They had been in Beacon for three days now, and two more people had gone missing. It made everything feel like a ticking time bomb. If they didn't find Strauss or his followers, not only would there be more victims to find but fewer witnesses to help. He hated Strauss. It wasn't even just because he saw him as the catalyst for Joe's killings but because it made him unable to sleep at night thinking of how many of his students were out there and had the potential to be another Joe. This was all on him. Ryan took responsibility for each and every murder because he saw them as personal failures, instances where he just didn't get there in time, where he didn't do his best. The victims haunted him, weighing down his soul. He would take this guilt to his grave, even if he did put a stop to it eventually.

When Ryan woke, he immediately felt out of place. It wasn't just because he was in a hotel room — although he certainly never did well sleeping in unfamiliar places, and, even then, he was an insomniac in his own bed. He was on the bathroom floor. His back and neck ached, probably because he was half-slumped against the small basin. As Ryan blinked his eyes open, he noticed he was already dressed, not in the undershirt and boxers he had gone to sleep in. There were also a few moderately sized rust-coloured stains. They were relatively fresh, judging by their brightness. But Ryan somehow already knew they were from blood. He squinted. For some reason, he wasn't entirely surprised to see them, but he was concerned. Even someone in his line of work wasn't that desensitised to the sight of blood where blood was not meant to be. As Ryan tried to stand and get a look in the mirror, he winced at the aching of his muscles, like he'd overexerted himself. From doing what? It wasn't just from sleeping funny; it was like he'd lifted something heavy, forcing him to use his core muscles.

His head spun when he got to his feet. Had he slept that poorly? He looked himself over, hands planted on either side of the sink. There was blood under his fingernails and a few specks on his face. He couldn't figure out where it had come from. It looked like he had tried to scrub some of it off based on the reddened skin around the stains and on his hands. When and why had he done that? He racked his brain trying to think of what happened last night but came up empty. Still, he didn't have much of a chance to continue pondering because a rap on the bathroom door brought him back to the present moment.

"Ryan?"

It was Max.

"Ryan, we got a call from the Sheriff's department. They've found another body."

For some reason, that didn't surprise him. Given how much of a pessimist he was and how much bloodshed he saw on a regular basis, apathy over murder was nothing new.

"It's… it's Arthur Strauss."

He squinted. "What?"

"Arthur Strauss was murdered." She didn't sound particularly upset about it, just shocked. "He was hiding out in a cabin somewhere. We think it must have been one of his students."

Ryan let out a breath. "I'll be out in a second." He didn't have time to get rid of anything on his clothes, but he at least used some hand soap to clean his hands and cheek before coming to the door. He prayed that Max and Mike would be too preoccupied to notice the stains on his shirt. When he opened it, she was still in her pyjamas. It looked like she'd been woken by the phone.

"Oh, good, you're already dressed," she commented. "Just give me five minutes, and we can head off."

He nodded and decided to act like he'd been up for hours thinking about the case rather than solving the mystery of the stains on his shirt. Ryan gave himself a proper look in the mirror again and found that strategically placing his scarf did the trick. Max and Mike were full of theories on the ride there, reciting names of Strauss' known students and their whereabouts. Ryan just hummed in agreement where appropriate. For some reason, he didn't view this as a mystery. But it wasn't like his gut was suggesting it was someone in particular. No, it was like he'd accepted that Strauss was dead before Max had told him. Even when the sheriff pulled back the tarp to reveal Strauss' corpse, his head nearly severed from his body, he didn't react. He brushed it off indifferently, and he was, but not for the usual reasons.

"I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him," an irritatingly familiar voice said. Joe stood there, looking over the corpse with what Ryan could only describe as genuine pity. He'd seen Joe break very few times in his life. Usually, it had been when Claire or Joey was involved, but not since.

Ryan had to admit he'd read more than his fair share of Poe ever since the FBI concluded that there was a pattern to his murders. Maybe in another life, he would have been a scholar who engaged with Joe in healthy, philosophical debates about the varying interpretations of Poe. But right now, unfortunately, that quotation was his brain's way of concluding that Max's initial suspicions were correct. Strauss must have been killed by one of his students, perhaps the very student who had housed him and welcomed him with open arms while he had been on the lam. They went through their list of suspects again, concluding it couldn't be anybody they already knew based on physical capability, last known whereabouts, and plausible motives. He supposed they could go through a list of everyone Strauss had ever taught, but that would take a while and would never be exhaustive.

"What do you want, Joe?" Ryan replied mentally, trying to keep his eyes on Strauss' body in the hope that the pair of feet standing near him might disappear.

"Ryan, remember I come from your mind. If you want to blame someone for my quotations, blame yourself."

"Maybe… maybe Joe would know something," Mike suggested, biting his lip. "I know you probably don't want to see him again, Ryan, but…"

"Oh, if only dear Mike knew how often you let me visit you!" Joe chimed in. Unfortunately, Mike had a point. If anybody knew Strauss' students, it was Joe.

"No, you're right," he admitted, still not giving Joe eye contact. "He saw Strauss recently, and he has no reason to lie, so…" He nodded. "I guess I'll go see him again."

It was only once Ryan was alone again that he realised… he was relieved that Strauss was dead. Happy, even. Yes, he had plenty of reasons to be. They'd killed the beast at its head. If it was one thing he'd learnt about all the followers, be they of Joe, Mark, or Strauss, they were — for the most part — incredibly codependent. They needed a leader. Try as they might, they would never be as good as their maker. They would fail. They might try to rekindle the spark but ultimately lose purpose and stop. They might be perfectly capable of taking human life, but they lacked the stability and charisma to actually lead and take the position of their mentor. But Ryan couldn't just describe his happiness as a career success or a reason to sleep a little better than usual. As he started to think about visiting Joe, he realised he would be the one to tell him. Ryan was curious to see how the real deal would react. But, somehow, he didn't think it would be very different from how the imaginary Joe pouted over Strauss' body. He had to give his brain credit for conjuring such an accurate portrayal.

Ryan also knew that it wouldn't be long before the media had a field day with Strauss' death, and likely brought Joe back into the limelight. Ultimately, Strauss had gained popularity not for his actions but for being Joe's creator. He rode on the coattails of Joe's loyal and devoted fans. Joe had what Strauss never achieved: praise. It almost made Ryan want to laugh. There would never be anybody who got as much attention as Joe. His love by his deranged fans had lasted over a decade. His execution might mean it lasted several more. After all, Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy certainly still had their fanatics, even in death. Joe would be immortalised through his execution. Strauss would simply cease to exist once the initial hype passed.

"The idea is not to live forever but to create something that will," Joe uttered in his mind. "And I dare say I've achieved that, Ryan, wouldn't you agree? Although I suppose you could say the same about the dear old professor here."

Ryan furrowed his brow. "That's not Poe," he pointed out.

"I'm afraid not: it's Warhol. But they're not bad words to live by."

He sighed. Today had raised so many questions. It was overwhelming. He still didn't have an answer for how he'd woken up. He doubted anybody could answer that, and, if he was being honest, he didn't really want anybody to know. It felt like a secret. Like he'd been caught with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. There was something that felt familiar but, at the same time, wrong. The blood was not his own. He could not find any kind of cut or graze on his body to indicate otherwise.

So, to stop himself from spiralling, all Ryan could do was hope that Joe would lead the FBI to Strauss' killer because the only thing worse than a follower was a follower who was already angry.