The Reflection

The Riverfront Warehouse was a cavernous skeleton of the city’s past, now illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of patrol cars. The forensic team moved like white-suited ghosts in the gloom.

Sasha ducked under the yellow tape, Leo close behind her.

"Don't touch anything," a uniform barked.

"She's with me," Leo growled. "Consultant."

They approached the center of the room. The body was laid out on a tarp, illuminated by portable floodlights.

Sasha forced herself to look. She forced herself to engage the "weapon" side of her brain and shut down the "victim" side.

The woman was young. Maybe twenty-five. But her face...

Sasha’s breath hitched. The woman’s jaw had been broken and reset. Her nose had been surgically altered. And running down her neck, fresh and angry red, was the scar. The exact same scar Sasha bore.

It wasn't just a murder. It was a replica.

"He's mocking me," Sasha whispered.

"We don't know it's him," Leo said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Could be a copycat. A fanboy who read the case files."

"No," Sasha knelt beside the body. "Look at the stitching. It's a continuous intradermal suture. It leaves almost no track marks once it heals. It's elegant. Psychotic, but elegant. A copycat is messy. The Architect is a perfectionist."

She leaned closer, ignoring the smell of river water and death. She looked at the victim's shoulder. There was a small, raised bump in the skin, barely visible.

"Give me a scalpel," Sasha demanded.

"Sasha, you can't—"

"Give me a damn scalpel, Leo!"

Leo hesitated, then signaled the coroner. The coroner handed over a sealed blade.

Sasha made a tiny incision over the bump. She used tweezers to extract a small, metallic object. It was a micro-SD card, encased in bio-safe plastic.

"He put a message in her," Sasha said, holding it up to the light. "He knew I'd look. He knew you'd bring me."

She stood up, shaking. The rage was starting to boil over the fear. "He's back, Leo. And he thinks his masterpiece isn't finished."