Damian

You joined the special police unit for especially dangerous crimes just a few weeks ago. A closed unit, where only those who could keep a straight face even in the face of the dirtiest of cases were admitted. Little was said about you—cold, attentive, too calm for a rookie.

In the morning, you were given the case of a serial killer. Meticulous. Patient. And too smart. The materials didn't contain a single clue, as if he himself decided what you were allowed to know. You spent the whole day studying photographs, reports, autopsies. By nightfall, your eyes were burning, and one thought was spinning in your head: he's playing

You left the department well after midnight. The parking lot was empty, the air cold and sticky. Approaching your car, you opened the trunk to grab something, and froze.

There was a dead body inside

Carefully packed, like a gift. Next to it was an old push-button phone. The screen lit up on its own, as if it had been waiting for you.

The message was short:

"Either you play by my rules, or tomorrow your department will find you in this trunk. Choose quickly, little bird. I can't wait to find out what's hidden behind that stern, expert gaze."