October 14, 2024 — Three Years Later
The body was kneeling.
That was the first thing Max Donavan noticed.
Not the police tape sealing off the area.
Not the officers murmuring around him.
Not even the metallic smell in the air.
But the position.
Kneeling.
As if it had been placed there.
Or worse…
As if it had chosen to be.
Max stood still for a few seconds before approaching. His hands stayed inside the pockets of his dark coat, his gaze fixed—calculating every detail before even taking a step.
The scene was recent.
Very recent.
The blood hadn't fully darkened yet. Thin streams still ran across the concrete floor, forming irregular patterns that, at first glance, looked random.
But they weren't.
They never were.
"You got here fast."
The voice came from behind him.
Max didn't turn.
"You were late."
A heavy sigh answered.
"You haven't changed at all, have you?"
Now Max turned.
The sergeant stood a few meters back, arms crossed, a tired expression on his face. Older. Harder. But still the same.
"And you still pretend you're in control," Max replied.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Three years.
And nothing about this was simple.
"You shouldn't be here," the sergeant said finally.
"And you shouldn't have called me."
Silence.
Because they both knew the truth.
He always called.
Always.
Max stepped closer to the body.
The victim was a man, maybe in his forties. Eyes open, fixed on something that was no longer there. His expression… wasn't pain.
It was… acceptance.
Max crouched slowly.
The world around him began to fade.
Sound.
Movement.
Everything.
Until there was only him… and the scene.
"Don't touch it," the sergeant warned.
Max ignored him.
His fingers hovered for a moment above the ground… then made contact.
And everything changed.
For a second—or an eternity—something cut through his mind.
A sound.
A whisper.
Too low to understand.
But loud enough to feel.
Max pulled his hand back immediately, as if he had touched something burning.
He took a breath.
Once.
Twice.
"You saw something," the sergeant said, watching him.
Max didn't answer.
He stood up.
And then he looked around.
That's when he saw it.
The symbol.
Drawn beneath the body.
Partially hidden by blood.
But unmistakable.
The world slowed.
"No…" he murmured.
The sergeant frowned.
"What?"
Max knelt again, this time shifting the body slightly.
And there it was.
Complete.
Exact.
Identical.
The same symbol.
From that night.
Three years ago.
"That's not possible…" the sergeant muttered, more to himself than to Max.
But Max wasn't listening anymore.
His eyes locked.
His body still.
His mind… returning.
Not by choice.
But by force.
Blood on the walls.
The floor.
The symbols.
His breath failing.
The scream stuck in his throat.
He shut his eyes tight.
No.
Not now.
When he opened them again… something had changed.
"Who found the body?" he asked, flat.
"A resident. Said he heard something during the night."
"Cameras?"
"We're checking."
Max nodded slowly.
But he already knew.
There would be nothing.
There never was.
"It didn't stop," he said.
The sergeant went quiet.
Because deep down…
He knew it too.
"Max…"
"No," he cut him off. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like this is a coincidence."
The sergeant ran a hand over his face.
Tired.
"Three years, Max…"
"Three years and you didn't solve it," Max shot back.
That hit.
Hard.
But it was true.
And they both knew it.
Later, far from the scene, Max was alone.
The apartment was small.
Dark.
Covered in papers.
Photos.
Clippings.
Notes spread across every wall.
A map.
Connections drawn by hand.
Lines linking names.
Dates.
Places.
Obsessed.
There was no other word for it.
Max walked up to the main wall.
And there it was.
The photo.
The house.
Before.
Intact.
He stared at it for a few seconds.
Longer than he should.
Shorter than he felt.
Then he picked up a new photo.
Today's body.
And pinned it to the board.
Connecting it with a line.
Direct.
Without hesitation.
"I'm going to find you…" he murmured.
His voice low.
But heavy.
Almost a promise.
Or a threat.
Hours later.
Night had fallen.
Max stepped out.
The destination wasn't random.
It never was.
He entered a small place—discreet, almost hidden between forgotten streets of the city.
The bell above the door rang.
And someone looked up.
"You're late," the woman behind the counter said.
Max stopped.
Studied her.
"Do I know you?"
She tilted her head slightly.
Watching him as if she already knew the answer.
"No.
But I know you."
Silence.
Thick.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Someone who knows it never ended."
The air grew heavier.
"What are you talking about?"
She stepped forward.
"What started in that house."
Max froze.
For a second.
Just one.
But it was enough.
"You shouldn't be here," she continued.
"And you shouldn't know that," he replied.
She smiled.
Slightly.
But it wasn't a normal smile.
It was… off.
"You still don't understand, Max."
His name.
Spoken too naturally.
Too wrong.
His expression hardened.
"How do you know my name?"
She stepped closer.
Now close enough.
"Because…"
She tilted her head again.
As if listening to something he couldn't hear.
And then she said:
"They know."
The world seemed to hold its breath.
"Who?"
But she didn't answer.
She only whispered:
"You're late, Max."
His heart slammed against his chest.
"Who said that?"
Silence.
Max blinked.
And she was gone.
The counter empty.
The place… quiet.
As if it had never existed.
Max stood there.
Frozen.
Breathing hard.
Trying to understand.
But deep down…
He already knew.
It never stopped.
And now…
it had started again.