The rain hadn't stopped for hours. Thick, relentless drops fell like a curtain over the narrow cobbled alleyway tucked behind an abandoned train depot on the eastern edge of London. The sky hung low, grey as ash, as if mourning another soul claimed by a phantom.
Kiaan Verma's black SUV rolled to a stop, cutting through the yellow police tape like a blade. The moment he stepped out, the murmur of voices dipped. His coat, soaked at the shoulders, didn't slow his stride. His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the scene like a predator entering foreign territory.
Two London cops approached.
"Detective Verma?" one asked cautiously.
"Kiaan Verma," he corrected, flashing his ID. "CBI. Where's the body?"
The officer gestured to a corner of the alley shrouded in shadow, where white-suited forensics worked under floodlights. "Just behind the dumpster. No ID yet, but fits the profile. Male. Around twenty-two. Found an hour ago."
Kiaan didn't wait for more. He moved fast, the wind tossing his coat behind him like wings of a dark omen. As he reached the scene, a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Took you long enough," said Mia Hartley, the forensic lead from the last scene. She looked up from the body, her gloves stained with the start of discovery.
Kiaan didn't return a greeting. He crouched, examining the fourth victim.
The boy—no, young man—was sprawled flat on his back, arms perfectly placed at his sides. His eyes were open, wide with terror. No blood around the scene, but the purple hue around the lips said enough.
"Cause of death?" Kiaan asked, his voice low and firm.
Mia peeled off her right glove and pointed to a faint injection mark behind the left ear.
"Paralytic. Fast-acting. No bruises, no struggle. He was probably conscious when it hit, but fully frozen. Alive until the heart slowed. Death in under three minutes."
Kiaan's eyes narrowed.
"Same method?"
"Almost identical to Maya Bishop's body. Precision, cleanliness… this guy isn't just experienced. He's ritualistic."
Kiaan rose slowly, his gaze traveling from the dumpster to the rooftops above.
"The killer's getting bolder." He pointed at the clean, unsmeared pavement. "He didn't even bother to drag the body. He knew we'd find it here. He wanted us to."
One of the officers beside them added, "We found this tucked beneath his belt."
Kiaan took the small folded note with gloved hands. A chill ran through him as he read the line written in fine ink:
"Not everyone dances when the music stops."
Silence.
Mia exhaled, her breath clouding in the cold air. "That's poetic... and terrifying."
Kiaan's jaw tensed.
"He's not writing poetry. He's building a stage. And we're all just arriving."
He turned to the officers. "Check for any security cameras in the surrounding five blocks. Then check blind spots. Garbage cans. Streetlamps. Anything unusual in the past 48 hours."
His phone buzzed.
Text from Tara:
Tracked the victim. Oliver Cain. Age 22. Attended the same seminar. Confirmed.
Kiaan didn't react outwardly. He stared at the body one more time before muttering under his breath,
"Four down… who's the final act?"
He turned on his heel.
"Mia, send me the toxicology ASAP."
"Already on it," she said, watching him go.
As he disappeared back through the yellow tape, Mia looked down at the still-open eyes of the dead boy and whispered to herself:
"Whoever you are, I hope to God Kiaan finds you first…"