The sky had begun to fold into itself, a murky violet draped over the land like a bruised eyelid. The warehouse grounds were quiet—too quiet. Eighteen buildings. Eighteen possible graves. But only one would bleed the truth.
And Isarish stood at the centre of it.
His eyes weren't scanning—they were calculating. His breath, shallow. His mind, sharp.
The symbol burned behind his thoughts. That same one etched into every corpse. The one that had followed him like a shadow through each chapter of this case. Not religious. Not decorative.
Purposeful.
Isarish crouched beside a discarded paper—something torn from a transport ledger. On its margin: a faint stain. The shape curved inward. A crescent swallowed in thorns. Exactly like the bodies. Exactly like the map he now saw in his mind.
He stood up, suddenly.
"Seventh warehouse. First column. Third in."
His voice was like flint.
The officers stiffened.
"Sir?"
"Move. Now."
They didn't argue. Not because they understood—but because they knew better than to question a man who spoke like the truth had already spoken to him.
Warehouse 7 stood like a lung that had forgotten how to breathe. Rust clung to its joints. Grass around its door had bent, as if something heavy had recently passed through.
Rayhan stepped beside Isarish.
"We go in quiet?"
"If they hear us, they kill them."
A silent signal. The team split. Two to the back. Three to the flanks. Alice stayed just behind him—her fingers curled, her heart louder than her breath.
Isarish pressed his palm against the soil. Soft. Disturbed.
"They moved someone in. A body, or a bundle."
Rayhan blinked.
"You can tell that just from the dirt?"
"Dirt tells everything. If you know how to ask."
Then—he paused. His ears caught it.
Three sets of footsteps. One still. Guarding. Two pacing. Watching.
"They're waiting."
"For what?" Rayhan whispered.
"For who," Isarish corrected.
He stood.
"We move."
Inside, the air was stained with something unholy. Not quite blood. Not quite rot.
Seven people knelt, blindfolded, bound. One man stood behind them with a pistol. Two more near the crates, knives drawn. Shock spilled across their faces as the police stormed in.
"Weapons down!" Rayhan shouted.
One attacker lunged. But Isarish stepped forward like a line of poetry answering violence.
Twist. Elbow. Collapse.
The knife hit the floor.
A gunshot cracked. One officer stumbled. Another returned fire—straight to the attacker's thigh.
Chaos. Screams.
Alice's voice sliced through it all.
"ISARISH!"
He turned.
The gunman had his weapon raised—pointed at a gagged woman.
Isarish moved. Fast. Sharp. He grabbed a plank and hurled it.
It struck the attacker's wrist—the pistol flew.
Rayhan tackled him.
Seconds later, the last man was disarmed.
Silence crawled in.
"British police," Isarish muttered. "They would've dismissed this entire thing if the second victim wasn't Carlson's friend."
From the shadows beyond the crates— A clap.
Slow. Mocking.
Dr. Rafiq emerged.
His presence turned the room colder.
"You found it," he said. "But I wonder—did you find it in time?"
Rayhan drew his revolver.
"Fuck this! I'll put a bullet through—"
"No."
Isarish's voice was soft, but final.
Rayhan froze.
"He's not the architect. He's the messenger."
Rafiq's smile wavered. Only slightly.
"You think you understand. But you've only seen the outer layer. There are mirrors beneath mirrors, detective."
"Then let's keep breaking them," Isarish replied.
He stepped closer.
"Why keep them alive, Rafiq? Why bind them instead of bury them?"
"Because they're not victims," Rafiq whispered. "They're instructions. Carriers. Warnings."
Rayhan stepped forward.
"So, who's the one writing the script?"
Isarish answered without looking back.
"He's still out there. Someone who knew how close we were getting."
He looked at the seven survivors. Their eyes, wide. Their silence, louder than screams.
"These people weren't killed because they were weak. They were chosen because they could remember. Because they mattered."
He turned to Rafiq.
"And you… were just the surgeon."
"And even surgeons," Rafiq said, lowering his gaze, "bleed eventually."
Outside, the night held its breath.
But inside Warehouse 7, the story had cracked open.
The real killer had just been handed a message:
Isarish was done waiting.
Act Two had begun.