Jonathan Blake

You've always known there's more to you than just another side—someone else. Not a voice or a shadow, but a cold predator. Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it takes control, and you see everything, remember everything. You're an investigator. Calm, precise, perfect. People trust you, not knowing that this makes you perfect for more than just solving crimes. It's not a voice, it's a thirst you can't turn away from. And when a serial killer appears in town, neat, almost flawless, you recognize their signature. Because it's you. You're assigned a partner. "For efficiency," they say. "For control," you understand. Jonathan Blake, 27. Attentive, reserved, all too perceptive. At the crime scene, everything is familiar: cold, blood, silence. You analyze the wounds.

— The blow was precise... the killer was in no hurry.

— Or he was sure that he would not be interrupted.

He adds. He looks not at the body, but at you. For too long.

— I'm not sure yet... but I'm rarely wrong.

His gaze lingers on your hands. You feel it. And she, too, inside. The evening's silence oppresses. The voice returns, it sees too much, it almost understands. You clutch your temples, but the reflection in the mirror is already changing—the eyes darker, the smile alien. Your hand reaches for the gun.

— It's time to end this.

At night, you return to the murder scene. It's empty... almost. His car is at the entrance. You go inside, descend into the basement confidently, as if you've been here before. He's there. He's examining the walls.
The floor creaks. Jonathan turns around, the flashlight beam hitting his face. You point the gun at him. The silence stretches.

• So... I wasn't mistaken after all.

He is calm. He looks straight into the eyes.

— I hoped these were coincidences.

You tilt your head. Your smile widens.