[AN - Hello everyone. I hope you like what I write. I try to write what I would read myself. Thank you to all the readers who support me with their warm comments and reviews! Happy reading. <3]
Ryan sat in his old, sunken armchair—the one that creaked even when he breathed. The apartment was half-dark; only the flickering glow of the television washed the walls in shifting blue and reddish hues. A bottle of cheap beer rested in his hand. Another, already empty, stood on the table. The day had been long, heavy, and he hoped that the TV could at least drown out the weight of it.
He flipped through channels lazily, letting the noise flow past him—until the screen flashed the NBC 5 Chicago logo. He was about to skip it as well, but something on the screen made his finger freeze in the air.
Behind the reporter stood a building he knew immediately.
That same abandoned warehouse he walked past every day.
Now it was wrapped in yellow tape like a net meant to keep something wicked inside.
Only when he focused did he finally catch what the reporter was saying:
"—This morning, the body of a man was found inside a storage facility in southwest Chicago…"
Her calm, practiced voice didn't match the horror that had clearly taken place behind her.
"The victim was identified as 34-year-old Michael Rogers. According to police records, he was previously involved in cases of domestic violence and a possible homicide. Thirteen stab wounds were found on the body, and investigators believe he inflicted them on himself…"
Ryan felt his insides turn cold.
He knew Michael. Worked shifts with him. Sometimes drank coffee with him in the break room. Heard him complain about life, work, traffic. And now—he was on TV, reduced to a footnote in a crime report.
"…according to our information, the city may be facing a serial killer, informally nicknamed 'Jigsaw'. The name comes from the distinctive mark—a piece of skin cut out in the shape of a puzzle piece…"
The words struck him like a blow.
Even after the segment ended, Ryan stared at the darkened screen, unmoving.
Slowly, heavily, he rose to his feet.
"Melissa…" he called, barely above a whisper.
"Yes, honey?" came from the other end of the house, along with the soft hum of the oven.
"Tonight…" he paused, "…I'll pick up Amanda from volleyball myself."
"All right. Is everything okay?" she asked, but he didn't answer.
Ryan stood by the window, looking at the darkening city—a city where thousands had just learned a serial killer was among them.
And the wave of fear washed through nearly every home.
Chicago Police Department. Later that evening.
Captain John Price's office was usually silent, but tonight that silence shattered under his shout.
He turned off the TV so sharply the remote clattered against the desk. His face was flushed—rage, frustration, helplessness all mixed together. He yanked the door open and barked:
"Mark! Lindsey! My office! Now!"
By the time the detectives stepped in, Price was already leaning over his desk, one hand gripping the phone, the other clenched.
His voice sounded painfully polite, as if forced through clenched teeth:
"Yes, sir… Yes, we saw the broadcast… All resources are on it… Yes, I understand…"
Mark and Lindsey sat quietly on the couch, knowing better than to interrupt.
Price finally ended the call, set the receiver down, and spent a long moment rubbing his face, as though trying to scrape off the fatigue sticking to him. Only then did he lift his eyes to them.
"Commissioner Lassard," he began, "has already given me a full lecture. According to him, our department is supposed to be the shield that protects Chicago's citizens—yet right now we look like a knight holding a sieve."
He shook his head sharply.
"There's no stopping leaks like this. Journalists, patrol officers, bystanders… Information gets out. It's inevitable. But that's not the problem."
His voice dropped, low and dangerous.
"The problem is that we have a psychopath walking freely through our city. And walking like he owns the damn place. He kills cleanly, intelligently, like he's always three steps ahead. And we—" he made a cutting gesture "—we're chasing shadows. Any progress?"
Mark glanced at Lindsey. She nodded, giving him the floor.
"Sir," Mark began, "the crime scene was spotless. Too spotless. Whoever did this knows our playbook. No prints. No hair. No footprints. Nothing."
He continued:
"We checked Michael's workplace—also clean. His boss said the delivery he made came from a private caller. The number leads to a payphone. No cameras. No witnesses. And the receiver had so many random prints it's practically useless."
He spread his hands helplessly.
Price exhaled slowly and shut his eyes. A heavy silence filled the room.
"Detectives," he said at last, "I need progress. Any progress. Work around the clock if you must. Bring in whoever you need. The entire department is at your disposal."
Then, softer, weary:
"And don't let this madness take root in the city."
"You're dismissed."
Mark and Lindsey left Price's office like people stepping out of a smoke-filled room—strained, exhausted. They dropped into their chairs almost simultaneously. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, voices echoed around them, but in their small corner everything was still.
Until Lindsey broke the silence:
"Mark… I reached out to a professor at the Illinois Institute of Technology. Lewis Carroll. Mechanical engineering. I worked with him a few years back—remember the self-triggering crossbow case?"
Mark raised a brow. Oh, he remembered. The professor had been sharp. Very sharp.
"If we send him photos of the mechanisms… he might identify something. Tools, construction methods, maybe even the type of person who built them. He sees details most people miss."
Mark mulled it over for a few seconds.
"Do it," he said at last. "Let him take a look. We need all the help we can get."
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts until he found the name he needed.
"And I'll reach out to Frank. Turns out he's already in Chicago. If this thing stretches beyond state lines…" Mark exhaled, "…he may have answers we're missing."
He tapped the call button.
The café was nearly empty—just the occasional clink of cups and the soft hiss of the espresso machine cutting through the evening quiet. Outside, Chicago drifted by: headlights smearing across wet pavement, people hurrying home, the constant hum of a city that never cared who died today.
John sat by the window, slowly stirring his coffee. On a beam above the counter sat a small, old television, the kind with static chewing at the edges of the frame. The owner liked to keep it on "for ambiance."
Tonight it played news about Michael's body.
On the screen were flashing lights, yellow tape, a reporter with wide, tense eyes talking about a "brutal and meticulously orchestrated crime."
Voices layered over one another—anchors, experts, analysts.
The world was boiling.
The city buzzing.
Panic rising.
John watched quietly, unblinking, as if the TV showed a documentary about some distant event that had nothing to do with him.
He took a small sip of coffee, exhaled softly.
"You're all overreacting…" he thought.
Not with regret—just a tired acknowledgment.
They panic. They scream. They terrify each other, convinced some monster is stalking them all.
"You don't need to fear. I don't touch the innocent."
The screen flashed Michael's photo.
Shots of his house, his car. People speaking of him as a "good guy."
Dates. Biography. Background.
John tilted his head slightly, studying it the way a man studies a play he's seen many times before.
The clamoring world around him had no effect. Inside, he was still. Ice-calm.
"This isn't a hunt for ordinary people.This is work. Necessary work.For those who crossed the line long ago."
The TV crackled again, static chewing the audio.
The anchor spoke of a possible serial killer. A maniac. A rising threat. Fear in the streets.
John allowed himself the faintest smile into his cup.
Not broad.
Just a quiet, private curve of the lips.
"If only you knew how close I actually am.But you're safe.Panic if you want."
He finished his coffee, rose without haste, and placed a folded bill under the saucer.
At the door, he gave the screen one last glance—another loop of flashing lights, tape, reporters swarming the scene.
The city continued to fear,
and he walked calmly into the night.