One Room, No Escape

The room was dim. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, casting jittery shadows across the walls.

Scott Richards leaned forward, elbows pressing into the cold metal, voice tight.

"Let me ask you again," he said, placing a photo on the table. "Whose van is this?"

The man glanced down at the photo with disinterest.

"It's mine," he said. "Why, is that illegal now?"

Scott didn't blink. "You parked it a block away from where a man was burned alive. You call that a coincidence?"

"Could be. I went to the groceries. Is that a problem, Detective Richards?"

Scott's jaw clenched. "Groceries, huh."

"How many times do I have to say it, you dumb bitches?"

Evelyn stepped forward, calm but firm. "Richards. Stay cool."

"I am cool," he muttered, though his knuckles were white against the edge of the table.

The door opened. Captain Russo stepped in, his face grave. He held a manila folder in one hand.

"Detectives," he said. "You'll want to see this."

He handed the folder to Scott and stepped out.

Scott flipped it open. His expression froze.

"What the fuck…"

Evelyn's breath caught. "Detective Morgan…"

Inside were two crime scene photos. One was a man strung up in a warehouse, face barely recognizable—Detective Morgan, someone they'd worked with briefly three weeks ago. The second body was a known gang affiliate, hung beside him like a grotesque twin.

Above them, in dripping blood, was a message:

I separate the worthy from the wasted, as paint from canvas

Scott turned the page and shoved it across the table.

"You know him?" he asked.

The suspect gave a slow shrug. "Who, this guy? Looks like a damn scarecrow. Never seen him."

"He was our colleague," Evelyn said. "And he's dead. Murdered and staged like an exhibit. You expect us to believe you had nothing to do with that?"

He shrugged again. "Maybe I saw something. Maybe I didn't. Lotta horror shows on the news lately."

Scott leaned closer. "I don't think you're the killer. But I think you know him. And I think you've been helping him."

The man's grin widened. "So it's a 'he' now, huh? Interesting."

"Don't play games," Evelyn snapped.

"I'm ain't. Just saying, maybe I've seen some of the shit you're talking about."

"Yes or no," Scott demanded.

"It's a maybe, you dumb fuck."

Silence filled the room. Tension thick enough to choke on.

Evelyn stared him down. "You're dancing on the edge of obstruction, you know that?"

"I'm not dancing. I'm surviving."

Scott pushed back from the table, the chair legs screeching. He stood tall, looming.

"One of us walks out of here with answers," he said. "And I'm not leaving empty-handed."

The suspect leaned back in his chair, a smirk dancing on his unshaven face. His voice dripped with a twisted sense of admiration.

"You know what I think, detectives? I think all those people that the killer murdered—those were statements. Symbolic. A message to the city, telling us: to not fuck with him. He's letting us know who's in charge. Who rules New York now. And it's him. He owns us. We don't own him."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck are you trying to say?"

"What I'm trying to say," the suspect sneered, "is that you—the cops, the media, all of you—are fat fucking jokes. Worthless. And the so-called 'Mural Killer'? That's not who he is."

"So what, you know this guy?" Scott asked, voice low.

The man shrugged, eyes wild. "Maybe. Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. Maybe I did the killings. Maybe I watched. Maybe I am the artist. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I was there every time someone died—or maybe I was just watching the news like you."

Scott's fists clenched on the table. "So that's what you call him? The artist? That's bullshit. He's not an artist. He's a delusional serial killer. A joke."

The suspect's voice dropped, reverent. "He's not a serial killer. He's a figure. A perfect human. You call him a murderer. He's... invincible."

Scott leaned closer, rage flickering behind his eyes. "His messages. You know anything about them?"

"All I know is that he's symbolic. A prophet with paint. His work? It's divine."

"You son of a bitch." Scott's chair screeched as he stood, pacing. "He leaves verses. Biblical ones. And then he crushes skulls, gouges out eyes, and throws bodies in blood-filled pools."

He turned sharply. "And you want me to believe he's religious?! That this monster believes in God?"

"Yes," the suspect said, smiling like he held a secret. "Because he does. He believes more than anyone."

Scott laughed bitterly. "He's not religious. He's hijacking faith. Using the Bible to justify murder. He's not a believer—he's a butcher."

The suspect didn't flinch. "Maybe to you. But to him? He's not butchering. He's creating."

Scott grabbed him by the hair. "You think this is a game to you?"

"Feels like one," the man replied. "He's not just a man. He's the Messiah of New York City. Cleaning filth. Turning trash into truth. Into beauty."

Scott's composure shattered.

He slammed the suspect's face into the metal table. Once. Twice. Again.

"Ready to talk, fucker?!"

The suspect groaned, blood trickling from his mouth. A tooth rolled onto the table like a chipped piece of ivory.

"You think I'm gonna talk now?" the suspect spat. "After what you've done?"

Scott bashed him again. The sound echoed off the walls.

"Now? Ready?"

"I said I'm not ready."

Scott punched him. Hard. The suspect's head snapped back and fell into the floor, but he only laughed, a hoarse, jagged chuckle rising from deep in his chest.

"You think this makes you stronger, Richards?" he laughed. "You think he's scared of you?"

Punch. Another. Blood painted the floor. The suspect's face was a pulpy mess—far worse than Marcus Lane's ever was.

Still, the man kept laughing.

"This is what you want, right?!" Scott roared. "They all died because of you! You and your fucking 'artist'! Calling him a Messiah?!"

He threw another punch, and another.

Evelyn flinched.

He threw another punch, and another. And another.

"Okay, Scott! That's enough!" she shouted.

Scott's hands wrapped around the man's throat.

The suspect coughed blood and laughed through cracked teeth. "He's the Messiah… He's—"

Evelyn bolted forward and yanked Scott back.

"That's why I love you, Detective Richards!" the suspect screamed, his voice rising into shrill, maddened laughter. "You're just like me!"

Evelyn dragged Scott out of the room.

Outside the room

The pen buzzed with distant chatter and ringing phones. Nobody noticed the storm boiling behind Evelyn's eyes.

Scott paced like a caged animal.

"Just let it go," Evelyn said gently. "We'll tell Russo there's no connection. We let him walk."

"I'm not letting that bastard walk," Scott muttered. "Not after what he said."

"We have no proof, Scott. You brutalized a man who hasn't been charged with a thing."

Scott turned on her. "He called him the Messiah. He glorified everything that sick fuck has done."

"Scott—"

"Don't you get it? He laughed. He laughed at all of it." Scott's voice cracked. "At Morgan. At the pool. At those gouged eyes. He laughed like it was art."

Evelyn hesitated. "I know. I hate it too. But you're exhausted. Go home. Rest. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

Scott looked away, jaw tight. "I'm not in the mood for playing catch with the Mural Killer."

Evelyn tried to smile. "That's why you need to take a breath. I'll work with the Summers tonight."

Scott was silent.

"You're out for now," she said. "Just get some coffee. Sit somewhere quiet. We'll handle it."

"Right," Scott nodded.

Evelyn watched him leave the precinct, shoulders hunched in frustration. She waited a few beats, then pulled out her phone.

Later

Ryan and Ben Summers pulled up in their car. Evelyn was already outside waiting, arms crossed, wind flicking strands of her hair across her face.

Ryan rolled down the window. "Where's Scott?"

"He wanted to be alone," Evelyn replied.

Ben raised a brow. "Did something happen?"

"He lost it in the interrogation room."

Ben smirked. "Sounds like Scott thing to do."

Ryan frowned. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just—" Evelyn looked away. "It's been a long day."

"Come on," Ryan said. "We'll take you to that Japanese spot Ben's obsessed with."

Ben beamed. "They've got the best gyoza in the borough."

Evelyn smiled faintly as she slid into the back seat. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of everything… lessen.

But in the back of her mind, the word Messiah still rang like a siren.