Liam kept his gaze moving, eyes flitting from one image to the next with a growing sense of disbelief. Each pinned photo, each smeared bloodstain, and every article headline told a chilling story. There were at least thirty separate murdersâthirtyâbrutal, grotesque, and disturbingly artistic in their violence. All of them recent. All of them signed with a word that haunted him: Nightcrawler.
And they had all happened within a single week.
"This... this doesnât make any damn sense," Liam muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. "Iâve only been out of the loop for seven days. Just one week."
Vanessa stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes dark with frustration. "Yeah, and in that one week, all hell broke loose. Itâs a national matter now, Liam. You donât even know. The cityâs flooded with detectives. FBI, special units, forensic teams. Everyoneâs crawling all over this like ants."
Liamâs mind reeled. Heâd been inside, secluded in his house, sleeping, recovering, explaining things to Dickson and avoiding complications. Somehow, heâd been completely unaware of a storm building right outside his door.
"Detective Ryan..." he said slowly. "Does he still think Iâm the Nightcrawler?"
Vanessa shook her head. "No. They ruled you out. Said they checked for any gunshot wounds on your body after your supposed âaccident.â Found nothing. And on top of that, we confirmed you were in Russia during the killings."
Liam raised an eyebrow and gave a slow nod. That was at least one thing off his shoulders. No cops breathing down his neck, no tracking, no suspicion. He could walk free.
"Good. That simplifies a lot," he muttered.
Vanessa tilted her head toward the wall of chaos. "So... what do you think about all this? About the Nightcrawler?"
Liam glanced back toward the images. He took a step forward, squinting at the small details most would miss. The positioning of a corpseâs arms in one. The consistent angle of incisions. Another had the word Nightcrawler scrawled with blood in perfect symmetry. His eyes moved like scanners, processing quickly.
"See this one?" he pointed. "Victimâs throat was slit left to right, but the killer is clearly right-handed. The blood trails show overcompensation in the first swipe. Thatâs not sloppiness. Thatâs showmanship."
Vanessa blinked. "How can you tell that?"
"Because of the angles. Look at how the blood flared outward. He wanted the spray to hit the wall behind. And this one... look at the hands. The victim was posed. The palms are pressed together. This wasnât someone trying to kill quickly. This guy took his time."
He moved to another image. "And here, the smile was carved after death. No scream, no strain. You see how clean the cheek lines are? Thatâs not a torture smile. Thatâs a message."
Vanessa frowned deeply. "Christ, youâre giving me the creeps."
"This isnât about revenge," Liam said quietly, more to himself than her. "This isnât someone settling a score. Itâs not vigilante work either. No pattern in victimsâdifferent ages, race, genders, backgrounds. This guy doesnât hate these people..."
He turned toward her slowly, eyes calm and cold.
"He likes it. Thatâs the point. He enjoys the kill. The prep. The aftermath. He does this because it gives him purpose. Satisfaction."
Vanessa shivered involuntarily. A slow wave of unease crept down her spine. There was something about the way Liam spokeâso clinical, so composedâthat made her feel like she was staring into the same kind of mind as the killer.
"You... sound just like Detective Ryan," she muttered, unsettled.
Liam chuckled and retied the loose belt of his robe. "Itâs not that hard to figure out if you pay attention to the details."
He turned from the room and started walking down the hall.
Vanessa followed, then paused and locked the door behind her. As she turned to catch up with him, she asked curiously, "What were you doing in Russia anyway?"
Liam coughed awkwardly. "Sightseeing."
She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She could smell the lie from a mile away, but she chose not to push. Not now.
As she walked a little ahead of him, brushing close to his side in the narrow hall, Liam furrowed his brows. Her scent hit him like a waveâfaintly floral, sharp, intoxicating. Her jawline, the gentle sway of her hips. It was too much.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away.
What the fuck is wrong with me? he whispered under his breath, glancing at his hand as if expecting to see something unusual about himself.
Vanessa paused mid-step. Sheâd heard it.
She turned around slowly and stepped closer, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
Liam looked up, and Vanessaâs face was just inches from his. Her eyes were wide, filled with concern, her lips slightly parted as if about to say something. Her closeness made everything worse.
"Move back a little," he muttered under his breath, voice strained and raw.
But she didnât move. Maybe it was the tone of his voiceâpained but not forceful. Maybe it was the way his gaze didnât quite meet hers. She was worried. Something wasnât right. He wasnât joking, not this time.
"Liam," she said softly. "Are you okay?"
He didnât respond. Instead, he lifted his head slowly. When their eyes finally met, Vanessa froze.
His gaze was nothing like the Liam she knew. Gone was the playful smirk, the teasing glint in his eyes, the calm calculation that usually sat behind his confident stare. What she saw now was... hunger. No, not hunger. Lust. Pure, unfiltered, and intense.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"L-Liam," she stammered, trying to step back, but the hallway was narrow. Her back touched the cold wall as he took another step forward.
He didnât say a word. Just kept walking toward her, his eyes locked onto hers like a predator zeroing in on prey.
Her heart raced. This wasnât right. This wasnât Liam. The intensity in his eyes made her stomach flip, not from fear, but from something deeper, something she didnât want to admit.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He didnât answer. He leaned forward, his face now inches from hers, his breath brushing against her cheek. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. She was too stunned to move.
But then, just when their lips almost touched, Liam moved.
Not to kiss her.
His hand slid into her chest pocket, careful, precise, and without brushing her clothing. He plucked the hundred-dollar note that had been sticking out slightly.
No contact. No touch. Nothing but the money.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away.
"Iâm sorry," he muttered, voice low and tight.
And then he turned around and bolted.
Vanessa stood frozen against the wall, eyes wide, mouth parted, heart still thundering in her chest. What the hell just happened?
She didnât even call after him. She just watched, confused and dazed, as he disappeared down the hallway.
Liam didnât look back. He just kept going. The moment he reached the front gate, it slid open automatically. He stepped out barefoot, robe fluttering in the wind, and raised his hand to flag down the first taxi he saw.
The cab driver, a wrinkled man with a long grey beard and a cigarette dangling from his lip, stared at him through the windshield, eyebrows arching so high they nearly vanished into his hairline. Still, he pulled over.
Liam yanked the door open and slid inside. He slammed it shut, not caring about the fact that he was dressed like someone who just escaped a psych ward.
The driver slowly pulled out into the road, glancing up at Liam through the rearview mirror every few seconds.
Liam was already irritated.
The rush of emotion, the strange lust that had gripped him like a vice... it had passed the moment he left Vanessaâs house. Now all that was left was a dull headache and mounting frustration.
He stared out the window, jaw clenched, fingers twitching. What the fuck was that back there?
Then he noticed the driver still glancing up, eyes darting between the road and the mirror. The constant watching scratched at Liamâs nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
He finally snapped.
"You got something you wanna say, old man?" he growled.
The cabbie chuckled, completely unfazed. He reached up and scratched his beard thoughtfully, smirking into the mirror.
"Lemme guess..." he said slowly, his voice gruff and worn, "you get caught cheating on another manâs wife?"
Liam blinked. "What?"
"Son, Iâve been driving cabs for thirty-five years. Iâve seen every type of messed-up situation there is. You look like you just escaped a murder scene wearing your bathrobe, barefoot, with lipstick on your face."
"Thereâs no lipstick," Liam snapped.
The man chuckled again. "Sure there isnât."
Liam leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He didnât have the strength to argue.
That moment with Vanessa... it wasnât natural. Something had triggered it. Something inside him. A shift. A pull. As if his body responded to something invisible.
He didnât even want to touch her. He wanted to devour her. And that scared him more than he cared to admit.
"I didnât cheat," Liam said after a pause.
"Good," the old man replied casually. "Cheaters always get hit by karma... or bullets."
Liam gave a dry, joyless laugh. "Yeah... bullets."
The cabbie didnât ask more questions after that.
But Liamâs mind was already spinning. Whatever was happening to himâit wasnât just lust or fatigue. It was something else. Something darker.
And he needed answers. Soon.
And only one person could give it to him.