Beneath The Surface.

The hospital room was sterile and quiet, filled with the low hum of machinery and the soft rustle of white sheets. Ava lay propped against a pillow, her shoulder bandaged, eyes staring blankly at the pale ceiling above. Pain throbbed deep beneath the gauze, but it was nothing compared to the storm that still twisted in her chest.

Marcus sat beside her, fingers loosely laced with hers. He hadn't left her side since the warehouse. The blood. The scream. The cold fear that had torn through him when she collapsed.

She turned her head slightly, gaze landing on him. "You stayed."

"You think I'd leave you now?"

Her lips twitched at the corners. "You've got a case to solve."

"You're the case, Ava. Everything else can wait."

For a moment, silence hung between them—heavy, charged.

Then Ava whispered, "Nathan's safe. That's what matters."

Marcus nodded. They had found him. Shackled, bruised, but alive. Hidden beneath the warehouse's basement in a chamber Damien had crafted just for torment. A maze of shadows and threats. But they'd made it. Barely.

Ava closed her eyes, the memory vivid. Nathan's hoarse voice calling her name.

The world outside was a blur of muted greys as dawn broke, streaking the sky in cold hues that mirrored Ava's state of mind. Pain radiated from her shoulder where Damien's bullet had grazed her, but it was dulled now—muted beneath layers of gauze, painkillers, and the dull hum of adrenaline.

She sat in the precinct's infirmary, shoulder wrapped tightly, her other hand clenched around the last Polaroid of Nathan. Blood still dotted the corner of the photo—fresh. But Nathan had been alive when they'd found him. Barely breathing. Chained to a pipe in that abandoned warehouse, starved and bruised, but alive. Alive.

Marcus hadn't left her side since.

He sat now, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dim light beyond the precinct. His knuckles were still raw from breaking through the padlocked doors to get to Nathan. There was something darker in his silence now—a focused rage that hadn't faded with Damien's escape.

"He's close," Ava murmured, breaking the silence. Her voice was hoarse, but determined. "He knew we'd find Nathan. He wanted us to."

Marcus looked at her, eyes shadowed but burning. "And he wanted you injured. That wasn't a misfire. He aimed for you."

Ava nodded slowly. "But not to kill. He wanted to shake me."

Marcus pushed off the windowsill, his voice low. "You were bleeding in my arms, Ava. Don't tell me this isn't personal to him."

She looked up at him. "It's personal to all of us now."

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched—not awkward, but dense with emotion. Then Marcus knelt beside her, his voice softening.

"He's getting desperate. You saw his eyes in the warehouse—he wasn't calm anymore. This ends soon."

Ava studied him, her heart tightening. "You should rest. You've barely closed your eyes since—"

"Neither have you."

Their hands brushed. He didn't pull away this time. And neither did she.

"I thought I'd lost you," he said finally, voice raw. "When I saw the blood..."

"You didn't," she whispered. "You won't."

Their foreheads touched for the briefest second—an unspoken promise that words could never capture. Then the door creaked open.

Nathan stood there, pale, frail, but standing. His eyes met Ava's and for a moment, both froze.

"I had to see you," he said.

Ava stood carefully, Marcus instantly steadying her. Nathan stepped forward, tears gathering in his eyes.

"I thought he killed you," he whispered. "He told me you were gone. That it was my fault."

Ava pulled him into a careful hug, her injured arm trembling slightly. "You're safe now. That's what matters."

Nathan exhaled shakily. "But he's still out there. And I remember something. Something important."

Marcus stepped in. "Tell us everything."

Nathan sat, hand trembling as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his hospital pants. "He dropped this once. I wasn't supposed to see it."

Ava opened the paper. Coordinates. Another location.

Marcus's eyes narrowed. "It's another trap."

"Maybe," Ava said, "but it's our only lead."

Nathan swallowed. "He called it 'the cradle.' Said it's where it all began."

Marcus's gaze darkened. "Then we're ending it there."

By late afternoon, Ava was back on her feet. Bruised, stiff, stitched—but standing. She strapped her gun to her side while Marcus adjusted his bulletproof vest.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked for the fifth time.

"I'm not sitting this one out."

"You get hit again and I swear—"

"You'll carry me out. I know."

He grinned despite himself. "Damn right."

Their banter faded as they approached the unmarked van waiting to take them to the coordinates. It was an industrial park—abandoned, miles from the city. Remote. Quiet. Perfect for secrets.

As they drove, Ava found herself watching Marcus. The way his fingers flexed on the wheel. The quiet intensity in his profile. She realized she had been leaning on him more than just professionally. She needed him—beyond this case.

And that terrified her.

He caught her staring.

"What?" he asked, eyes flicking to her.

She hesitated. "When this is over… do you think we'll be different?"

He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "We already are."

The sun dipped below the horizon as they arrived. The factory was huge, rusted metal clinging to skeletal walls. The air smelled of ash and mildew.

They moved through in silence, guns drawn. Every footstep echoed like a threat.

Then they saw it.

An altar. Built crudely from broken machinery and bloodstained cloth. Candles burned low around it. On the wall—painted in red—was Damien's message:

"Only when the dead speak, will the living understand."

Ava stepped closer, heart hammering.

On the altar—a tape recorder. She pressed play.

Damien's voice slithered through the speakers.

"Detective Sinclair. You've come far. But you haven't asked the right question. You've wondered why. But not when. Not how long I've watched you."

Marcus's jaw clenched.

"You think this ends with a gunshot? No, no. This ends when you see yourself in me. When you understand that every death was always about you."

Ava shut the recorder off. Her breath shook.

"It's not just about the murders," she whispered. "It's about legacy. About replacing guilt with obsession. He wants someone to continue his work."

Marcus's eyes darkened. "And he chose you."

A door creaked nearby. They turned sharply—guns aimed.

Footsteps retreated quickly, then stopped.

A teenager stepped into view—barely eighteen, pale, shaking. "Don't shoot. I—I was told to be here. He said he'd kill my sister if I didn't come."

Ava lowered her weapon. "Where is he?"

The teen pointed to a trapdoor beneath the altar.

Marcus yanked it open, the stench of rot rising up like a wave. They descended.