I Have to Meet Him
The meaning of the physiognomy that rose across her face was unmistakable.
This was not some low-rent creep simply trying to hit on her.
A noose.
Bonds.
The complete theft of her freedom.
And worse—from the curve of her ear all the way down her jawline—a murky, dark Death Shadow was already beginning to bloom, faintly but unmistakably.
If she met that man tonight, this woman would never again see the light of day.
Donovan hurriedly straightened in his seat and spoke.
"Cancel it. Right now."
"...Excuse me?"
"I'm not joking, and this isn't a prank. You're in real danger. Just cancel the damn thing—even if you think I'm full of it."
In an instant her brow knotted hard. The giddy, fluttering energy from moments earlier vanished without a trace. She folded her arms tightly and raked her eyes up and down Donovan as if the very sight of him offended her.
"Ha. Unbelievable. Mister, do people actually fall for this kind of crap?"
She snorted, pure scorn.
"What, if you say I'm in danger, am I supposed to throw more money at you and beg you to save me?"
"No. That's not—look, this is real—"
Donovan tried to push back through the frustration, but she gave him no opening.
"Forget it. If you're going to run a scam, at least make it halfway convincing. Did you think this was just some Tinder app? Hmph!"
She snatched up her bag with a sharp, irritated motion and rose from her seat.
Donovan's gaze locked onto the face of the woman spinning away from him.
...Yeah. That one's a lost cause.
The arrogant bridge of her nose screamed of a life spent never hearing the word "no." Classic gold-spoon physiognomy—someone who had never once tasted the real world. And yet her eyes were clouded with the murky haze of a woman so thoroughly besotted she could no longer tell left from right.
Worst of all were the ears that had already flipped shut against any outside advice, and the stubborn, willful line of her lips.
Even if you grabbed her by the pant leg and dragged her to the ground, this was the face of someone who would still walk straight into a tiger's mouth of her own free will.
Talking any further would only waste breath.
So Donovan said the only thing left to say.
"If you ever come looking for me again, the extra charge is going to be real expensive."
"Hmph! As if I'd ever see you again."
She snorted once more in pure disbelief and spun on her heel.
Click-click-click—her high heels stabbed the floor in sharp, angry staccato as she stormed out of the shop.
Bang—!
Listening to the door slam shut, Donovan pulled out his battered flip phone.
"Call. You see the woman who just left the shop? Fancy silk dress."
"Yes, Mr. Donovan. I see her."
"Tail her. Immediately. Do not lose her."
He hung up and dialed the Boss without missing a beat.
"Boss. It's me. Call is tailing a woman who just left my shop. I need backup. Tonight that woman is going to get tangled up in a real crime. It's going to be ugly."
"Understood. I'll put people on it right away."
The Boss didn't bother asking for the tiresome details. He simply accepted the request clean and sharp.
The last number Donovan dialed belonged to the Acting Captain of Midtown South Precinct—the man responsible for keeping the heart of New York City safe.
Midtown South Precinct, Captain's Office.
The man currently wearing the heavy temporary title of Acting Captain sat massaging his aching brow in front of a mountain of paperwork.
The case that was chewing through his skull the hardest was the string of missing-person reports involving young women that had been flooding the precinct lately.
Adult disappearances. No clear criminal indicators, so it was hard to justify throwing full investigative weight at them.
Then his personal phone buzzed once. The moment he saw the number on the screen, his eyes sharpened.
That strange fortune-teller from Times Square.
"What is it?"
"Sorry to cut straight to it—any missing-person cases in your jurisdiction targeting young women? Pattern of meeting through dating apps like Tinder?"
"We always get missing-person reports on young women. But adult disappearances without clear criminal indicators usually get written off as voluntary vanishing acts or moves out of state. We don't treat them as linked serial cases. That said... the numbers have climbed lately, and I've been privately thinking something's off. Why the sudden interest?"
"Because that's exactly what this is. Not voluntary. Those missing women—every last one of them was murdered."
"...What?"
"And just now, his next target walked out of my shop. Said she was going to meet a guy from a dating app. One look at her face and I knew she was walking straight into her own death. Tonight's the breaking point."
His heart dropped straight through the floor.
The uneasy gut feeling every detective carries.
In that instant, all the scattered puzzle pieces of those missing women snapped together into one horrifying picture: a serial killer no one had even known existed.
"Can you give me that woman's location right now? I'll put it on that tab we talked about—guaranteed."
"Forget the tab. This is about saving a life—what the hell does debt or a ledger have to do with it? Just help me out next time. Call's already tailing her; I'll feed you live coordinates."
Click.
The second the call ended, the Acting Captain shot to his feet.
Every instinct screamed to put the entire Major Crimes team on emergency alert, but he couldn't.
The nameplate sitting on his desk.
[Acting Captain, Midtown South Precinct]
Those two words—Acting—slapped him cold with reality.
This chair was not fully his yet. Seniors and peers alike were watching, waiting for him to slip.
If he moved the entire Major Crimes unit on this one uncertain tip and it turned out to be nothing?
The opposing factions would pounce, and the Acting Captain's seat would start to wobble.
But if the tip was real?
Everything changed.
A ghost serial killer who had been stitching together "runaways" that even the police had never connected.
Catching him red-handed at the kidnapping scene and bringing the victim out alive?
It wouldn't rip the "Acting" tag off overnight, but it would burn his competence into the bones of this precinct.
An overwhelming result that would prove the Chief of Detectives at Headquarters hadn't made a mistake putting a mere team leader in this chair.
No. None of that shit matters right now.
The Acting Captain raked a rough hand through his hair. Petty calculations about performance and job security still circled his mind, but at his core he was still the hot-blooded street detective who had lived and died on the pavement.
Donovan's offhand line from the call slammed back into his ears.
This is about saving a life—what the hell does debt or a ledger have to do with it.
Exactly.
If he ignored this tip out of fear for his face or his seat, another innocent woman would die horribly tonight.
Standing by while a murder happened right in front of him would make him no better than the corrupt bastard who used to sit in this chair.
A human life is on the line.
Every last scrap of political calculation washed clean from his eyes.
In its place flared the savage, bloodthirsty glint unique to veteran Major Crimes detectives who lived to tear into predators.
The Acting Captain kicked the door open and pointed at three familiar faces writing reports in the corner of the Major Crimes office.
These were the men who had shared life and death with him back when the previous captain had been running him ragged with petty harassment—his most trusted hands.
"John, David, Michael. Gear up and get in the car. Radio a couple of nearby patrol units and have them sit quiet near the coordinates I give you."
The sudden, secretive summons made the detectives jump to their feet.
"C-Captain? Just the three of us? And waiting patrol cars—what's going on?"
"Serial killer. His next target is about to get snatched. Coordinates will update live on my phone. Grab your gear. Now."
Bewilderment flashed across their faces.
"Sir? A serial killer? This is the first we've heard of anything like that in our jurisdiction..."
"My solid informant just put a tail on him. If we miss tonight, another person dies without a whisper. Move quiet—don't let anyone else notice."
The detectives exchanged glances, still half-lost, as they scrambled into ballistic vests.
"Just move. You see the Captain's eyes just now? That's the look he used to get when we were hunting killers."
"True. When a life is on the line, he's never been the type to sit around calculating. Let's go! Cars. Now!"
The grumbling lasted only a second. The detectives snatched up their sidearms and poured toward the parking garage.
An invisible net began to close around a phantom killer the police themselves had never even known existed.
The private lounge bar she stepped into was filled with soft lighting and lazy jazz.
She sank into a plush velvet sofa, idly turning a champagne flute between her fingers, and clicked her tongue softly.
If you're going to run a scam, at least make it halfway convincing.
The cold eyes of that unlucky physiognomist in the middle of Times Square—dressed in a perfect designer suit and spitting ominous curses—kept floating up and leaving a sour taste.
But the unease didn't last five minutes.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
A smooth, low voice from behind her.
She turned, and her eyes went wide.
Catfishing? Filters?
None of it.
If anything, the photos hadn't done him justice.
A suit that looked like it had stepped straight off a magazine cover, and a relaxed, warm smile to match.
The second she faced that perfect specimen, every last warning from the fortune-teller evaporated without a trace.
The date was pure fantasy.
His manners were as natural as breathing. The meal—top-shelf caviar and truffles—was intoxicating. Expensive champagne refilled the moment her glass emptied, and every joke she made earned a soft, curving smile from his eyes.
She was completely drunk.
Not on the alcohol—on the man and the atmosphere.
"I have a place nearby. The view is incredible. Shall we move somewhere more private?"
A sweet whisper.
There was no reason to refuse.
No—if it meant being alone with him, anywhere was fine.
Underground parking garage.
She slid into the passenger seat he held open for her; the soft leather cradled her body.
He climbed into the driver's seat and shut the door.
Thunk—.
A heavy sound, and every door locked at once. Outside noise vanished completely. A sealed space.
She buckled her seatbelt and turned toward him with a smile.
"The car's gorgeous too. Aren't we going to—"
She never finished the sentence.
Shhhhk—!
A lightning bolt of pure dread raced down her spine.
The eyes that had been smiling so warmly only a moment ago.
Every scrap of warmth had evaporated. Cold, murky light flickered inside them like a reptile's.
The gentle smile was gone.
In its place hung a smile so grotesque and empty it made her skin crawl.
"You drank quite a bit of that champagne earlier."
What came out of his mouth was no longer the smooth baritone. It was a cold voice edged with metal.
"Wh... what? The... champagne..."
Only then did she understand.
Her vision was warping strangely.
Her tongue had gone numb. Sensation was draining from her fingertips at terrifying speed.
This wasn't drunkenness.
Drugs... he drugged me?
Sheer terror crashed over her.
Instinctively she forced her slowly paralyzing hands to claw at the door handle, yanking like a madwoman.
Rattle! Rattle-rattle!
The locked door didn't budge an inch.
"Just hold still a little longer. You'll be nice and quiet soon."
He opened the center console, pulled out thick, tough cable ties, and smiled that same grotesque smile.
Her vision blurred. Consciousness hardened and slipped.
In that moment of choking despair, the Times Square fortune-teller's words rang in her ears.
I'm not joking, and this isn't a prank. You're in real danger. Just cancel the damn thing—even if you think I'm full of it.
Not a single word had been wrong.
Ah... aah...!
She tried to scream for help, but only thin, airless wheezes leaked from her paralyzed throat. Thick tears of pure regret rolled down her cheeks.
But the man made no move to force her struggling body down.
He simply leaned one arm casually against the steering wheel and watched with those reptile eyes—fascinated—as the drugs dragged her deeper into perfect despair and terror.
"Shhh. Relax."
He wiped the tear from her cheek with one finger and whispered low against her ear.
"Our real fun is only just beginning."
The instant his snake-like tongue brushed her ear—
KRAAAASH—!!
A sound that tore eardrums apart, and the driver's side window exploded into a thousand glittering shards.
Through the flying glass, the silhouette of a man built like a bear suddenly filled the frame.
"What the fuck—!"
He shoved a massive hand through the shattered window, seized the man by the throat like he meant to crush it, and hauled him straight out.
"Gyaaaaah—!"
Razor-sharp glass shredded the expensive suit and the flesh beneath it without mercy.
The man's body was dragged through the narrow, jagged gap like a frog being pulled from a hole, then slammed onto the cold concrete of the parking garage like a sack of garbage.
"Ghk! Kuh! You crazy bastard, who the hell are—!"
Thud—!!
No interest in excuses or protests. The big man's merciless fist drove straight into the man's jaw.
One punch.
The man never even managed a scream. He went limp with bloody foam on his lips.
Screeeech—!!
At the same moment, a black undercover car and two patrol units skidded in hard, sealing the garage entrance completely.
No sirens. A perfect, silent ambush.
Before the doors even finished opening, detectives in ballistic vests spilled out with guns drawn.
"Don't move! NYPD! Secure the suspect! Get the victim out of that car right now!"
The Acting Captain, eyes bloodshot, roared from the front and planted a boot on the fallen killer's neck.
I'm alive.
Her body was still completely paralyzed—she couldn't so much as twitch a finger—but tears of pure relief poured endlessly from her eyes.
Detectives who had rushed in, followed by paramedics, carefully lifted her from the car.
A warm blanket settled over her shoulders. Busy voices checking her pupils and pulse drifted past her ears as if from a great distance.
How long had she been crying? The moment they finished emergency treatment and loaded her onto the ambulance stretcher, she saw it.
Beyond the police line where officers hurried back and forth, in a dim pocket of shadow the flashing lights never quite reached, stood a silhouette she knew too well.
...Huh?
An East Asian man in a perfectly tailored high-end suit. The fortune-teller from the middle of Times Square who had predicted her death with perfect accuracy.
And beside him—the bear of a man who had just smashed a window bare-handed and dragged her out of hell—stood silent and solid, like a bodyguard watching his master's back.
The instant she saw them, a flash of pure lightning tore through her fading mind.
That man... he saved me.
The arrogance of treating the man who had desperately tried to warn her and save her life like a common scammer, then walking away without a second thought, now cut her to the bone with regret.
He didn't make a scene. He didn't approach.
He simply stood with both hands in his pockets, looking down at her on the stretcher with those cool, utterly calm eyes.
As if he had known from the very beginning that she would end up exactly like this.
Facing that chilling, almost indifferent watchfulness felt like taking a hard blow to the back of the head. His final words crashed through her mind like thunder.
If you ever come looking for me again, the extra charge is going to be real expensive.
She had laughed in his face and sworn she would never see him again.
But as the ambulance doors closed and his figure vanished from sight, she had no choice but to admit it.
It wasn't a scam...
He had only ever spoken the truth.
One hour later. VIP wing of Manhattan's finest hospital.
Bang—!
The hospital room door nearly came off its hinges as a middle-aged man burst in, breathing hard.
Arthur Wallace—owner of the largest luxury yacht brokerage group on the East Coast, the man who sold multi-million-dollar vessels to New York and Miami VVIPs.
He was known as a cold, rational businessman, but in this moment he was nothing but a father who had completely lost his mind.
Secretaries gone pale bowed their heads. Arthur's face was a raw mixture of terror and rage.
"Chloe! My daughter—is she all right?!"
The desperate roar shook the room. The chief secretary wiped cold sweat and stepped forward.
"C-Chairman. Thankfully her life is not in danger. She nearly became the next victim of a serial killer operating through a VVIP dating app, but... Midtown South's Major Crimes team pulled her out by a hair's breadth."
"A serial killer? What kind of insane bastard dares lay a hand on my daughter?! Get me the best legal team money can buy right now! I want that animal locked away where he never sees sunlight again, and I want him tasting hell even inside those walls!"
Arthur's eyes, still blazing with fury, finally landed on his daughter lying in the bed—Chloe.
His golden child, raised never hearing a single word of refusal. The arrogant, high-nosed daughter who had never known fear because she had her father's fortune behind her.
But Chloe, pale after the antidote, clenched her trembling hands and looked at her father with an expression he had never seen before—desperate, strange, and utterly serious.
"Chloe. Baby, are you okay? Daddy will fix everything. Those Major Crimes detectives who saved you—I'll make sure they—"
"D-Dad. The person who saved me... is someone else."
"What?"
Not the police? Arthur froze. Chloe swallowed hard and whispered with absolute certainty.
"I have to meet him. That man."