Chapter 38 THE HUNT
\[ETHAN POV\]
Goshh!!!!! finally.
Aria’s been flipping around nonstop - can’t seem to get comfy. Just when I figure she’s finally still, off she goes again. Turns one way. Then the other. She smacked her pillow like it did something wrong.
She acts this way whenever stress hits. Because her thoughts just keep racing nonstop.
Tonight’s different - she uncovered something. Those documents showed up. Old news pieces popped out. He, my dad, came back into it.
I watch her face in the dark - she seems softer whenever she's sleeping, almost small. Not guarded. Like she’s letting go without knowing it.
I move closer and kiss her forehead.
While she stays asleep.
I yank the jacket off the seat - keys were stuffed in my jeans earlier. The phone? Sitting quietly, the sound switched off.
The house stays silent as I walk inside. But the third stair makes noise, so I jump over it. Figured this out during our first week here.
Out there, the breeze feels so cold like ice - crisp enough to jolt you, even if your eyes are wide open.
My car sits in the driveway. Once inside, I wait - no turning the key just now.
I glance toward the old house - right up at the window where we slept. One spot I remember clearly.
Aria’s inside the same one who can’t recall jabbing a finger at my dad’s face. Not even close to recalling she’s why he got locked up.
She’ll do it - just later on.
But not tonight.
Tonight’s got stuff I need to finish.
I fire up the motor. Then off I go.
The city feels strange around 3 a.m.
Still. Hushed. As if folks had just walked off, leaving only walls standing.
I head out on the highway going east - making my way toward where the schools are.
Most of the students headed back home when summer started. Yet a few stuck around. Those signing up for more classes. The ones who didn’t have the cash to go anywhere.
Like Michael Torres.
A twenty-two-year-old, studying engineering. He always puts away books at the college library for a few hours each week.
I’ve kept my eyes on him over the past twenty-one days.
He stays by himself in a small studio flat. Up on the third level. The place doesn't have surveillance gear. Nobody is guarding the entrance or any security, just a simple latch - something you could crack after watching clips online for less than a quarter hour.
I park a couple of streets off, then head the rest on foot.
The building door opens in twelve seconds flat. As time goes by, I speed up a bit.
Inside, the hall’s got that stale carpet stink mixed with a whiff of scorched food. The steps? Plain gray concrete - nothing fancy. Every footstep I take bounces off the walls, loud and hollow.
Top level. Unit 3C.
I'm waiting by his doorway. Hearing what's inside.
Nothing.
He's asleep.
I jiggle the lock - this time it drags. It could be twenty seconds. Or a bit more.
The door slides open quietly.
Inside, it’s dim. Just a single space. The bed sits by the back wall. On my left, there’s a small kitchen area. The bathroom door hangs wide.
Michael’s lying facedown on the mattress. His legs are bent a little to one side. The sheet’s tangled near the footboard, half hanging onto the floor. He’s got loose boxer shorts on, along with a faded top - some science joke printed across it.
I move closer.
Stand over him.
He doesn’t know I’m around. Not a clue that his calm is about to vanish.
I yank the syringe out of my jacket. Made it on my own earlier today - roughly two hours back. Strong enough to drop him fast. But not strong enough to end him.
Not yet.
I need him alert - because the next part’s coming up.
I stick the needle in his neck - quick, smooth.
He flinches. His eyes fly wide.
Sees me and tries to scream.
But the medicine is already taking effect on him. Then his speech turns fuzzy. Nope - his muscles go loose.
He drops back on the bed. His eyes are open - big, shaky. Fear hits hard.
" shhhh don't fight it," I say.
He opens his lips - maybe to question, or maybe just to breathe. A pause forms as he searches for reasons. Everything feels twisted, hard to grasp.
Yet no sound escapes.
I wait. While the medicine does what it needs to.
His eyelids begin to droop and then his muscles loosen up.
After that, I hurried up to get the tape from my pack. Taped his mouth, his hands, and tied his legs.
I tuck him into his blanket - kinda like he’s packing up to leave. Not a single thing stands out.
I look down the hall luckily for me there is nobody there so I take him through the rear steps. Then head to my vehicle parked behind.
Open the back. Slide him in there.
Close it and drive.
The warehouse sits just under fifty minutes from town.
I get that - I’ve clocked it myself. Half a dozen tries so far. Not the same path each time. Or the hour either.
Forty-three minutes - that’s what most people hit on average.
The place had sat empty for eight years. I got it using a fake firm - three years gone by now. Paid everything up front, no receipts left behind.
Just you. Not even a single car nearby. Nobody’s around to listen.
I stop near the side door, then open it using my key.
Drag Michael inside.
He’s starting to come around. Grunting from under the tape - low, unclear noises. Faint. Urgent.
Alright. I want him awake.
The space I’m in sits at the rear. Thick gray walls surround it. The ground is made of poured concrete. There's a hole in the middle for water to escape.
A chair sits there - made of metal, fixed to the ground with bolts.
My tools sit by its side - neat, ready, lined up right. One after another. Each where it should be.
I drop Michael onto the floor. He grunts - starts shifting a bit. But barely.
I sliced through the tape at his feet. Then yanked him upright using his arms. Shoved him down into the seat.
Tie his legs down to the chair’s legs. Hook each arm to a rest. Strap his chest against the upright part.
He’s wide awake at last - eyes darting everywhere, fighting hard against the sticky strip holding him down.
Screaming behind it.
I take a step back - keep my eyes on him.
This is what I like most. That instant when they get it - there’s no way out. Nobody’s coming. It won’t end well. it was so nice to see i could feel the butterflies in my belly seeing him beg for his life was the most interesting part so funny and cute to watch.
"Michael Torres," I say. "Twenty-two years old. Engineering major. You call your mom every Sunday at two p.m. You volunteer at the animal shelter on Saturdays. You have a little sister named juliet who just graduated from Ted High School."
His eyes open a bit more.
"I know everything about you. where you go, what you do and who you love."
I head over to the table - grab a scalpel.
"Do you want to know why you're here?"
He nods frantically.
"You're here because I chose you. That's it. You didn't do anything wrong. You're not a bad person. You're just unlucky."
I move closer.
"I'm going to take the tape off now. If you scream, I'll cut your tongue out. Understand?"
He gives another nod - tears running down his cheeks.
I yank the tape away.
He gulps air. While his chest heaves.
"Please," he whispers. "Please don't—"
"Don't what?"
"Don't hurt me. I won't tell anyone. I'll do whatever you want. Just let me go."
"I can't do that."
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
I turn my head a little. Look at him closely.
"Because I want to. Because I can. Because it's who I am."
"You're insane."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just honest. Everyone has dark thoughts. Dark urges. I'm just the only one who doesn't pretend they don't exist."
"You're a monster."
I smile.
"Yes. I am."
I push the scalpel onto his cheek - light pressure, no deep cut, just a small split in the skin.
Blood wells up.
He screams.
I quickly slap the tape back on his mouth.
"I told you not to scream."
After that, I get going.
Three hours.
This is how much time it needs.
I begin tiny. Trying things out. Seeing how he responds when it hurts.
That’s when I move on - touching spots that react easily.
He collapses two times. But I grab smelling salts to bring him around.
He’s gotta see it - no way around that.
Once I finish, he’s almost out cold - trembling. There’s blood all over the place.
I checked his pulse - faint, yet it’s there.
I yank out my blade - yeah, that reliable piece. Not just any tool, but the trusted edge I always sharpen.
I wrap it up.
Quick. One motion.
He freezes and his muscles lock up. Then everything stops moving.
I stay put. Staring his way.
Feeling nothing.
No blame. Yet no relief. Just nothing.
Just empty.
Here’s what nobody gets. It isn’t fun for us. Killing doesn’t give a twisted rush.
We simply don't sense a thing. Yet once in a while, going all out helps us taste even the smallest flicker of emotion.
Yet it always fades.
I tidy up. Then I wipe each spot. Look around for fingerprints - maybe strands of hair - or just odd stuff.
This time I didn't leave my signature a folded origami bird because I already shifted Aria’s attention to James so I don't need her to start doubting me again not after finding out about my father
Perfect.
I snap pics - sometimes from the side. Other times up close. Just to keep track.
After that, I glance at the clock. It’s 6:19 in the morning.
Aria should stir any minute now.
I gotta head back to my place.
I glance at Michael again before I go.
Victim eleven.
Three left after this one.
I switch off the lights. Then shut the door tight after stepping out. Head down the road without looking back. Aria is standing by the counter as I come through the door.
Making coffee while her hair’s still damp from the shower.
"Morning," I say.
She spins around - her eyes meet mine.
"Where were you?"
"Couldn't sleep. Went for a drive."
"At three in the morning?"
"You know I think better at night."
She seems unsure.
You good? I wonder.
"No. I'm not okay. I found out my husband's father killed my parents."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Of course I am. I hate seeing you hurt."
"But you lied about it."
"I was protecting you. Protecting us."
"From what?"
"From this. From you looking at me like I'm a monster."
She glances at the coffee again. Then fills a mug slowly. Not once does she ask if I want any.
"I'm meeting Marcus this morning. I'm telling him everything."
My chest feels tight. Yet I stay calm-faced.
"Everything?"
"About your father. About the gene test. All of it."
"And what do you think that'll accomplish?"
"The truth."
"The truth is I'm not the killer, Aria. The truth is someone's framing me. And if you tell Marcus about my father, you're giving them exactly what they want."
"Or I'm doing my job."
She takes her jacket - then snatches the keys.
"I'll be back later."
She walks out.
I stay put. Hear the engine cough to life. She drives off.
Then I smile.
She’s going to inform Marcus. That changes everything about the probe. Now they’ll focus more on me.
Fine.
Nothing will show up.
I'm too careful.
I grab my phone. Then I tap on the notes app.
Victim eleven: Complete.
Victim twelve: Still going.
Picked her already. Got the scheme lined up.
35 years old. Raising a kid alone. Works as a nurse overnight.
She'll be perfect.
I grab a cup of coffee for myself.
Sit down at the table.
And start planning.