Leave me out with the waste this is not what I do

It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you

It's the wrong time if somebody knew

It's a small crime and I got no excuse

Is that alright, yeah?

Give my gun away when it's loaded

Is that alright, yeah?

If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it?

Give my gun away when it's loaded

Is that alright, yeah?

The man squirmed, violently at first but slowly lost its vigour, reminding him much of a fish that has been caught.

There will be no mercy.

As the weight settled and tired his arms, adrenaline pumped through veins and he went immediately to work. It's only just begun. Limbs limp dragged through the floors. This time though, he made sure that it is without a trace of a struggle. Short breaths. Humid air wet with the rain earlier. He inhaled deeply.

There will be no mercy.

He hummed as he worked, processing the man without hesitance. Some would find his ease of movement poetic, if they were to ignore the horrifying details. He paused to examine. It was complete.

There will be no mercy.

Soon, he modeled the body the way he wanted, the way he had imagined the man laying before he so ruthlessly uprooted him from much earlier.

There was no mercy.

Leave me out with the waste this is not what I do

It's the wrong kind of place to be cheating on you

It's the wrong time she's pulling me through

It's a small crime and I got no excuse

Is that alright, yeah?

Give my gun away when it's loaded

Is that alright, yeah?

If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it?

"What have you got for me?" Shelby breezed passed the tape with her cup of coffee in hand. The two men moved quickly to brief her.

"Body found in an old house. The neighbour called to complain about the foul smell yesterday." Puck frowned at her sunken eyes after she lifted her sunglasses.

"We think it's the owner." Mike filled in before nudging his partner. She sipped the hot liquid as she scanned the scene.

"Think?" She looked at them for the first time that morning and Mike could see why Puck was so concerned. The chief looked like she hasn't slept in days and she probably hasn't.

"Well, the face was really swollen but the clothes seems to match." Critical eyes swept through the sad living room. It doesn't escape her how many similar living spaces she's visited. It was always the lonely ones.

"He looks like he lived here alone."

"That's because he does. Mark Torres doesn't seem to have a love life according to the neighbours. Been living here for 8 years and rarely have any overnight guests. Lost his job as a supervisor at a gaming centre four years ago. He does odd-jobs mostly plumbing to sustain himself these days."

There it was—the signature. The investigator closed her now tired eyes to collect her thoughts before cussing.

"This is just fucking great." A hand stilled her just before she left to deal with red tapes.

"It's the same guy."

"I know." She gritted. If looks could kill. . .