After hours, the precinct felt like a different world.

  Phones silent. Desks empty. Air too still, too heavy. Perfect for thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Elias sat in the glow of his monitor, eyes raw from lack of sleep, mind looping the same stubborn question:

  Why her? Why did Seraphine keep flickering across his radar? Why did every path, no matter how many he tracked, wander back toward her shadow?

  He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair.

  “No,” he muttered to himself. “She’s just one student. Wrong place, wrong time. Victim, not suspect.”

  Except he couldn’t shake the uneasy itch in his bones.

  So he did the thing he didn’t want to do: he summoned his assistant.

  “I need everything you can find on Seraphine Calderon,” he said, voice low.

  The junior officer blinked. “Everything everything?”

  “Everything,” Elias confirmed. “Every record. Every address. Anyone she lived with. Worked for. Look for… anything.”

  The assistant nodded, scribbling fast. “Got it.”

  “And,” Elias added, “do the same for these names.”

  He slid over printouts of the university-connected dead: the professor, the motel boy, the former employees, the older victims.

  “See if any of them connect to her. Even vaguely.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  His assistant hesitated. “That might take time.”

  Elias rubbed his temple. “Time is fine. Just do it.”

  The kid disappeared, leaving Elias alone again.

  He turned back to his computer— and searched the university database.

  Not public cases. Not headlines.

  Internal memos. Archived reports. Old police blotters.

  He typed: “St. Aurelius University accidental death.”

  And the screen filled.

  Not dozens. Not hundreds.

  But five entries. All within the same academic year.

  Every file the same tone: “Unfortunate”, “Incident”, “Tragic accident”, “No signs of foul play”, “Closed”

  He clicked them open, one by one.

  Report 1 — “Fell from bleachers during an intramural game.”

  18-year-old male. Stable background. Witnesses said he was “pushed,” but no one saw by whom.

  Report 2 — “Food poisoning from cafeteria.”

  Three students admitted. Only one died. A male student with prior misconduct reports.

  Report 3 — “Slipped in bathroom; hit head on tile.”

  No CCTV. Was alone. Was drunk. Was rumored to stalk girls in the dorm.

  Report 4 — “Missing student found drowned after field trip.”

  No official cause. Rumored harassment complaint filed earlier.

  Report 5 — “Car accident inside campus grounds.”

  Driver hit a pole. Died instantly. Friends claimed he was “running from someone.”

  All male. All with quiet rumors behind their deaths. All written off.

  Elias sat still. A chill climbed up his spine.

  Accidents. Five years ago. Five different methods. All predatory men.

  He printed the files, laid them out beside the newest murders, and stared.

  The paper trail looked harmless at first glance.

  But lined up like that? It read like history.

  Like a pattern beginning long before anyone realized.

  Like someone was practicing. Someone who started small. Someone who got better.

  Someone who learned how to kill and never got caught.

  Someone who might have been there that entire time.

  He circled the years.

  Seraphine: Would have been in high school then, Or possibly new to the city, Young and invisible. Watching. Learning. Or suffering quietly.

  He didn’t know yet. But everything in him screamed:

  This didn’t start last month. This started years ago. Someone has been cleaning filth for a long, long time.

  And if that someone was still walking free— still breathing the same air— still evolving— then every man like them was already marked.

  He had no idea how long he’s been sitting there. Until a knock from the door echoes. His assistant returned.

  “Sir,” he said. “Here’s the file you need.”

  Elias braced himself.