Location: Forensic Science Department, London – 3:17 PM
The rain over London had turned silver under the afternoon sun, but inside the underground chamber of the Forensics Department, it was cold and sterile—too clean, too quiet, with the faint scent of disinfectant mixed with something darker, something clinical… something that lingered after death.
Kiaan Verma walked through the corridor, past rows of steel doors and chilling silence, his boots clicking in rhythm against the white-tiled floor. He wasn't just a captain of elite agents today. He was a man with a countdown clock in his head, and each second ticked toward dismissal—or worse.
A woman in a navy-blue coat was already waiting near the end of the corridor, flipping through her tab and tapping a stylus against her lip.
"Mia Blackwood?" he asked, his voice low and direct.
She looked up. Early thirties, sharp hazel eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. There was something unshaken about her—like she'd seen horrors up close and had stopped flinching long ago.
"Yes. And you must be Captain Kiaan Verma. CBI-India's special intelligence."
Kiaan gave a tight nod. "You handled the autopsies for the three murders tied to our case?"
Mia turned and gestured for him to follow. "Come. I'll show you what your files don't say."
They walked into a cold room.
Inside, three steel drawers lined the back wall. She pulled the first one open.
"This was the first victim. Maya Bishop. Age: 18. University freshman. Body was discovered in an alley behind her campus dorm—face down, limbs twisted like she was dancing mid-air."
Kiaan stepped closer. His eyes studied the markings on the body photo she laid out. Red lines along the wrists, bruising near the temple.
"No signs of resistance?" he asked.
"No. That's the chilling part. No signs of drug use, no alcohol in the system. She wasn't attacked in a fight. It's like…" Mia hesitated. "It's like she followed the killer willingly."
Kiaan's jaw tightened. "Next?"
Mia pulled out another file.
"Victor Gable. Age: 20. Second victim. Found in an abandoned subway tunnel. Position—kneeling, eyes wide open. Throat slit with a straight precision cut. No fingerprints, no fibers, no footprints. Clean."
Kiaan flipped through the photos—his sharp eyes picking up something others might miss.
"He was military-trained," he said suddenly.
Mia blinked. "How do you know?"
Kiaan tapped the position of the hands, the posture even in death. "Only someone with discipline kneels like this under threat. He wasn't begging. He was… bracing. He knew what was coming."
Mia nodded slowly. "Good eye."
She opened the third.
"Last victim—Isaac Drewe. Age: 21. Found in a rooftop greenhouse. Body suspended by wires, arms spread like a marionette. A note was left at this one."
She handed Kiaan a photo.
The words were scribbled in black ink on old paper.
"The puppets dance until their strings are cut."
Kiaan's fingers clenched. "We're not dealing with just a killer. This is psychological warfare."
Mia added, "And the killer didn't just want them dead. He wanted them seen after death. It's a message. These positions—these scenes—are curated. Like a twisted exhibition."
"Any links between the victims?"
"None we can find. Different cities, different schools, different social groups. But…"
"But?" Kiaan leaned in.
Mia's eyes met his. "All three had attended one same seminar last summer. A special military-led youth initiative for international cooperation. Hosted by private firms under anonymous names. Very off-record."
Kiaan's brows furrowed. "Private military grooming events?"
"Looks like it," she said.
He exhaled. That kind of connection didn't pop up in official reports. Someone had wiped this detail—deliberately.
"This is big," he muttered. "Too big for regular cops."
"Which is why they handed it to you," Mia said softly. "Just… be careful, Captain. Whoever did this knows how to erase their existence."
Kiaan nodded grimly, stuffing the photo copies into his bag.
Before leaving, he looked back at the three faces—one frozen in innocence, one in resistance, and one in eerie surrender.
The killer wasn't just ending lives.
He was performing murders like an artist paints final portraits.