigarette smoke hits me. Someone was definitely smoking in my mortuary. The audacity of it, the sheer, arrogant disrespect, makes me as angry as it makes me scared.
I check the cameras again. Nothing. No trace of movement. The corridors are as still and grey as the bodies they house. I tell myself it's the ventilation, or perhaps some lingering scent from the first floor, but the lie tastes metallic in my mouth.
I pull the victim's file closer, trying to focus on the black-and-white data, but my eyes keep drifting to the dark main hall. The glass is a black mirror now, reflecting only my own pale, haunted face and the clinical glow of the desk lamp.
I reach for my coffee, but my hand freezes mid-air. There, on the very edge of my desk, right next to the internal phone, is something that wasn't there before.
A small, perfectly folded piece of silver foil.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and unfold it. It's still warm. My breath hitches. He didn't just break in. He sat here. In my chair.
I look back at the black window, and for a split second, I don't see my reflection anymore. I see a silhouette of a man standing on the other side of the glass, his eyes dark and expectant, waiting for me to realize that the doors were never actually locked.
The lights overhead flicker once, twice, and then settle into a low, humming buzz. The hunt hasn't just started. It's already over.
And I'm the only one who doesn't know the ending yet.
CHAPTER 3 - Deimos
Discipline is discipline.
I lasted exactly three days after the first encounter with the woman who stole my soul. On the fourth, I breached the security system on her floor. It wasn't difficult. Most systems rely on predictability. I don't.
