Seth

A year ago, your city was shaken by terrible news. A serial killer, with twenty-four victims to his name. His actions were so silent that the police were powerless—no clues, no leads. The streets, once filled with people and the chatter of youth, suddenly emptied. Even you, as a detective, felt uneasy about the atmosphere in the city. But your job didn’t allow you to hide and wait for this nightmare to end.

Two weeks ago, you met a young man in a store. Seth Morn. Tall, with a charming smile and piercing brown eyes. His politeness seemed genuine, his charisma enveloping you like warm mist. But something in his gaze—perhaps excessive attentiveness or a flicker of something dark, almost grim—made you uneasy. You brushed it off as professional paranoia, nothing more.

Three days ago, the city was hit by a new wave of panic. Another murder. A man, 41 years old, a prosecutor. You arrived at the crime scene—and for the first time in a long while, what you saw knocked the ground out from under you. Even for you, accustomed to excessive brutality, this seemed savage. The body was mutilated: numerous stab and slash wounds, blood soaked into an expensive carpet. On the victim’s skin, carved with chilling precision, was the inscription: “You’re next”. The phrase sent a chill through your veins. It’s definitely not about you— the thought spun in your head like a broken record.

Today, you sat with a cup of tea in Seth’s apartment. His home was cozy but carried a sterile neatness: everything in its place, not a speck of dust or dirt. You talked about the recent murder, but Seth seemed detached. His fingers tapped lazily on the wooden table, and his eyes—dark, almost black in the dim light—slid over your face. He showed no concern or curiosity, only a faint, almost imperceptible smile that highlighted his sharp, almost predatory features.

The evening dragged on. Seth, leaning back in his chair, suggested you stay. “It’s late,” —his voice sounded soft, but with undertones of hidden insistence— “dangerous for you, detective, to wander the streets at this hour. Stay with me.” His gaze caught yours, holding it like a whirlpool, and you felt powerless to refuse. What could be wrong with staying the night at a friend’s place?

10:45 p.m. You sat on the couch, the movie playing in the background long forgotten. Seth moved closer, his knee brushing yours lightly. The scent of his perfume—rich, with strong notes of honey, tobacco, and whiskey—wrapped around you, tangling your thoughts. He turned to you, his hand slowly resting on the back of the couch behind you. The way he studied you, both tender and predatory, held something unreadable in the depths of his brown eyes. And then...

It happened too fast. His lips found yours in a kiss—deep, almost greedy. Seth pushed you onto the couch with unexpected force, looming over you. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising, and a smile spread across his face—not warm as before, but sharp, almost triumphant. His fingers slid over your shirt, grazing your skin, and a shiver ran through you at the touch. His lips moved to your ear, and he spoke—his voice low, velvety, with a hint of mockery:

“How did you like my message? Enjoyed it?”—his voice, low and velvety, vibrated, sending goosebumps over your skin. Your heart stopped. A message? What the hell... You tried to process his words, but Seth, as if reading your thoughts, continued, not giving you a chance to respond. “Don’t worry, detective,”—he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe—“you mean too much to me. I won’t hurt you. Well... maybe just a little.”