Missing and Searching

The living room. Ryan sat on the couch, flipping through an old Ultimate Spider-Man comic. The room was filled with the frantic clicking of buttons from the corner, where Ben sat cross-legged on the couch, boss fight in Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy on his console.

Ryan's phone buzzed on the armrest beside him. He picked it up.

"Detective Summers," he said, casually.

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

"What? When?" Another pause. "Alright. Send me the address, Scott."

He hung up, stood, and headed toward the closet.

"Hey," he called over his shoulder. "Turn the game off."

Ben didn't look away from the screen. "I'm in the middle of a boss fight, man. You want me to die?"

Ryan was already pulling a clean dress shirt from a hanger. "We've got a case."

"Is it a murder?"

"A missing person."

Ben scoffed. "Not exactly high stakes."

Ryan tossed a tie at him. "Put on a suit. We're going formal."

"Really?" Ben groaned, but started changing anyway. "You know I look like a wedding singer in this thing."

Ryan smirked. "You look good. Let's go."

They pulled up to the address Scott sent. An apartment on the east side, with aging brick and dusty windows. Evelyn and Scott were already there, waiting.

"There you are," Scott said, giving Ryan a quick nod.

Ryan returned the gesture. "How bad is it?"

"Still early. Just a report so far. Let's see what we can dig up."

They took a lift and knocked on the door for room 3B.

A tired-looking woman held the door. Her voice trembled. "You're the detectives?"

"Yes, we are, ma'am," Evelyn said gently. "Detective Quinn. These are Detectives Richards and the Summers brothers. May we come in?"

"Of course," she said.

Inside, the apartment illuminated a low level of light. Family photos lined across the walls, and a framed picture on the coffee table caught Ryan's eye—the woman and a man, smiling together on what looked like a vacation.

Scott took out a notebook. "Can you tell us what happened? When did you last see your husband?"

"He left for work. Said he'd be back by midnight. It's been four days. He's never this late without calling." Her voice cracked.

Ryan leaned forward slightly. "Does he usually drive to work?"

"No. He always takes a Yellow Cab. Same company, every time."

"Does he work late often?" Ben asked.

"No. Even if he work late, he'd call. That's why it concerned me so much."

Ben offered a small, sincere nod. "We'll find him, ma'am. I promise."

Scott closed his notebook with a soft snap. "Tell me his full name."

"William Robinson."

"Thank you," Evelyn said. "We'll check with the cab company. They may have records of his last ride."

The woman nodded. "Please… just find him."

"Just one more thing I'd like to add, ma'am," Ryan said gently, handing her a small paper. "That piece of paper you're holding contains my number. If anything comes up, don't hesitate to call."

Scott pulled up in front of a run-down building with peeling paint and a battered sign that read: New York City Yellow Cab Dispatch Office.

The Yellow Cab Company office smelled stale, an old upholstery and sweat in the office.

A worn-out fan stirred the thick air.

Scott flashed his badge. "Detective Richards. We're investigating a missing person. Name's William Robinson. Took one of your cabs around four days ago."

The man behind the counter wiped his glasses. "Time?"

"Between eight and nine p.m.," Evelyn said.

The dispatcher typed slowly on a creaky computer. After a moment, he nodded.

"Cab four twenty-nine," he said. "Driver Carlos Menendez picked him up around eight past fifteen p.m. Dropped him off near the entrance of Central Park."

Evelyn asked, "Did Mr. Menendez notice anything strange? Nervousness, talking to someone, meeting someone?"

The dispatcher shook his head. "Nope. Passenger was quiet, polite. Paid well, then just walked off."

Scott frowned. "Did Mr. Menendez stick around?"

"Left right after. Said the guy walked into the park alone."

Evelyn exchanged a look with Scott.

"So whatever happened to Robinson happened after he left the cab," Scott said.

"Exactly," Evelyn replied. "We need to check that part of the park. Now."

The dispatcher handed them a card. "If Carlos remembers anything, he'll call."

Scott pocketed the card. "Thanks. I owe you one."

Outside, the afternoon sun felt heavier.

Evelyn started walking towards the car they parked into. "We need to find Mr. Robinson before it's too late."

Scott nodded, matching her pace.

The city was alive but tired—that afternoon the sun still shone but everything moved slower. The Summers walked in silence, their footsteps echoing against sun-bleached buildings and shuttered storefronts.

"A whole new world," Ben muttered, putting his hands into his pockets. "Feels like we're walking through someone else's nightmare."

Ryan mind ticking like a slow clock, glanced around. "Are there any clues at all on Robinson? No signs, no prints? It's like he vanished into air."

"Maybe he's dead." Ben's voice was hollow.

Ryan's brows furrowed. "But why? He wasn't a politician, or a cop, or even anyone shady. He was a middle-aged accountant. Just a man earning enough to feed his wife."

"So you wanna find motive?" Ben asked. "Because if there is one, I don't see it. Unless being a quiet guy with a steady job is a crime now."

"That's what makes it awful," Ryan said. "There's no reason or motivation. Which makes it worse. Feels... like madness."

"Maybe it is madness," Ben said. "Maybe the guy who did this—if someone did this—isn't thinking straight."

Ryan didn't respond. His eyes were distant.

"I'll check across the street," Ben said. "Could be someone saw something."

Ben jogged, leaving Ryan standing under a broken streetlamp that buzzed like a dying insect.

A few minutes later, Ben returned—less casual now, more quiet. "Um, Ryan? I think you might wanna see this."

Ryan followed Ben, they moved into a side alley off the main road. There, on a brick wall, was a massive mural—colorful but deeply disturbing. Depicted a twisted version of The Last Supper, the apostles with blurred faces, their eyes replaced with bleeding sockets. At the center of the table was a man being skinned alive, smiling through the pain.

It wasn't graffiti. It was art. Painful, angry art.

"It's beautiful," Ben whispered. "In a disturbing way."

Ryan's eyes weren't on the imagery, though. His gaze fell on a tiny inscription near the bottom edge of the mural.

"Wait... what's that message?" Ryan asked.

Ben squinted. "I dunno. Some Latin bullshit. Probably not important."

Ryan stepped closer, careful not to touch the wall. The phrase stared back at him:

Invenire artem post scaenam.

Ben rolled his eyes. "Here we go. Another rabbit hole."

"You don't think this is relevant?" Ryan asked, pulling out his phone and snapping a photo.

"No," Ben said. "I think your brain's wired to make everything mean something. A bird flies west, and you think it's a clue."

Ryan ignored him. "Robinson could've passed through this alley. He sees this mural. He stops. Maybe someone's watching. Maybe someone was waiting."

Ben gave a half-shrug. "So what? He stumbled onto a wall painting and what—got sucked into the Shadow Realm?"

Ryan lowered the phone, his expression grave. "No. But if this is what I think it is... we've just stepped into something bigger."

The mural stared back. Silent. Knowing.

Ryan tap on his phone and raised it to his ear as he stood near the mural, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the concrete.

"I'll call Scott," he said to Ben.

The call connected.

"Scott. We'll meet at my place—Ben and I found something." Short pause. "You've got a lead too? Good. Send me your location just in case. See you there."

He hung up.

"We heading home?" Ben asked, brushing mural dust off his pants.

Ryan gave a dry look. "You think?"

They walked back to the car, the hot pavement radiated heat beneath their steps.

"Finally," Ben muttered. "I can ditch this damn suit. It's like wearing a furnace."

"You look good in it," Ryan replied, unlocking the doors. "Might actually land you a girlfriend instead of stalking people online."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Casanova."

Back at their house, Ryan opened the door just as someone knocked from the other side.

He blinked—Evelyn stood there, a soft smile on her face. Ryan stepped aside.

"Come in. We've got things to piece together."

Scott followed her in, holding a worn folder under his arm.

Everyone settled around the cluttered table. Notebooks, scattered papers, and takeout boxes created a battlefield of half-formed ideas.

"So," Ben asked. "What did you guys find?"

Scott placed the folder on the table and opened it.

"Name's Carlos Menendez," he said. "Cabbie. Picked up William Robinson around nine p.m. there. Dropped him near Central Park."

Ben crossed his arms. "You think Menendez is involved?"

Ryan shook his head. "Doubt it. If he was, dispatch would've noted something weird—delays, unplanned stops. They didn't."

"Carlos has a clean record too," Evelyn added. "He logged out after the drop. Nothing suspicious on his end."

"Okay," Ben sighed. "Still feels like someone's hiding something."

"Well," Ryan said, pulling out his phone, "while you were skeptical, me and Ben found this."

He flipped the screen toward them. The photo of the mural glowed softly in the light.

Evelyn squinted her eyes. "Is that... a twisted Last Supper?"

"It is," Ben said. "Creepy but beautiful."

"And underneath it—look," Ryan zoomed in on the cryptic message. "Latin." The cryptic message says Invenire artem post scaenam.

"I don't see how this helps us with Robinson's disappearance," Evelyn said, handing the phone back.

"Same," Scott added. "No offense, Ryan, but it feels more like street art than a lead."

"Still," Ryan muttered, pocketing his phone. "Doesn't hurt to look deeper."

Scott stood. "We're heading back to the precinct. See if anything else turns up."

Evelyn gave Ryan a nod. "Thanks for the insight."

"Don't mention it."

They left the house. Ben stretched out and looked at Ryan.

"So... burger?"

Ryan chuckled. "Yeah. burger."

Midnight. The low intensity light of a twenty-four hour café. Evelyn stirred her coffee. Across her, Scott Richards flipped through the case file.

Evelyn glanced up. "What are you doing, Richards?"

Scott didn't look up. "You blind or what?"

She exhaled, already weary. "You need to take a break. We've been chasing this thing for days."

"Yeah? You take your break, I'll keep working."

"We'll find him, Scott. We'll find him."

Scott snapped the file closed. "Don't say that."

"Say what?"

"'We'll find him.'" He scoffed. "You don't know that. And if you did, you'd know he's already dead."

Evelyn squinted her eyes. "How the hell can you say that? His wife is waiting—praying he's still alive."

Scott's eyes were cold. "That woman? She's a damn whore."

Evelyn froze. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"You heard me."

Evelyn stood slowly. "You trying to start a fight?"

Scott rose to meet her, the tension between them like a lit fuse. "Oh, I'm not trying. I will if you keep talking like that, you little bitch."

Eyes turned in the café. Quiet gasps. The waitress dropped a spoon.

Then—Scott's phone buzzed. He fumbled it out of his coat.

"Detective Richards," he snapped.

"Scott," came Ben's voice on the other end, hushed but urgent. "We found a body. Hanging in Central Park. His face is gone. Hands—chopped off. It's bad. Real bad. A lot of the cops threw up. I think it's him."

Scott went pale. "You what?"

"I'm not lying. Get here. Fast."

Scott hung up. "We've got to go. Now. Central Park."

No more words. They rushed out.

They reached the park, red and blue lights lit the trees in a haunting glow. Officers were shaking, leaning on squad cars, some still wiping their mouths.

The body swung gently from a thick tree branch. Naked. Hands missing. Face obliterated. Brains painted across the grass like spilled paint.

Scott gagged. "What the fuck is this…"

"You're both here!" Ryan shouted, running up to them. "I'm almost sure this is William Robinson."

He held his phone. It buzzed again. Ryan answered.

"Hello?"

A pause.

"Yes, ma'am. We may have found your husband… Not in a good shape." He glanced at the mutilated corpse. "Are you sure? Okay. Meet us at Central Park."

Ten minutes later, a cab pulled over fast. The door flung open, and she ran toward them, already sobbing.

Her scream when she saw the body pierced the air like glass.

"No… no, please!" she wailed, collapsing to her knees. "What did Bill do wrong?! He might've been an atheist, but he was a good man! A kind man! Why would anyone… do this?!"

Evelyn knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her. "We'll catch whoever did this. I swear to you."

Ryan stared at the corpse. A small paper was stapled to what remained of the chest.

He pulled it free.

In red ink, smeared but legible, it read:

Greater blood has no one than the artist's sacrifice.

Ryan realized what kind of killer they're facing.