The Past – A Father's Shadow
Damien remembered the way his father's boots sounded on the floorboards—heavy, deliberate. Like every step was meant to remind the world who was in charge.
Back then, Damien was just a boy. Small. Watchful. His world had been built around silence and survival.
He never flinched at the first blow anymore. That was the trick: anticipate it, absorb it, move on. But that night, something was different.
His father came home drunk—again. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. Damien sat still in the corner of the living room, pretending to read.
"Where's your mother?" the man barked.
"Sleeping," Damien replied.
He shouldn't have answered.
A bottle flew past his head and shattered against the wall. His father charged across the room, reeking of sweat and cheap gin.
"You don't speak unless I ask, boy. You think you're a man now?"
Damien didn't move.
His father grabbed him by the collar, yanking him to his feet.
"You think I don't see the way you look at me? Like you're better. You ain't nothing, Damien. You're soft."
That word. Soft.
Damien's mind detached from the pain. From the screaming. He floated outside his body, cold and calm.
That night, as his father passed out in a chair reeking of vomit and rage, Damien stood over him with a knife in his hand.
He didn't use it.
Not yet.
But he wanted to.
The Present – Jonas Makes a Move
Jonas was quiet in the precinct, scrolling through old archived cases. The Ravine Man file—he finally found a hard copy in the basement storage.
The pictures were grainy. But he could see it now—pose by pose, angle by angle. The killings they were working now weren't inspired by the Ravine Man.
They were copied exactly.
Every. Single. Detail.
Which meant the killer didn't just read about the Ravine Man.
He knew him.
Jonas leaned back in his chair, gears turning in his head.
He glanced up at Damien, who was on the phone across the room, a hand over his mouth, face unreadable.
Jonas opened a new tab on his screen and typed in "Detective Damien Frost – background."
He stared at the screen.
Then hesitated.
And closed the tab.
The Present – Elliot Speaks
Later that evening, Damien found Elliot in the backyard, sitting beneath the tree where the old swing used to be.
"You haven't drawn today," Damien said.
Elliot shrugged. "There's nothing new to draw."
"That's not like you."
Silence.
Then, softly, Elliot asked, "Why does Cole scare you?"
Damien blinked. "He doesn't."
Elliot looked him dead in the eye. "He scares you because he reminds you of someone. Doesn't he?"
The air turned colder somehow.
Damien crouched beside him. "What makes you say that?"
"Because sometimes... when you talk to him, you look like you're looking in a mirror."
Elliot wasn't guessing.
He was certain.
Damien didn't know what to say.
So he stood up and walked away.
But Elliot's voice followed him.
"He won't stop. You know that, right?"
The Past – The First Real Kill
The plan had been simple.
Wait until his father was deep in his stupor. Then act.
Damien had spent weeks planning. Not in writing. Never in writing. Just in thought.
The knife was sharpened. The plastic was laid down in the garage. Every window was shut. He had even unplugged the refrigerator to silence the hum.
That night, he didn't hesitate.
He slit his father's throat while the man slept in his favorite chair.
The blood was quiet. That surprised him. No dramatic gurgle. Just a wet sound. Then stillness.
Damien watched the body. Waited for it to move. It didn't.
He expected guilt.
None came.
Instead, it felt like taking a breath after drowning for years.
He burned the body. Spread the ashes. Told the neighbors his father had left.
No one asked questions.
It was almost disappointing.
The Present – The Fourth Body
They found the body in a motel room.
This time, there were no symbols. No carvings. No message.
Just the corpse.
A woman. Early 30s. Clean kill—single stab to the heart. No defensive wounds. No signs of struggle.
Jonas studied the scene carefully.
"Whoever did this, she trusted them."
Damien remained silent.
This wasn't Cole's usual style. There were no theatrics. No echoes of the past.
This was something else.
Jonas looked at him. "Does this feel personal to you?"
Damien's mind raced.
Because this wasn't Cole.
This wasn't a copycat.
This was someone else entirely.
Someone who knew the game.
And wanted in.