"Police urge civilians to stay inside at night. Do not leave the safety of your home after curfew. He waits in the night to strike. Stay safe, stay alert. Back to you, Clint."
Steve looked away after the screen switched back to the other reporter. He let a soft, exasperated sigh leave him as he rubbed the back of his neck. There were goosebumps that lined his soft skin.
"Still got nothing on this guy. People are getting scared, Steve.."
He got up, dejection evident in his posture, and walked to the coat hanger in the corner of his doorway. His fingers brushed the fabric before latching onto it and wrapping it around his shoulders.
With an unintentional flourish, he adjusted his jacket. He grabbed the keys to his apartment from out of his pocket and after stepping out the front door, turned and locked the opening to the building. He took in a deep breath, a look of determination making its way onto his features, before starting to walk away.
A soft tune was hummed by him as he walked along the empty streets of New York. However, opposing the gentleness of the melody, the thoughts and theories in his head raged. Who was behind the recent string of murders? What was his motive? When would the people of Manhattan be able to feel safe again?
A heavy sigh escaped from the blonde male before he could stop it.
As much as Steve didn't want to admit it, he knew he was in over his head. Yes, he was a great detective, maybe the best, but this case was just… strange, to put it simply. The suspect, who had been nicknamed "The Winter Soldier" by the public, was like no other killer he had investigated.
This guy was too… sporadic-yet careful at the same time; he stalked his prey, pounced when the timing was right, then discarded them when they failed his tests. The only two things that remained the same when the murderer struck was the season and the people he killed.
Every year, for the past five years, The Winter Soldier kidnapped three Caucasian men who had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and were of a muscular stature, and held them captive for a week. And every year, like clockwork, they all turned up dead in the snow with their scalps cut off.
Those were the only things Steve knew about the man. Having stepped in after the previous detective resigned from the job, he didn't have much to go off of. No one had been able to discover anything else about him for the last five years besides the people he preferred and when he'd act.
The quiet footsteps of the detective rang throughout the tired streets of Brooklyn. Softly, snowflakes dropped onto the pavement and littered Steve's coat. His blue eyes looked up at the night sky.
"Are you out here?" The words leaked out of his mouth in an almost silent mutter.
This was the Winter Soldier's season. This city, this haven for children, for rebellious teenagers, for the drunken men and women that staggered home at night, had slowly turned into the murderer's domain. For years, he had terrorized the city.
Steve's steps came to an abrupt stop. An overwhelmingly large surge of energy rushed through him, coursed through his veins so fast he thought his heart would stop from all the blood rushing to it, and forced his feet to stop walking.
To say he was determined would have been an understatement.
He was ready. He was going to get the soldier that winter, he was sure of it. He would be the one to put that damned serial killer away and restore freedom for his beautiful city. Brooklyn was his home. It was the city he learned to fight for himself in, the place he lost his virginity at, it was the city whose streets were a home to him in his youth and even now.
This killer? This "Winter Soldier"? To Steve, he was only an intruder who thought he could get away with robbing him of his possessions, his freedom.
But what the man didn't know was that Steve slept with his eyes open; he was a free man down to his very core, he was prepared to fight to keep it like that. And fight, he must.