Mark woke up to the sharp, insistent ringing of his phone, as if it were trying to rip him out from the deepest layers of sleep. Blindly, he reached toward the nightstand, knocking a book and his watch to the floor. His fingers found the cold body of the phone, and squinting against the light of the desk lamp, he pressed the answer button.
"Who the hell can't sleep on a Sunday morning…" he muttered in a hoarse voice, clearing his throat.
"You're on the line," Mark said, still sounding half-asleep.
"Mark, it's me."
He immediately recognized Lindsey — his partner, who, like him, rarely enjoyed a proper night's sleep.
He sat up, ran a hand over his face to push away the remnants of sleep, and asked:
"What happened?"
"Mark," Lindsey said. "We've got another murder. Very similar to the previous one. Presumably, the same 'Jigsaw.' Same mark on the body — the cut-out puzzle piece. Get ready, I'll send the address in a minute."
Mark exhaled heavily, lowering his gaze to the floor.
"Got it… Do me a favor… grab some coffee on your way."
"Already did. I'll wait for you at the scene."
The call ended.
Police lights washed the abandoned warehouse in pulsing red and blue, as if trying to breathe life into the old, rusted walls. The district was dead — rows of containers, frost-covered metal structures, and empty loading docks where the wind wandered more freely than any human ever would.
Mark parked his car next to the other police vehicles, stepped into the cold morning air, and lifted the collar of his coat. The chill cut straight to the bone — or maybe it was a sense of foreboding.
An officer stood by the entrance, holding a tablet with the access list. Mark silently opened his badge.
"Go ahead, detective," the officer said, raising the yellow police tape.
Mark nodded and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately: rust, cold concrete, stale air, and fresh metallic blood. Forensics experts in white suits and boot covers moved back and forth like ants, each holding cameras, cases, or tablets. Photographers snapped pictures while others placed numbered markers next to evidence, and some crouched to take samples from the floor.
Amid the noise and motion, Lindsey stood slightly aside, leaning against a metal column and holding two paper cups of coffee. She spotted Mark and waved him over.
"Good morning, Mark. Here's your coffee," Lindsey said, handing it to him.
"Yeah… morning…" Mark replied, drawing out the word with tired sarcasm. "Thanks."
He took a sip, then turned toward the center of the room.
There, in the harsh circle of overhead light, lay the body.
On the concrete floor, almost sitting, leaning against a makeshift metal structure. Around it — blood spatter, dried stains, signs of struggle, and… pieces of cut-out flesh. But the main thing was the distinct, carved puzzle piece on the shoulder.
Mark frowned.
"What do we have?" he asked quietly.
Lindsey moved closer, opening a tablet with the collected information.
"Michael Rogers. Thirty-four years old. Truck driver, worked for F&T Delivery. Charges: domestic assault, assault on a passerby, possible involvement in the disappearance of a teenager."
"Great," Mark muttered. "And why wasn't he in jail?"
"Insufficient evidence," Lindsey said, exhaling with tired frustration. "Charges dropped. His wife didn't file a statement."
Mark only shook his head.
At that moment, Doctor Hoffman approached — a tall, slightly stooped man in a mask, protective gown, and gloves. His CPD forensic badge hung on his chest. He held a notebook filled with handwritten notes.
"Morning, Doctor," Mark said. "Anything for us?"
Hoffman glanced at the body, then at his notes.
"Multiple deep wounds. Sections of flesh removed," he reported almost emotionlessly. "Cause of death — acute blood loss. Judging by the angles of the cuts and the direction of the blows… the majority, or possibly all, were inflicted by the victim himself."
"What??" Mark and Lindsey exclaimed simultaneously, staring at the doctor in disbelief.
Hoffman nodded slowly and pointed to the knife on the ground — still clutched in Michael's bloody fingers.
"Here. His hand. And the wound patterns indicate deliberate movements, though increasingly chaotic toward the end. Except for the puzzle-shaped wound on the shoulder — that one was made by someone else. Different tool. Clean edges. Not a kitchen knife."
"What the hell…" Lindsey whispered.
The doctor continued:
"And yes. There are thirteen wounds in total. Two fatal, the rest fortunately not."
He chuckled dryly. "Sorry. Dark humor is survival in this line of work."
He looked at them both and added:
"Interesting detail. All the removed flesh was placed on those scales."
Mark and Lindsey turned their heads. To the right of the body stood old iron mechanical scales — likely warehouse equipment. On the right plate — blood-soaked pieces of human flesh. On the left — a set of metal weights of various shapes and sizes.
Mark stepped closer, careful not to disturb any evidence.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
Lindsey crouched, examining the weights closely. She picked one up, flipped it over — and froze.
"Mark… look."
He leaned in.
On the back of the weight was an engraved name.
The name of one of the victim's past victims.
Lindsey read quietly:
"'Katherine Rogers.' His wife…"
Next: "'Michael Jensen.' The passerby he assaulted…"
And another: "'Toby Sanders.' The missing teenager… whom he was potentially responsible for."
Mark straightened up and let out a slow, heavy breath.
"Second murder," he said hoarsely. "One more and we've got a serial killer. Perfect. Just what Chicago needed."
Some time later, after the body was taken away and the equipment collected, the warehouse began to empty. Mark and Lindsey stepped outside. A gust of cold wind hit them. Mark lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with his hand.
They stood beside their cars, staring at the grey, cloud-covered sky.
"What do you think, Mark?" Lindsey asked, hugging herself for warmth.
He took a few drags, exhaling smoke through his nose, watching the crime scene behind the tape… the warehouse… the fading activity.
"I think," he finally said, "we need to look at old cases. This is too… strange. Too clean. No mistakes. No traces. Like someone who knows how we work — detectives, crime scene techs, medical examiners… someone trained. Or someone who's done this before."
He crushed the cigarette under his boot against the metal barrier.
"Maybe," he continued, "he killed before. Maybe in another city. Another state. These murders in Chicago started only a month ago. This isn't the beginning. This is a continuation."
He took out his phone and scrolled to the contact "Frank – FBI."
He typed:
"Frank. It's Mark.
Another murder like the one I told you about last time.
Someone who understands mechanics, medicine, forensics, and police procedure.
No traces. No prints. No hair.
Too clean. Too professional.
This is already the second one.
If there's a third — it's your jurisdiction.
Need data on similar murders in other states.
Waiting for your response."
He pressed "Send."
Lindsey looked at him.
"You think he can help?"
Mark nodded.
"If this is a serial killer — the FBI should've seen similar cases already. And if this guy is smart… he didn't start here."
Lindsey sighed, glancing back at the warehouse where the body had just been.
"You know…" she said quietly. "Sometimes it feels like this city attracts monsters."
Mark looked at her. His expression grew serious, heavy.
"No, Lindsey. Monsters are everywhere. Some are just smarter than others."
Meanwhile…
As Mark and Lindsey finished their conversation, they still stood in the wind, hiding their faces behind raised collars. Mark extinguished his cigarette with the toe of his boot and cast one last look at the abandoned warehouse — now almost empty. Investigators were leaving; forensics experts were removing gloves; the coroner's van slowly rolled out of the industrial zone.
One by one, the police cars turned off their flashing lights.
The noise faded.
Silence returned.
But not entirely.
On the roof of a nearby dimly lit hangar, deep in the darkest shadow, a figure stood motionless.
Not moving.
Not making a sound.
The vantage point was perfect — from here the figure could see everything:
Lindsey taking notes.
Mark frowning as he slipped his phone into his pocket.
The forensic team packing equipment.
And the warehouse, gradually emptying.
The figure hid not out of fear — but out of principle and calculation.
When the last police officer left and the lights disappeared, plunging the street into darkness…
The figure tilted its head slightly — barely noticeable — as if evaluating the work, like an engineer inspecting a completed mechanism.
John.
He stood calmly, hands in the pockets of his dark coat. No mask — just a still, utterly quiet face. Ice-cold composure.
He wasn't watching the body.
He wasn't watching the warehouse.
He was watching the people.
Watching how Detective Mark Holloway reacted. How he looked at the crime scene. How he asked questions.
How he thought.
John studied. Calculated. Built cause-and-effect chains.
The wind tugged lightly at his coat. He didn't move.
His eyes settled on Mark.
And for a brief, almost imperceptible instant — the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not a smirk.
Just the reflection of a thought no one would ever hear:
"He's perceptive. Faster than the others."
John remained still until the very last car disappeared around the corner.
Only then did he step back, dissolving into the darkness as naturally as if he were part of it.