Captain Price | Detective

Detective Price was chasing a ghost and he didn't mean his co-worker who was their buildings autopsy specialist. Every lead he followed in the hunt for the elusive serial killer disintegrated into frustrating dead ends, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and a relentless obsession that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. For weeks, he pored over crime scenes, scoured reports, and chased whispers—only to be met with nothing but silence and the growing weight of failure. That changed the night one of the victims survived.

Price arrived at the hospital on a gust of adrenaline, his coat slick from the rain that hadn’t stopped since noon. The survivor—a young man in his late twenties—sat trembling under the harsh fluorescent light of the small interrogation room. His bandaged arm trembled as he sipped water with shaky hands, his wide, terror-stricken eyes staring past Price, fixed on something no one else could see.

The words came slowly, haltingly at first, but soon tumbled out in a stream of horror that made the hairs on the back of Price’s neck stand on end. The killer had been singing. Singing, and dancing. Moving through the scene like a conductor leading a macabre orchestra, graceful, unnervingly synchronized to music that wasn’t there. “It wasn’t random,” the survivor said, his voice low and quavering. “It was… a performance. Like they were in their own world, and I didn’t even matter to them.”

Price stood frozen for a beat, the words hanging heavily in the air. A performance. It wasn’t just murder. The survivor’s words refused to release their grip on his mind. Hours later, alone in his car, Price stared at the photo he’d taken of the latest crime scene. The meticulous, almost artful arrangement of objects and bodies that he’d once dismissed as coincidence took on a horrifying new significance. He felt like a man looking at the solution to a puzzle he hadn’t even realized he was solving. The killer wasn’t hiding. They were performing, right out in the open, daring him to see the show for what it was.

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The next day, Price walked to work with his hands wrapped around a cup of on-the-go coffee, freshly brewed from his favorite cafe. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the sun was shining, banishing the dreary gray clouds that had mirrored his mood for so long. The warmth of the morning air was a welcome shift, and the city seemed to have awoken with him, its streets buzzing with life and noise.

Despite the cheerfulness of the day, his mind churned like a restless tide, returning to the survivor's words and the haunting image they painted. Lavender eyes. Dancing. Singing. How was he supposed to make sense of it? He took another sip of coffee and tried to focus on the present—the hum of car engines, the chatter of pedestrians. As Price neared the precinct, a chill ran down his spine despite the warmth of the morning. The survivor's words haunted him like an unwelcome specter, refusing to loosen their grip. Dancing. Singing. The pieces of the puzzle taunted him, assembling into fragments of an image just beyond his grasp. He pulled open the heavy glass door of the station and stepped inside, the familiar scent of coffee and faintly acrid cleaning products grounding him in the present.

The bullpen was already alive with the cacophony of voices and ringing phones. Price made his way to his desk, nodding to a few colleagues. His desk was a monument to organized chaos: stacks of case files, a half-empty box of cigars, and a whiteboard scrawled with disconnected clues about the killer. He sank into his chair, flipped open his notebook, and began sketching out thoughts on the survivor’s description. "You're here early." Detective Kate Laswell's voice cut through the hum of activity. She leaned against the edge of Price’s desk, holding a steaming travel mug and raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Laswell was sharp, dependable, and a rare voice of reason when Price’s mind threatened to spiral too far.

"Couldn't sleep," Price muttered his voice gruff, running a hand through his hair. "The survivor’s story… it doesn’t line up with anything else we’ve seen. Or maybe I missed something. I can’t shake the feeling there’s a pattern in front of us, and I’m just too damn blind to see it." Laswell took a sip from her mug and nodded. "Maybe it’s not about what we’re looking for, but how. If the killer really sees this as a performance, what kind of person puts on a show like that?" Price stared at her, her words hitting like a brick. It wasn’t just about the killer’s actions—it was about why. "An artist," Price said slowly, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. He grabbed the whiteboard marker and circled a word he'd written earlier: "performance."

"An artist creating something they think is... beautiful," he continued. "The arrangements at the scenes, the choice of victims, the theatricality—it’s not chaos. It’s their masterpiece." Price explained as Laswell tilted her head, considering. "But how does that help us? Artists want audiences. If this killer sees it that way, they’d need some form of recognition, right?" Price nodded, scribbling furiously on the board. "Exactly. And recognition leaves a footprint. Art exhibitions, underground performances, niche forums, even local galleries. Somewhere out there, this killer has already shown themselves to people who don’t even realize it."