Killer Crush 2
Blood had a very distinct smell, especially in large quantities. You had long since gotten used to the sickly sweet smell that burned in the back of your throat. It was a comfort.
The air clung to you like a second skin as you stood over the latest body in Little Havana, watching the crime scene techs mutter and gag as they documented the scene. A young woman, throat slashed so wide you could see bone, face frozen in surprise.
There was too much care in the cut, too much familiarity in the way she was left displayed in the alley.
“Not a mugging,” you murmured, crouching closer to study the angle of the wound. The same precision. The same grotesque flair. Ghostface’s signature wasn’t sloppy—it was deliberate. And frankly, tame compared to his usual antics.
Deb came up behind you, arms crossed. “You’re seeing ghosts again.”
You didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “And what do you see?”
She hesitated, then muttered, “I see another mess we’re supposed to wrap up before the press gets ahold of it.”
As if on cue, a voice cut through the humid air. “Too late.”
Jed Olson, dressed far too clean for this part of Miami, leaned casually against the yellow police tape, notebook in hand. His smile was sharp, practiced, and it sent your instincts bristling. He didn't spare Deb a glance, eyes honed in on you like he couldn't look away.
You straightened, brushing dirt off your slacks as you approached him. “Press isn’t supposed to be past the line, Olson.”
“Relax, detective,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking down at the body before locking back onto yours. “I’m just observing. Miami deserves the truth, doesn’t it?”
“Or your version of it,” you countered.
His smirk widened like you’d told him a secret. “Funny- I was wondering the same thing about your department."
For a moment, it was just the two of you in that alley, watching, testing each other, like wolves circling. His eyes didn’t flinch at the gore. That alone set him apart from every other reporter you’d ever seen. He wasn’t here for a story—he was here for something else.
Or someone.
And in your gut, you knew it wasn't to "give Miami the truth they deserve."
“Olson!” the Chief barked from down the block, “Get the hell outta here before I haul you in for obstruction!”
Jed only winked at you before retreating, slow and smug.
The Ghostface killer wasn’t six hours away in Woodsboro.
He was here.
And he was already watching you.
Shaking off the odd encounter with Jed, you returned to your usual routine. Tonight was the night, and it was going to happen again and again.
Your car drove steadily down the street, music floating through your open window. God, you loved this city, the food, the people, and the 67% unsolved homicide rate, that you really loved.
It made blending in all the more easy.
Tonight's gust of dishonor was Choir director Mike Donavan, a real piece of work, the small corpses under his belt said that clearly enough; it took you about a minute of flipping through his file to decide he needed to die tonight.
Mike said goodbye to his fellow church members with a practiced smile. He got in his car without second thought, as soon as he settled in his seat, you were stringing a wire around his throat tight enough to briefly cut off circulation. "I own you- drive." You punctuated your words with a tug of the wooden handles, the wire biting into his pink flesh.
He started driving, choking out pleas for mercy. You had him drive about an hour into the woods, and you released him with a harsh shove, his head hitting the steering wheel.
You step out of the car, roughly grabbing him by his hair and throwing him on the dirt floor. His begging fell on deaf ears as you wrapped the wire around his neck, dragging him easily across the ground by the throat. You pulled him into a run-down shack, the windows boarded up. Standing him up, you push him against the wall, your hands in black latex gloves push him hard enough to bruise, "Heavenly father full of grace-" you popped him in the head, "None of that mikey." He began sobbing as you stared him down, dark eyes void of any humanity. "You know why you're here?"
"God no-" You struck him with the palm of your hunting knife, breaking his nose. "We don't need to lie- OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE." You grabbed his jaw, making him face the three small corpses on the floor, "No-." he whimpered, shutting his eyes again.
"Open your eyes right now, or I'll cut your eyelids off." His eyes snapped open, staring at the three boys he'd killed.
"You don't understand!- I have these urges.." he begged, it made you smirk as you swiftly pulled a syringe out of your pocket and sticking him in the neck, your thumb harshly pressed down on the plunger, Mike slumped against the wall unconcious, "Oh i understand- but kids? i could never." hauling him over your shoulder was lightwork, it took no time at all for you to prep him for the kill room.
After that, it was like you slipped into a trance, killing him, chopping up the piece, and bagging them was simple enough, you'd taken the bags out on your boat, the "Slice of Life" and dumped them into the Bay Harbor.
You'd only just settled into the couch after putting away your trophy and showering the night off, the beast had been satiated for now, but you knew that hunger would return.
The apartment was still.
You liked it that way — the silence gave you space to think, to dissect. To keep the urges under control. The city’s chaos belonged out there. In here, you demanded order.
Which is why the shrill ring of your phone split through you like a scalpel.
Unknown number.
You debated letting it ring out, but something in your gut said answer. So you did.
“Agent Morgan.”
A pause. Then a voice — low, distorted, yet playful.
“Morgan. Just the woman I wanted to hear.”
Your jaw tightened. “…Identify yourself.”
“Oh, I think you already know me,” he purred. “You’ve been obsessing over my work. Studying me like I’m one of your… specimens.”
The air shifted. He didn’t sound like a stranger bluffing. He sounded like someone who saw you.
“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing—”
He cut you off with a chuckle, soft and knowing. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. You do. You know the game because you play it, too.”
Your pulse spiked, but your tone stayed flat. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Mmm.” His hum dragged out, savoring the denial. “Sure I do. You wear that badge like armor, but it doesn’t hide what’s underneath. The hunger. The way your eyes linger on the blood a little longer than they should. The way you breathe in when the room smells like copper.”
Your throat went dry. No one ever said it aloud before. Not Deb. Not the Chief. Not anyone.
But he wasn’t done.
“You and me… we’re not so different. You dissect, I indulge. You pretend to serve justice, I serve desire. The difference?” He laughed, low and intimate. “I don’t lie to myself about enjoying it.”
Heat flared under your skin — not desire, not fear, but something dark.
Familiar.
“You’re projecting,” you said, voice like ice. “Classic narcissist.”
“Maybe.” He leaned into the distortion, making it sound like he was whispering directly into your ear. “But tell me… when’s the last time you enjoyed yourself, Detective? When’s the last time you let the knife do what it wanted?”
Your grip on the phone tightened until your knuckles ached. You should hang up. You wanted to hang up.
Instead, you asked, “What do you want from me?”
A groan, low and satisfied, like he’d been waiting for that question.
“To see what happens when the predator finally admits she’s not prey.”
The line went dead.
You sat there, frozen, the echo of his words hanging in the room like smoke.
And for the first time in years, you felt it stir inside you — that itch under your skin, the dark passenger shifting, restless.
Not because of the blood on your case file.
Because of him.
