Early Thursday morning, not even 8 am, Ethan staggered into a dim and seedy apartment building. There was no one around but him. Due to a recent fire, the residents had been relocated. He ascended a flight of stairs, and entered a narrow hallway filled with soot, dust and… numerous bright-colored, lizard-shaped figurines scattered on the floor. He crouched, picking one up. The shimmering porcelain stood out in comparison to the tatty surroundings. Otherwise, there didn't seem to be anything unusual about it. He picked up another one. Still nothing that caught his eye. Then a third, groaning in agony as his back objected to the continuous squatting. Despite popping painkillers and exceeding the recommended dosage, he was still sore from yesterday's trials. He heard a distinct rattling sound. Something was inside the lizard's belly. He smashed the figurine on the concrete floor. A key. For the door sporting a paint-on lizard. A lizard key for a lizard door. How fitting. Not knowing what to expect, Ethan peeked inside, squinting at the morning light inflowing from a curtainless window. The miniscule apartment was even more rampaged than the corridor outside. In the middle of the living room was a table filled with various tools and a GPS. Hesitantly, he sat down and tapped the screen, wondering what horrors awaited him. The same soulless, female voice from yesterday's courage challenge spoke to him, each word filling him with dread.

Are you prepared to suffer to save your son? You have five minutes to cut off the last section of one of your fingers in front of the camera. If you succeed, you will get your reward.

As the realization hit, Ethan jolted up and lurched backwards. Shock, revulsion, disbelief and numbing fear were all flying though his weakened body on the verge of collapsing from physical pain and emotional stress. He was living a nightmare. A real-life, waking nightmare. Why was this happening? Why him? Feeling like one of the unlucky protagonists of the numerous Saw movies, his eyes scanned the table. Abutcher's knife, a saw, a hatchet, a pair of scissors, pliers, a piece of wood to bite down on, a disinfectant, a hip flask… Ethan snatched the container and shook it. Slosh, slosh. He unscrewed the lid, and put the tip to his nose. The pungent scent of alcohol and an aroma reminiscent of leather and charred wood hit his nose. Bourbon? It didn't matter, as long as it was strong enough to numb the ice-cold dread of what he was about to do. There was also a rusty steel pipe and a propane tank for cauterizing the wound.

The monitor unrelentingly counting down to zero paid no heed to his terror-ridden state or conflicting emotions. He sank into the chair, telling himself over and over to not be afraid, like a mantra. Four minutes left. He lit the gas burner, wrapped a cloth around one end of the rod and put the other end into the blue flame, gorging down the content of the hip flask as the metal heated up. Two and a half minutes left. Heart racing, he poured disinfectant over his left pinky, getting more and more panicky with every second ticking by. Two minutes left. The iron was now glowing. The butcher's knife. The only tool available designed for cutting through flesh and bone. He sterilized the blade, bit down on the kindling, stretched out the finger to be sacrificed and aligned the blade perpendicular to the protruding body part. Relentless shivering made it near impossible to keep his hand in one place. One minute left. He lifted the knife, and… No! He couldn't muster enough courage to go through with it. What kind of sick, sadistic satisfaction was this torture porn to the person on the other side of the camera? Twenty seconds. He had to do it. Now. For Shaun. Don't think. Just do it. Forcing his muscles to cooperate, he placed his finger under the blade, rose, and rammed his entire body weight over the knife. As steel hit bone, he let out a piercing scream. The pain was unbearable, like nothing he'd ever felt before. Leaning over the knife again, he let out bursts of primal, animal-like roars as the blade severed the knuckle. He collapsed on the floor, curling up like a deformed metal rod, as blood oozed out of the stump. In a haze, he managed to grab a hold of the heated iron. Jolts of insufferable pain shot through his arm and spread throughout his body. Dark dots appeared before his eyes, and he could hear the blood rushing to his head. Then everything went black.

When he came through, he was lying in a puddle of his own body fluids. Sweat, urine, snot, spit, vomit and blood. He didn't even remember throwing up. The pain was still excruciating, but he'd regained some control of his limbs. A metallic scent mixed with burnt meat and alcohol lingered in the air. A static, robotic voice reached his ears, telling him to search under the desk. Crawling up to the table, he tore off loose planks till he found his reward. Another memory card. A video of Shaun submersed in water up to his neck, followed by more letters to this torturous, demonic form of hangman. "I did what I had to, Shaun," he whispered at the now black screen. "I love you."

He had no idea where the cut-off finger was. He didn't want to either. He collapsed on a well-worn sofa close to the entrance, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time he tried to pull himself up, his body sank down again, still in shock from the forced self-amputation. After three torturous trials, he was too beat-up, he'd lost too much blood. Someone was ponding on the door. Then daylight flooded the hallway. A silhouette. Ethan squinted at the shadow. Madison?

Thursday around noon, as I was sitting by my desk getting absolutely nothing done whatsoever, an agitated Madison called. Jane cooked a brow as I whooshed past her to my mentor's empty office, where I tried to calm her down. She refused to talk over the phone and asked, or more accurately, begged me to meet her. Alone. Was this another petty attempt at scoring information? She sounded genuinely distraught. I told Jane I was heading out for lunch, and asked her to cover for me if I wasn't back within the hour. She rolled her eyes in an overbearing, exaggerated manner, and chortlingly apprised it'd cost me a latte. And a frappe if I wasn't back by two. She'd likely drawn the erroneous conclusion that I was meeting up with Norman. If only. I already felt guilty about asking her to cover for me for the fourth time in a week, and not setting it straight made it hella worse. Loyalty to Jane and my promise to Norman weighed against the earlier cancelled plans with Madison and the stress in her voice begging for my help. I had to at least hear her out. Half an hour later, I found myself wandering the streets of a lower middle-class suburbia northwest of the city center. Not where I'd imagined Madison's apartment to be. Approaching the rendezvous point, I spotted the journalist under a large, bushy tree, leaning against a motorcycle. Upon seeing me, she sprinted to meet me.

"Lisa, thank God. I'm so glad you could make it. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I might have a… a possible lead on the Origami Killer."

I didn't reply, not verbally at least. But my dumbfounded moping combined with eyebrows shooting halfway up my forehead left little doubt to my immediate reaction. Dumbstruck, I tried to come up with a half-sensible response.

"I know it sounds crazy, but just hear me out…"

She leaned in, as to say something in confidence, but a change of heart had her turn away and lower her chin, as if contemplating exactly what and how much to share. I was mystified. If she already had a lead, and thereby knew something I didn't, what could she possibly need me for? Was this another set-up? What game was she playing here?

"Two blocks from here is the residence of Adrian Baker, a physician who was forced to 'retire' a few years ago due to writing one too many illegal prescriptions. He goes by the nickname the doc."

She spoke in a serious and low-key tone, making it hard to hear some of the words, especially with the relentless, never-ending shower of rain around us, every inch of downpour driving poor Shaun Mars closer to certain death. I suggested taking shelter under an empty bus shed nearby.

"I have reasons to believe this 'doc' has been in contact with the Origami Killer, either directly or indirectly," the reporter continued as we escaped the rain. "I'm going to pretend I'm a customer interested in buying Betropen, casually strike up a conversation, and see what I can learn."

"Wait, wha- you're going to… what?"

Madison went on to helpfully clarify that Betropen was sleeping medicine, which I already knew. Rewinding and re-playing our short, but strange conversation in my head, I tried to piece together what I'd just learned, and how to convince her to leave this ridiculous idea be.

"Just casually what, Madison? You're just casually going to ask him if one of his customers is a serial killer?" The short-haired brunette opened her mouth to speak. I wasn't done.

"Do you have an actual plan to go with this, or are you just gonna casually go hey, about that Origami Killer... like you did with me?"

Madison diverted her eyes, and closed her mouth. I felt a stab of remorse. Had I gone too far? "You do realize this could be dangerous?" I stressed, softening my posture. "Why do you believe this guy has a connection to the Origami Killer in the first place?"

Ignoring my objections, the brown-haired woman in the purple-brown leather jacket continued in low, almost muttering voice. "I have the cover story ready; if he asks me how I heard of him, I'll tell him that I was at a party last weekend, and got his name from some guy popping Betropen."

Cover story established, and not a bad one I had to agree, overall idea still reckless and ludicrous. I tried yet again to reason with her.

"All right, let's assume you're right. What makes you so sure this 'doc' even knows that one of his customers is the Origami Killer? And even if he does, what makes you think he'll tell you anything? These guys tend to keep a low profile."

The reporter started pacing the narrow bus shed, fumbling with her fingers. Not calmly and tenderly like Norman, but franticly and nervously.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me you have a gun-"

"No! Nothing like that. Look, the doc owns an apartment complex… several of them, actually. But the one I'm interested in is located in the Stanton district. On Marble Street to be exact. As we arrange the deal, I'll mention that I'm interested in renting an apartment at or near Marble Street."

Wait, what?

Apartments? Marble Street? And she didn't deem it necessary to share this tiny, but highly relevant detail with me until now? Here I thought this was about acquiring illegal drugs. Or, was that what she'd wanted me to believe? By giving me detailed, but insufficient information while simultaneously withholding relevant details, she counted on me to draw my own conclusions. What else was she not telling? I had a feeling this went beyond merely protecting her sources. I decided to switch tactics.

"Look Madison, is all this really worth a scoop? Why don't we let the police handle this one, eh?"

Brown eyes met mine, pleading for my help. She'd taken a great risk involving me in the first place, and now her entire plan depended on my subsequent actions. I could work with that. Retaining eye contact, I pulled out my phone, which earned a low, but horrified gasp from the brunette.

"Here, let me call them. I know a guy there, and…"

"NO!"

Madison's immediate reaction was to lock her hand around my wrist. Realizing how dubious she'd been, she let go and backed away with an unsettling expression. I gave her a feigned, baffled look.

"Whoa, you really want the story this bad?"

She was about to speak again, but I was in no mood for anything but the full truth. If she wanted my help, she'd have to tell me everything. I hit the precinct on speed dial, and put the phone to my ear.

"Don't! I'll tell you everything. Just please, hang up!"

I clicked the cancel button and lowered my hand, but held firmly onto the phone, my gaze steadily locked onto hers. Making sure no one was nearby, she leaned in again.

"You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," she whispered. "I'm asking you, not as a journalist but as a friend. Someone's life depends on it."

My first instinct was to sardonically call her a journalist cliché for valuing a story as much as a human life. However, Madison's dead-serious expression made me reconsider.

"I-I've been in contact with the missing boy's father, Ethan Mars."

My pulse quickened as I recalled my conversation with Norman yesterday. He'd been unable to get a hold of Mr. Mars, a concerning fact indeed as most of the victims' fathers were no longer anywhere to be found. How'd Madison been able to track him down?

"I mean… not like that… he… well, yes, I tracked him down, and yes I was looking for a story, but…"

Despite my thumping heart, I played cool, fiddling with my phone to remind her I could call my work at any moment. Realizing this did little to impress or convince me, Madison decided to share another piece of information, one which made me go cold.

"I'm not the only one that's been in contact with Ethan," she whispered. "So has the Origami Killer."

"What?! But how…?"

A sensation I could only describe as flares of ice shot through my veins. The missing fathers… was the Origami Killer behind that too? Was he now after Ethan? Taking a deep breath, Madison filled me in on what she'd been up to the last couple of days.

"Early yesterday morning, I was waiting outside Ethan's apartment, along with other reporters."

I raised a brow and gave her a 'wow, really'-look.

"Try to see it from my side," she pled. "Because of my insomnia, I haven't handed in a proper article in weeks, and I'm terrified of getting fired. I spotted Ethan sneaking into his car and drive away. He must've snuck out the back door or something. Either way, no one seemed to notice, except me."

With the tucking of imaginary locks behind her hear, constant fumbling with her sleeves and relentless pacing, she seemed more than just a little nervous.

"I pretended I had to go to a meeting, and trailed Ethan to Lexington Station, where he picked up a shoebox with origami figures."

"How'd you know the content of the shoebox?"

"I didn't know that then. I followed Ethan to this run-down motel in Rittenhouse, went home to pack some things, and returned to check in to the same motel. His car was gone by then so I stayed in my room, where I kept watch by the window. He returned after a few hours."

The journalist paused, her eyes flickering. A shoebox with origami figures for Shaun's dad. Out of eight victims, six fathers had never been heard from again... There was no way this was just a coincidence. If what she was telling me was true…

"And?" I encouraged.

"He was completely beat up!" Madison low-key shrieked. The stress in her tone was evident. I wasn't so sure if it was the cold I was shivering from.

"I helped him to his room, cleaned his wounds and gave him something for the pain. I asked what had happened, but he refused to tell. To avoid raising suspicions, I went back to my room. He left again about an hour later. And… I followed him. This time, he went to the Pico power station."

"Where's that?"

"It's an abandoned power plant by the Delaware river up in Fishtown, Northeast of the Ben Franklin bridge. He was inside for about twenty minutes. When he came out, it looked like someone had repeatedly cut into his arms and knees. He was barely conscious, so I drove us back to the motel. I don't think he remembers. I tended to his wounds the best I could, and sat with him till he came through. That… is also when I searched through the shoebox and learned of its content."

"Of course, you did." Madison shot me a glare. "Sorry. What happened when he woke up?"

"He thanked me… then he asked me to leave. I tried to offer my help, I suggested going to the police, but he kept insisting that no one could help him. He left again early this morning…"

"And let me guess, you followed him – again."

"Yes. This time, because I was worried about him. Nothing else. He entered an apartment building on Marble Street. Half an hour later and no sign of him, I got worried, so I went inside and..."

Pausing again, she inhaled heavily. A trembling hand flew to her face. "He'd cut of one of his fingers."

"That's so fucked up," I shrieked in revolt. "Madison, is this true? I swear, if you're messing with me-"

Terrified someone might've overheard us, her head fretfully darted left and right as I spoke. Then she leaned in close to my ear, cutting me off. "I'm telling you the truth!" she vowed. "You can't make this up. He was all covered in blood, and he… it's the Origami Killer, Lisa… he's forcing Ethan to do this," she asserted with a quivering voice.

"And you're sure of this?"

"It has to be! Look, the owner of the address where Ethan cut off his finger is Adrian Baker. He lives up there," she enlightened, pointing north. "It's not much of a lead, but it's all I've got."

This was a lot to digest. Swaying my hips and rubbing my arms to keep the cold at bay, I weighed my options. I thought of Norman, and how he'd react to this. I hadn't spoken to him since yesterday. To give him space, and to not be a distraction while he examined the video surveillance from the area where Shaun disappeared, I'd kept my distance. The last thing I wanted was tension between us now. But I wasn't exactly here by my own initiative. And I wasn't alone. I was merely helping out an acquaintance, scoring heaps of useful information while at it. I thought of Ethan and his son, and how the Origami Killer seemed to have them both in his clutch. My experience over the last few days had taught me that people were more willing to open up to someone who was not a cop. That could be the case for Ethan as well. I'd likely learn more on my own. I thought of Madison, and the ludicrous idea she was planning on setting to life. With anxious eyes, she ceaselessly scrutinized the area, repeatedly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It dawned on me that she'd called me to ensure that someone with connections to the police knew where she was. Eventually I spoke.

"If you want my help, and discretion, I insist on talking to Ethan. I'd also like to check up on him. I've had medical training."

The reporter agreed to my terms, relief washing over her striking features. "I'll take you to Ethan later. But for now, just help me out here, please."

I put my phone away. "All right, fine. What do you want me to do, exactly?"

"I'll do all the talking; you just wait around the corner. If I'm not out in ten minutes, ring the doc's doorbell and pretend you're selling subscriptions for the Tribune. That'll give me an escape route."

"So, I'm basically your insurance policy in case the doc turns out to be a weirdo or a creep?"

Madison shrugged. I pulled a face and reluctantly agreed to her plan. There was no talking her out of this. She was going to go through with it with or without me. Furthermore, if what she'd told me was true, alerting the police now could not only expedite Shaun's death, but put Ethan in more danger as well. As we headed in the direction of the doc's house, Madison gave me the necessary pamphlets and sign-up forms. I grabbed her sleeve, and locked eyes with her.

"Just be careful, all right."

She cooked a smile and gave me a wink. From behind a shrub, I watched her ascend the set of stairs leading up to the front door. As she rang the doorbell, she flashed me another smile, accompanied by an encouraging nod. The door opened, and I backed out of view until I heard the click from the door shutting. I cautiously emerged from my hiding spot, and snuck up to the red-brick building. Using a pocket mirror to peek inside the closest window, I spotted the back of Madison's head. She was sitting down with her back to the window as an elderly, gray-haired man, the good doc likely, handed her a glass. The thumping in my chest was like a bad omen.

Bad idea, Madison!

At that moment, my bag buzzed! Startled, I scurried out my phone, grateful it was on vibrate. Jane. Even though I'd been away for almost an hour, I switched it off. Sorry, Jane but this is terrible timing. I'll buy you all the frappes you can drink later, I promise. Five minutes ticked by, and still no Madison. I paced the lawn, wondering if the ARI had X-ray vision. Six, seven, eight. There was no longer any sight of either of them from the window. I put my ear to the front door. Nothing. No sound. The lump in my stomach grew and I started to feel uneasy. There. Ten minutes had passed. Still no Madison. The dread that something was amiss grew ever so strong. Ok, Lisa. Keep it together, don't freak out. Stay cool. I retrieved the papers, and rang the doorbell. The doc answered in less than a minute.

"Good day, sir," I started. "Could I interest you in a subscription for The American Tribune?"

"No, thank you. I'm good," he declined in a polite, but cold tone.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, sir" I continued, holding up the pamphlet, hoping I came off as convincing. There was no sign of Madison. "For just $3.99 you'll get American Tribune straight to your front door for three months."

Steel-cold eyes glared back at me with a patronizing stare, and the doc flashed me one of the most unnerving grins I've seen, only matched by that of Gordi Kramer.

"It says $13.99 on the brochure," he responded in a clammy voice.

Oh, snap!

"Eh, for you sir, it's just $3.99," I declared, praying I hadn't blown it.

"Thanks, but as I said, I'm good," the doc answered dismissively. Still no Madison. I noticed he was wearing a white apron. Why was he wearing an apron? Had he been wearing an apron earlier?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, miss. I'm very busy at the moment."

Before I could respond, he closed the door in my face. Madison was now officially MIA, and the doc was wearing an apron. I didn't like this premise one bit, and the foreboding sense that the journalist was in immediate danger was now chokingly intense. Something had gone terribly wrong, I knew it. There was no time contact the police. Unless I did something now, Madison would not see another tomorrow. The doc hadn't locked the door. As a real-life slasher movie cliché making dumb, life-threatening choices, I made the ad hoc decision of entering the house. Heart pounding against my ribs, I crossed the threshold. The living room was empty. Of people, anyways. I found myself in a room displaying psychedelic wallpapers and ordinary, old-mans-home furniture. The color of choice was red. A goblet was lying on the carpet. On closer inspection, I noticed the fabric around it was soaked and I noted a faint scent of wine. A muffled, but unmistakable scream of pure terror emerged from the basement. Madison! Like an automation, I dashed in the direction of the noise. And barged straight into a fight of life and death.