Ink and Thread

The living room of the house was messy. Folders scattered across the table. Crime scene photos all over the place. A chocolate milkshake sat on the edge of the couch, nearly empty. Ryan Summers was the only one there. Sitting. Quiet.

He flipped through a folder.

Photos of a murder. A detective named Jonathan Morgan. One of theirs.

"It's evening now," Ryan muttered.

He stared at the photos. Morgan's body. The scene. The blood. All of it.

"Detective Morgan," Ryan said. "We may not have known you long... but you were a warrior. A calculating guy. You were one of the smartest guys I've ever met."

He paused.

"You told me you found the Mural's lair. You said you could handle it alone. But you didn't make it. You failed. And now we lost you. You became one of his masterpieces."

Ryan let out a quiet sigh.

"You were... one of my trusted colleagues. Why'd you leave us? Why did you become part of the beast's gallery?"

Silence.

Ryan stood up and walked to the hallway. He opened a door. Inside—a board. Covered with photos, notes, maps, strings. It was everything.

"There's definitely something fishy here," Ryan said. "I can feel it."

He stared at the board.

"If only you were still here, John," Ryan whispered. "I'll miss you, brother."

He looked harder. Trying to find anything that made sense. Anything new.

"This doesn't help," he muttered.

He checked his phone. Opened the photos of the Mural's messages from each crime scene.

William Robinson. The ten eyeballs. The decapitated man. Detective Morgan. A gang affiliate.

All the messages. None made sense.

"No connection," Ryan said. "No thread. No symbol. Just madness."

He sat back down, shoulders heavy.

"I can't. I just can't find any clues," he said. "Even someone like me can't figure this out."

He's growing frustrated.

Hours passed. It was night now.

"Where the hell is Ben?" Ryan muttered.

He picked up his phone. A voice note from Ben.

Ryan tapped play.

"Hey, brother. I can't be home right now. I've got my hands full, and so do you. Make sure you get some rest, alright? I know you're exhausted doing all that work. I might be home late. That's on me though."

Ryan stared at the screen for a long moment.

He said nothing.

But his mind kept racing.

Late night.

A gentle rain sprinkled the windshield. Inside the car, Morgan tapped the steering wheel while Ryan stared silently at his tablet.

"You wanna buy something, Summers?" Morgan asked.

"I'm not buying anything."

"Come on. Just name it."

"I said no."

"Don't regret it."

Morgan stepped out of the car and into the damp night. Across the street, an old beggar sat beneath a flickering streetlight.

"Please, sir," the beggar croaked. "I ain't eaten since morning. Anything—please."

Morgan gave him a glance—cold, unreadable—and walked into the convenience store without a word.

Minutes passed.

When he stepped back outside, he carried a small plastic bag. He handed the beggar a strawberry cake.

The old man's eyes welled up. "Oh my... you do have a heart. Thank you, thank you so much."

Morgan's expression softened. "It's nothing."

"No—it's something. I ain't got nothing to eat all day."

Morgan nodded, his voice gentler than before. "I'm arrogant. I know that. But my brother, God rest his soul, always told me— 'have compassion for strangers.' That's something I carry."

"You ain't arrogant to me," the beggar said. "You're just a kind man with a sharp tongue. That's all."

Morgan gave a faint smile. "Take care, sir."

He returned to the car. Ryan didn't look up, still tapping on the tablet.

"What are you doing, Summers?"

"Trying to figure out something," Ryan murmured. "A pattern. A clue. Anything that can lead us to the Mural Killer. We've been chasing him for weeks."

Morgan reached over, took the tablet, and opened a drawing app.

"Let me ask you something," Morgan said, drawing a rough shape on the screen. "What's the first question every detective asks?"

"'Who is the killer?'"

"Exactly." Morgan drew more. "But that's the wrong question."

Ryan glanced at the screen. Morgan had sketched rough approximations of crime scene locations—each X forming part of a larger shape.

"If we keep asking the wrong question, we'll never find the real answer," Morgan continued. "It's not 'who is the Mural Killer?' It's 'where is the Mural Killer?'"

"You think his lair is the key?"

"Always has been." Morgan tapped the center of the map. "These crime scenes… they form something. A pattern. One of his messages holds the key to finding him—probably written in a language we can't understand."

Ryan leaned in closer, brows knitting.

Morgan smiled. "That's our answer, Summers. His identity comes later. We find the lair—we find the artist."

"You think I'll be the one to crack it?"

"I think you're as sharp as me. Maybe sharper. Who knows? Maybe you'll figure it out... after I end up in one of his murals."

"Don't say that."

"Just a thought. But remember what I said. Don't chase the man. Chase the pattern."

Ryan was sitting by himself, the room dark, illuminated solely by the gentle light of a desk lamp. His fingers lingered above his phone while he navigated through the images he had collected over recent weeks — all proof, all brutality.

His eyes stopped on one particular image.

The twisted depiction of The Last Supper.

It had haunted him when he first saw it—the desecrated forms, the perversion of holiness. But now… now something clicked.

"Invenire artem post scaenam," he whispered.

The Latin words were scrawled underneath the mural. He had dismissed it before as another one of the killer's cryptic flourishes.

Ryan opened a translation app on his phone.

Discover the art behind the scene.

He muttered the words again. "Behind the scene…"

He stood, the chair creaking beneath him, and made his way to the wall where his investigation board stood. Dozens of photos. Red string. Pins. Victim names. Locations.

He looked again. Slowly.

One by one, he connected the dots—William Robinson's apartment. The alley with the ten eyeballs. Detective Morgan's body, hung with scripture. The impaled head on the East Side. The pool of blood like a baptism.

String by string. Pin by pin.

Then he stepped back.

It was a cross.

A perfect cross.

At the center… a name.

RAVEN THEATER — an old building, abandoned for decades.

Ryan's breath caught in his throat.

"My God…"

His hands scrambled for the car keys. He didn't bother grabbing his coat. Just bolted for the door and vanished into the cold night.

Ryan started the engine, the tires murmuring on the damp road as he sped into the night.

Ryan started the engine, the tires murmuring on the damp road as he sped into the night.

"Shit," he whispered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I never thought we would truly discover the beast's den."

For a moment, silence filled the car. His pulse raced.

"I need to call Ben," Ryan said under his breath, fumbling for his phone.

In a motel by the highway.

Ben lay sprawled on the bed, deeply asleep. A water bottle that was partially full tumbled onto the nightstand, splattering on his phone. The buzz of a call coming in roused him. He wiped the screen and responded sleepily

"Yeah? Who the hell—"

"Ben!" Ryan's voice was a mix of adrenaline and static. "I found him! I found—"

The line crackled, then cut out.

"Hello?" Ben said, sitting up. "Ryan?"

The call returned for a second.

"Look, Ben, I'll send you more info later. I'm heading in now. Talk to you later—"

The call disconnected.

Ben stared at the screen. "What the hell are you trying to say, Ryan?"

Meanwhile, in the car.

A faint grin crept onto Ryan's face, one of determination and satisfaction.

"Who would've thought," he murmured. "The Mural Killer... after all this, we'll finally capture him."

He hesitated. "Should I call Scott?"

The thought lingered for a second.

"No," he decided. "Not yet. I need to see the den on my own."

At the park.

Scott Richards sat alone on a bench, the night air heavy with silence.

His phone rang. Without checking, he answered.

"What do you want?" His tone was cold, lifeless.

A pause. A faint voice on the other end.

Scott's features softened. "I love you too," he said quietly. "But I was disowned when I was ten. And you that hasn't changed."

Another silence.

"Really?" Scott's voice trembled slightly. "I don't think they'd want to see a man like this. After what they had done."

He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't come back. I built a life here. As a detective. Something that I truly love doing."

A final pause.

"I love you too." A single tear slipped down his cheek.

The Raven Theater.

Ryan pulled up outside the decrepit building. Its blackened windows and rotting facade loomed like the skull of something ancient.

"This is it," he whispered. "This nightmare ends here."

He popped the trunk. Within was a pistol with a flashlight attached below.

Ryan took a deep breath, his fingers brushing the cold steel.

"Let's fucking go," he muttered, loading a magazine with deliberate care.

Ryan pushed open the theater door.

"Would this count as trespassing? No. Think, Ryan! You're a detective—investigating a possible crime scene."

Another door creaked as he pushed it open.

He entered, his tread resonating throughout the corridor. He was welcomed by rows of red seats, extending from the top to the bottom. In front of him loomed the stage, silent and ominous.

Ryan walked onto the stage, scanning for anything unusual. He raised his phone, recording every detail.

"Nothing seems to be unusual," he muttered.

Then he glanced down—and froze. A trapdoor.

"A trapdoor? What the hell?"

Still filming, he crouched and pulled it open. A dust shot into his face, making him cough. A ladder descended into darkness.

"This… this might be important," Ryan whispered.

He began descending, the ladder creaking with every move. As his feet made contact with the ground, the air seemed chillier.

"Let's check if this is genuinely the beast's den," he remarked, his tone quiet, continuing to record.

The beam of his flashlight moved through the area—finally resting on a head without a body, grotesquely suspended by a rope

"Shit…"

His stomach turned.

"This is truly the beast's den…"

Quickly, Ryan sent the video to his brother.

A voice behind him made his blood run cold.

"You're right, Detective."

Ryan spun around, eyes wide. The Mural Killer stood there—white mask, two dark, unblinking eyes, a green jacket hanging loosely from his frame.

"You've found my gallery," the killer said softly. "Just like Detective Morgan."

Before Ryan could react, a heavy blow knocked him to the floor.