Saturday, 3:17 AM
The abandoned MIT laboratory building stood like the hollowed skeleton of a giant beast in the industrial wasteland on Boston's outskirts. Liam stood before the rusted iron gate, a tablet in his hand displaying the building's floor plan—hacked from the police database by Sophia.
"Thermal scan shows two people in the basement." Sophia pointed at two red dots on the screen. "One has a temperature of 38.2°C, elevated—possibly injured or agitated. The other is 36.5°, normal."
Mark Rosen and eight FBI agents were positioned around the building's perimeter. His voice came through the earpiece: "We've surrounded the building. But property records show this building was purchased three years ago by a shell company under Harrison Walker's name. Legally, he has a right to be here."
"Legally." Sophia closed the tablet. "A murder happened here fifteen years ago, and the killer buys the crime scene—that's called a crime memorial."
Liam placed his hand on the iron gate. Flakes of rust fell away, revealing relatively fresh scratches underneath—frequent recent entry. He pushed the gate open gently, but the hinges still emitted a sharp groan.
Moonlight streamed through shattered windows, laying a silvery path on the floor. The air smelled of formaldehyde and dust, with a subtler scent beneath—fresh printing ink.
"Wait." Liam stopped.
He took a UV flashlight from his backpack and switched it on. Fluorescent markings immediately appeared on the corridor walls—arrows, numbers, dates. Beside each mark, handwritten notes in script as neat as print:
"2007.3.14 21:47 Lucas Green enters lab"
"21:53 First scream"
"22:01 Escape route begins"
Sophia's gloved fingers traced the writing, collecting fluorescent powder samples. "This is… crime scene reconstruction. But on an immense scale."
They followed the markings deeper into the building. Every room had a sign, like museum exhibits:
Exhibition Hall 1: The Life and Achievements of Professor Richard Green
Walls covered with photos and papers, glass cases displaying lab equipment. But the presentation revealed a disturbing reverence—every item precisely placed in measured positions, labels detailed to the point of discomfort.
Exhibition Hall 2: Crafting the Perfect Scapegoat
This room slowed Liam's breathing. His student ID photo, homework assignments, even discarded sketches from his trash were displayed. Detailed psychological profiles with titles like Predictability of Behavior in Individuals with Emotional Disorders Under Stress.
"Look at this." Sophia pointed to a framed document.
It was the Boston PD's initial investigation report from that year, annotated in red pen: "Key: Suspect shows lack of emotional response, unable to display appropriate remorse. Recommend as psychological basis for conviction."
Signed in the consultant psychologist field: Harrison Walker.
"He was part of the investigation." Sophia's voice was icy. "Guided the police to believe you were guilty as an 'expert.'"
Liam's brain processed this. Walker wasn't just the killer; he was the designer who shaped the "killer's profile." That explained the perfectly constructed evidence chain—the designer played both detective and expert.
Exhibition Hall 3: Art Reborn and Corrupted
This hall made Sophia gasp.
The walls were covered with enlarged photos of Liam's work, each meticulously analyzed. Beside The Penitent was an essay: From Repressed Violence to Artistic Sublimation—On the Creative Transference of Trauma.
Glass cases displayed tools from Liam's studio: welding torch, pliers, protective visor. Each item labeled and numbered like forensic evidence.
At the center display case: the metal iris—Liam had spent a week crafting it, originally intended as an anniversary gift for Sophia. The label beside it read:
"Work No. 34: Symbol of Atonement (Unfinished)
The artist attempts to express penitence for the past through metallic flora, but true redemption requires more extreme ritual."
"How did he get this?" Sophia's voice trembled. "This should be in your studio safe."
Liam remembered the anomaly at his studio a month ago—a broken window lock, but nothing taken. He'd assumed it was teenage vandalism.
Now he understood. Walker or his son had been observing, collecting, studying him. This wasn't a sudden exposure; it was a long-term preparation.
Mark's voice came through the earpiece: "Found them. Sub-level two, old lab. But the situation… you need to see this yourselves."
3:52 AM
The stairs to the sub-level were unusually clean, as if regularly maintained. The formaldehyde smell grew stronger, mingled with another scent—fresh blood.
At the stairwell's end was a heavy blast door, light seeping from its seams. A newly installed electronic lock, with a handwritten note beside it:
"Password is the time of the professor's death: 220147"
Liam entered the numbers. The lock clicked open, a sound crisp like breaking bone.
What lay beyond made Sophia instinctively grip her weapon.
This wasn't a derelict lab, but a perfectly reconstructed crime scene—no, more refined than a reconstruction. Everything was artistically treated.
Professor Richard Green's "remains" lay on the central lab table—not a real body, but an eerily lifelike silicone model. The wounds were meticulously crafted, blood simulated with special resin frozen into artistic spatter patterns. The blood writing on the wall—"LUCAS"—wasn't messy scrawl, but elegant Gothic script.
The room was arranged as a circular theater. Six chairs were placed around the perimeter, each with a small screen. The screens showed different surveillance angles: Liam's studio, his home, Emma's school, Sophia's police station parking lot…
"Welcome to the theater of truth."
Harrison Walker emerged from the shadows. He wore a lab coat stained with paint, not blood. His son—the uniformed man, Daniel Walker—stood behind him, holding a tablet.
"I didn't expect you to bring an audience, Lucas." Walker smiled. "But perhaps it's better this way. Truth needs witnesses."
Sophia raised her weapon. "Harrison Walker, you are under arrest for the murder of Professor Richard Green. You have the right to remain silent—"
"Oh, spare me the formalities, my dear." Walker waved a dismissive hand. "Tonight isn't about the law; it's about art. About a work I've been crafting for fifteen years, finally reaching its finale tonight."
He walked to the silicone model, fingers lightly tracing the "wound" edges. "Richard was a genius, but too idealistic. He discovered the foundation was conducting human gene-editing experiments—not to cure disease, but to create 'optimized humans.' He threatened to expose it."
"So you killed him." Liam said.
"I gave him a choice." Walker's gaze grew distant. "Join us, or stay silent. He chose the moral high ground." He sighed. "Killing is messy, but messier is needing a plausible story. Then I found you."
His eyes turned to Liam, like an artist admiring his masterpiece.
"Emotional recognition disorder—what a perfect trait! You couldn't show the emotions normal people expect, would appear cold and remorseless in interrogation. A jury would believe you were a monster. And your talent… your ability to create beauty, perfectly fit the 'twisted genius' narrative."
Daniel Walker raised the tablet, playing a video. It showed a younger Liam—the real Lucas Green—welding a small sculpture in the lab. Date: March 14, 2007, 8 PM.
"This is the last footage of you before you left the lab." the elder Walker said. "I've kept it for fifteen years. Know why?"
Liam didn't answer. His brain was processing all the information: timeline, evidence, motive. But one question remained unanswered.
"If you had the perfect scapegoat," he said, "why ruin it now?"
Walker's smile faded. He looked at his son, his eyes showing something like remorse for the first time.
"Because art should be appreciated." Daniel spoke, his voice unnervingly calm. "Father wanted to take this story to the grave, his secret masterpiece. But I thought… what a waste. The perfect crime, the perfect frame-up, the perfect escape and rebuilding—isn't that the greatest modern tragedy?"
He walked to a control panel and pressed a button. Screens around the room lit up, showing the Chicago Tribune livestream page—viewer count already surpassing half a million. Olivia Chase's face appeared on the central screen, narrating:
"…What we are witnessing appears to be the shocking confession of former Harrison Walker Foundation chairman. If true, this could become one of the nation's most notorious judicial wrongful conviction cases…"
"You're insane." Sophia said. "You're livestreaming a murder scene?"
"No, I'm livestreaming the birth of truth." Daniel's eyes glinted in the screen light. "A fifteen-year-old story needs a proper ending. And the ending should be… the true killer's confession, and the victim's vindication."
He turned to his father. "Right, Dad? You always taught me a perfect work needs a complete narrative arc."
The elder Walker's expression was complex. Liam saw pride, fear, and deeply buried paternal love—twisted, but real.
"My son… has his artistic vision." Walker said softly. "He thought my work lacked an ending. So he created the copycat killings to force you into the open, to force me… to complete the story."
"Who was the fifth victim?" Sophia asked.
Daniel smiled. "There is no fifth victim. Only four copycat cases—all my doing. But tonight needed drama, so I 'created' a fifth scene at the gala. That security guard? He's just asleep, sedated with a neck injection."
He pulled up another surveillance feed: the guard in a hospital, undergoing examination, vital signs stable.
"All the flowers, all the details—they're my signature." Daniel said. "Father didn't leave a flower; that was his imperfection. Art needs symbols, recurring motifs. So I placed a fresh iris at each scene."
Liam finally understood. This wasn't simple revenge or cover-up, but a morbid collaborative artwork between father and son. The father designed the crime and frame-up; the son escalated it with copycat killings; now they needed an epic conclusion.
"What do you want?" Liam asked.
"A choice." The elder Walker walked to the room's center, where two objects lay: an antique surgical scalpel, and a voice recorder.
"Choice one: Use this blade to end my life, completing the 'victim's revenge' narrative on live stream. You become a hero, a wronged man finally achieving justice—albeit violently."
"Choice two: Press record, capture my full confession. I'll detail how evidence was forged, the investigation manipulated, your life destroyed. Then I'll surrender. You get legal vindication, but the story… will be rather bland."
Sophia's weapon remained steadily aimed at Walker. "There's a third choice: I arrest you now and end this farce."
"You can try." Daniel said. "But if Father is arrested, he'll never speak. You have circumstantial evidence, no smoking gun. And my livestream… has already shown the world that Liam Stone is Lucas Green. Even if the law can't convict, society has already judged him."
On screen, comments were scrolling wildly. Some demanded justice, others condemnation, others called for a case review. Olivia's voice narrated excitedly: "If Walker's confession is true, this could rewrite wrongful conviction history in American jurisprudence…"
Liam looked at the two choices. The scalpel gleamed coldly under the lights; the recorder's red light blinked.
His brain calculated: Choice one, violent resolution, short-term satisfaction but severe long-term consequences. Choice two, legal route, but Walker might recant during trial.
But there was a third option—not in their script.
He walked to the control panel. Daniel stepped back warily, but Liam only pressed a sequence of keys.
All on-screen livestreams were suddenly replaced. No longer the crime scene, but files from Liam's tablet—scanned flight stubs, Seattle Art Center surveillance stills, analysis of alterations in the lab access logs, and a DNA report.
"What is this?" Daniel frowned.
"Evidence." Liam said. "What I've gathered over three years. Proof I wasn't at the crime scene, proof evidence was tampered with, and…" he pulled up the final document, "proof that on the night Professor Richard Green died, there was a third person's DNA in the lab. DNA matching the genetic profile of a senior executive at the Harrison Walker Foundation."
The elder Walker's face finally changed.
"Your hired killer wasn't professional enough." Liam said calmly. "He left hair behind. I found it fifteen years ago, kept it."
Sophia stared at him in astonishment. "You never told me…"
"Because I didn't think anyone would believe evidence from a 'monster.'" Liam turned to Walker. "But now, half a million people are watching."
The comment feed began shifting. Legal experts analyzed the DNA evidence, journalists verified document authenticity, the public demanded justice.
Daniel suddenly laughed—a wild, genuine laugh. "Brilliant! You rewrote my ending!"
His laughter echoed through the lab, mad and real. Then he did something no one expected—he walked to his father and embraced him.
"I'm sorry, Father." he whispered. "But your work did need a better ending."
Then he pressed another button on the control panel.
The lab lights suddenly turned blinding red. Alarms sounded—not danger alarms, but sound effects from an art installation. Screens began playing a meticulously edited video, weaving together the fifteen-year story: Walker's conspiracy, Liam's flight, Sophia's investigation, all details of the copycat cases…
Finally freezing on a single line:
"Sometimes, truth itself is the greatest art."
Daniel turned to the camera, smiling. "Livestream ended. Thank you for watching."
He cut the signal.
Silence returned. Only the rotating red alarm lights remained, like ceaselessly flowing blood.
Mark and FBI agents stormed in. Weapons aimed at the Walkers, but both men raised their hands.
"We surrender." the elder Walker said, voice weary. "But I want my lawyer."
Daniel, however, looked at Liam with an artist's appreciation for a fellow creator. "You won. But this isn't over, you know? Even if the law clears you, some will always believe you were the killer. Because… that story is more compelling."
Liam knew he was right. Truth was often less appealing than lies. But he no longer cared.
He walked to Sophia and took her hand. Her hand trembled, but her grip was firm.
"Let's go home." he said.
"Which home?" Sophia asked. "Liam Stone's home, or Lucas Green's home?"
Liam considered the question. Not with notes, not with logic. He felt the warmth of her palm, the presence of this woman who would follow him into hell.
"Our home." he said. "The name doesn't matter."
As they left the lab, the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn. Boston's morning approached, bringing cold air and a new beginning.
In the police car, Sophia leaned against his shoulder and whispered, "Emma called this morning. Said she dreamt you took her to see real dinosaur fossils."
"We could plan a trip." Liam said. "Wyoming has complete T-rex skeletons."
"Not now." Sophia squeezed his hand. "Now we have media, lawyers, trials… maybe months, maybe years."
"I have time." Liam said. "After fifteen years, what are a few months?"
Outside the window, the city awoke. Streetlights switched off one by one; daylight slowly colored the sky.
At some moment, Liam felt a warmth behind his eyes. Not sadness, not joy—a new sensation. Like weight lifting, like breathing deeper, like… finally being able to stop performing.
A tear fell.
Sophia saw it. She didn't speak, only gently wiped it away with her finger.
The tear was warm.
For Liam Stone—or Lucas Green—that was enough.