There’s No Such Thing as Random

There’s a way your chest tightens when you get the call. You’d think, after a decade of blood and bones and closed eyes that won’t open, it’d stop hitting that deep. But it doesn’t.

Not when the crime scene’s less than a mile from your apartment.

Not when it feels like it was made just for you.

I was brushing my teeth when my phone lit up. No name—just a number burned into my brain. Dispatch.

“Cross,” I said, spitting into the sink.

“We got another one,” the voice said. “You need to come. Now.”

The warehouse sat on the edge of the industrial district. One of those old buildings that hadn’t been useful since the ‘90s. Cracked windows. Rusty signage. The smell of stale oil clinging to the brick. The crime scene tape looked almost decorative. Like a sad ribbon tied around a box of nightmares.

I ducked under and stepped inside.

The first thing that hit me was the silence. Even the techs and uniforms moved quiet, like they didn’t want to wake something. I spotted Marcus Vane near the body, his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight his temples twitched.

He saw me and gave a small nod. I didn’t nod back.

Instead, I walked toward the canvas.

That’s what it felt like. A display.

Victim was male this time. Mid-40s. Sturdy build. Looked like he might’ve fought back—but clearly not hard enough.

His face was gone. Not just skinned—gone. Skull removed. But unlike the last scene, this one had something else.

His ribcage had been cracked open like a cage. Bones split and pulled outward like wings.

And in the center of his chest cavity, like a heart carved from flesh, sat a chunk of meat shaped into the silhouette of a woman.

Me.

I knew it wasn’t an exact replica. But I also knew what it meant.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Marcus came up beside me, voice low. “This is worse than the last one.”

“No. It’s louder,” I said.

He gave me a sideways look. “You think this is a message?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

I crouched, eyes scanning the body again.

“You recognize him?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “His name’s Caleb Dorn. Worked internal affairs. Retired five years ago.”

That name hit me like a slap.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

Marcus nodded.

“He was one of the men who signed off on the Skull Artist case being closed,” I said.

Marcus blinked. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Shit.”

Back at HQ, I locked myself in an interrogation room. Not to question anyone. I just needed silence. I needed to think without the buzz of voices or the stench of reheated coffee.

Juno had sent over the latest data packet crime scene photos, analysis, body scans. I didn’t open them yet. I just stared at the file folder and tried to breathe.

Vincent Greaves was behind this. I didn’t care what the paper trail said. Even if he didn’t touch a knife, he was orchestrating this from the inside. He always liked puppets.

The real question was, why me? Why now?

I thought about the message he’d left before his arrest. How he said the story wasn’t over. How I was just the first chapter.

He was right. And this was the sequel.

Later that night, I sat in my apartment in the dark.

No TV. No music. Just shadows crawling across the ceiling like ghosts that never learned how to rest.

I’d stared at the photo of Caleb Dorn for twenty minutes. His chest cavity. The blood. The figure made from muscle and meat. It wasn’t me, technically, but the resemblance was obvious. The body type. The hair shape. The same scar down the shoulder I’d gotten after chasing a dealer through a barbed wire fence six years ago.

Whoever made that art had studied me. Knew my story. My scars.

Someone was watching me.

I checked the locks on my door. Twice. Grabbed my off-duty Glock and set it on the nightstand.

Still didn’t feel safe.

Still didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Juno buzzed me with a trace lead.

“Lana,” she said, voice half-whispering like she was hiding from something. “You’re not gonna like this.”

“I haven’t liked anything in a week. Hit me.”

“The art program Greaves used? I found a name that keeps popping up as a recipient. Someone who signs out every single piece he sends in. Name’s Nico Barrett. He’s twenty-seven. No job. No record. But he’s got a pretty heavy digital footprint on true crime forums. Obsessed with serial killers. Especially Greaves.”

“You got an address?”

“Sending it now.”

“Thanks, Juno.”

“Lana?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. This guy’s been posting pictures of your old case files. Stuff that was never public.”

I froze.

“How the hell would he get that?”

“I don’t know. But he tagged some of them with #SkullAngel.”

“What?”

“Skull Angel. Like... you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

This wasn’t just obsession.

This was worship.

Nico Barrett lived in a rundown studio above a tattoo parlor on the east end. The building smelled like old ink and wet socks. I took the stairs slow, gun holstered but thumb on the snap. The door was slightly ajar when I reached it.

Not a good sign.

I pushed it open.

The smell hit me first copper, sour, wrong. The room was dim, lit only by red string lights. Every wall was plastered with images of me. News clippings. Crime scene shots. Surveillance stills from my apartment building. Even a blurry one of me jogging in the park.

But the worst part?

The shrine.

In the center of the room, surrounded by candles and twisted wire sculptures, was a mannequin dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. My jacket. My build. My hair. On its face, a mask made of meat.

Fresh.

On the wall behind it, written in dried blood:

“The Final Piece Belongs to You.”

---

I didn’t even feel the scream coming. But it ripped out of my throat before I could stop it. Not out of fear. Out of fury. This wasn’t admiration. This was a countdown. A warning. I wasn’t just hunting a killer.

I was being hunted.

I grabbed my phone, called Marcus.

“I found the freak,” I said.

“Alive?”

“No,” I muttered, eyes scanning the blood puddled near the bathroom door. “He’s not the one staging the art. He’s the canvas now.”

“You’re saying—”

“Yeah,” I cut in. “The killer got to him first.”

And just like that... another body.

Another scene.

Another message.

Back outside, I sat on the curb and looked up at the sky.

It was blue. Calm. Completely unaware that everything beneath it was bleeding.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the recorder again. Pressed play.

“Art is only immortal when it bleeds for something true.”

Vincent Greaves wasn’t just making a comeback.

He was leaving a legacy.

And it had my name carved all over it.