A Game of Masks

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Detective Carl Bishop pushed his grocery cart down the crowded aisle of the corner store. It was early evening, and the place was filled with the usual mix of tired workers picking up last-minute dinners and couples bickering over brand choices. Bishop wasn't sure why he bothered with groceries anymore. Half the time, he ended up letting everything spoil while he lived off takeout, buried in case files and chasing shadows.

His mind wasn't on the mundane task of shopping. It was stuck on the latest victim, Rachel Ortega, her mutilated body burned into his thoughts. The Phantom had left another mark, another reminder of how helpless he was in this game. The killer was always a step ahead. And now, that cryptic message still echoed in his mind: "I'm always watching."

Bishop rubbed his tired eyes as he reached for a carton of milk, absently tossing it into his cart. The routine of the store was a welcome distraction. For just a moment, he could pretend this was a normal evening, that there wasn't a brutal killer out there mocking him with every murder.

And that's when it happened.

"Excuse me."

The voice was casual, friendly even. Just another person in the grocery store, like any other. Bishop looked up, expecting to see someone asking him to move his cart. But instead, his eyes met a man's gaze—cold, sharp, yet masked by a pleasant smile.

The man was tall, clean-cut, wearing a casual jacket and jeans, nothing out of the ordinary. He had the kind of face you could forget as soon as you looked away, the kind that blended into the background. But there was something about him, something that made Bishop pause for just a second too long.

"Sorry," the man said, his tone light, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He gestured toward the shelf, reaching for a box of cereal just past where Bishop stood.

Bishop shifted his cart slightly, nodding. "No problem."

The man's smile lingered a beat too long as he grabbed the cereal, a flash of something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he turned away. Bishop watched him walk down the aisle, something about the encounter sticking with him, nagging at the back of his mind. There was a strange familiarity to the man, though he couldn't place it.

As he continued his shopping, Bishop shook off the feeling. He'd been on edge for weeks—ever since the Phantom case began ramping up. Everyone in this city felt like a suspect these days.

But behind him, the man—no, the Phantom—smirked to himself, feeling the rush of adrenaline that came from being so close, so unseen. He'd walked right up to the man hunting him, standing inches away from the detective's frustration, his obsession. It was delicious, the power he held in that moment. The detective didn't even know it yet, but the Phantom had already won another round of their twisted game.

The grocery store was the perfect setting for this encounter, mundane, full of life, of routine. It was what made it exciting for the killer. Here, where no one expected violence, no one even sensed the danger. He could've killed Bishop right there, but that wasn't the plan. Not yet. He liked to play with his prey, to watch them squirm, helpless and unaware of the knife hovering just out of sight.

No, he had something better in mind for Bishop.

For now, it was enough to know that he'd shared this space with him, that they'd exchanged polite words while the city screamed in terror at his feet. He could feel the detective's frustration radiating off him in waves, the tension of a man haunted by his inability to catch the monster lurking just out of sight.

As the Phantom paid for his groceries and left the store, he felt that familiar thrill coursing through his veins. He was always watching, yes—but now, he was closer than ever.

Bishop made his way to the checkout line, his thoughts still swimming with pieces of the case, the faces of victims flashing before his eyes. He barely noticed the cashier scanning his items, mechanically handing over his card, accepting the receipt. He was in autopilot, his body going through the motions while his mind wrestled with the darkness that had consumed his life.

As he stepped out of the store into the cool evening air, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He glanced around the street, his cop instincts telling him that he was being watched, but there was no one suspicious in sight. Just regular people, heading home from their regular lives.

He turned the corner, making his way back toward his apartment, but the feeling stuck with him, crawling up his spine like ice.

Meanwhile, the Phantom slipped into the flow of the crowd, disappearing among the sea of faces. He let the city swallow him whole, knowing full well that Bishop's paranoia would only grow stronger with each step.

Back at his apartment, Bishop dumped the groceries on the counter, barely caring as a carton of eggs slipped from the bag and cracked open across the floor. He stood there, staring at the mess, the weight of the case crushing him. He had been chasing the Phantom for months now, and every step seemed to lead him further from answers.

His phone buzzed on the counter, snapping him from his trance. A text from Torres.

"We found something. Need you back at the station ASAP."

Bishop sighed, rubbing his face as he grabbed his coat again. No rest for the wicked—or for those chasing them. As he locked the door behind him, that nagging feeling returned. The Phantom was out there, closer than he thought.

And Bishop was running out of time.