Chapter 3

Roger's hotel room smelled faintly of sugar and coffee, mingling with the sterile chill of overzealous air conditioning. A laptop sat open on the coffee table, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light, casting Roger's face into sharp relief as he pored over details from The Wycombe Hotel— building schematics, employee time cards, security footage, police reports of previous incidents on the premises, nothing was inconsequential. Near sat across from him in the armchair, knees tucked up to his chest, fiddling with a strand of his pale hair, his other hand lightly tapping a pen against the tablet balanced on his knees.

He hated this room. Roger had reserved the suite under the usual alias, stocked it with all the necessary equipment, and ensured the minibar was predictably full of indulgent sweets, but the cloying coziness of it grated on Near's nerves. It was the kind of space designed for comfort, but the effect was suffocating, a veneer of warmth that felt fraudulent.

Near's gaze flickered to the minibar, his eyes lingering on the amber glow of the liquor bottles. If he had been back in his own room at The Wycombe he would have already made short work of those, a fact which hung torturously above him and soon became his only awareness.

He had long ago resolved to never drink in front of Roger, and the combination of his secrecy and the unique sedative effect of alcohol had quickly become a corrupting combination. Near's brain naturally moved at an almost inhuman speed, taking in and processing outside information with a delirious efficiency and voraciousness which at times for him became maddening, and so at times a drink was his only escape. If Near's mind was a whiteboard, then alcohol was the eraser.

"Do you want tea?" Roger's voice cut through the silence, measured and deliberate.

Near shook his head without looking at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the tablet in his lap. He was half-listening to Roger's methodical typing, half-tracing invisible threads in his mind—the killer, the victims, BB, Detective Grace Madden.

Grace Madden.

The image of her, standing in the doorway of the crime scene with that squared-off jaw and no-nonsense posture hovered in his thoughts like a pinprick he couldn't ignore. She wasn't what he had expected from a local detective. Sharp, wary, but not in the aggressive way most law enforcement officials carried themselves. There was something else there, something steadier. Her intelligence wasn't showy; it was quiet, embedded in the deliberate way she spoke, in the way her gaze moved across the room like she was cataloging every detail. Near wasn't sure whether he liked her yet, but he respected her instinctive understanding that everything mattered.

"She thinks it's ritualistic," Near murmured, almost to himself.

Roger didn't glance up. "It isn't?"

"Not in the way she thinks." Near leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "There's no faith here. No conviction. It's a game. Every detail is a piece of the puzzle."

Roger closed his laptop with a soft click. "You say that as though it should bring you comfort."

Near ignored the comment, his mind circling back to the peculiarities of the scene. The killer's precision wasn't just for show—it was deliberate, controlled. The missing leg, the removed tongue, the calculated symmetry of the blood patterns on the bed. It was artful, grotesque, and above all, purposeful. And yet, it lacked the indulgence of someone reveling in chaos. Whoever this was, they didn't kill for pleasure. They killed for some higher purpose.

His eyes darted back to the minibar. If Roger weren't here, he might have relied upon alcohol for its other use— not to dull his mind, but to shake something loose in it. Alcohol had a way of making him see connections he might otherwise miss, of loosening the rigid structure of his thoughts just enough to stumble upon something vital.

But Roger was here, sitting across from him, sipping tea with maddening calm, and Near knew he would say something if he reached for the bottle. He was always saying something lately—little reminders that Near wasn't like other people, that he couldn't afford to slip, even for a moment.

"The poem," Near said abruptly, sitting up straighter. "It wasn't improvised. It's too polished. Too deliberate."

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning they had it prepared beforehand. They wrote it down somewhere, practiced it, refined it. It isn't an afterthought. It's part of the structure." Near tapped his pen against the edge of the tablet, his mind racing. "It's not just theatrics. It's an invitation. A challenge."

Roger frowned. "To you."

"To L." Near's voice was calm, but there was a note of something colder beneath it. "To my predecessor, specifically. The killer isn't just copying Beyond Birthday. They're escalating. They're trying to rewrite the narrative, to insert themselves into the legacy of L."

He fell silent, his gaze fixed on the screen of his tablet. The encrypted file containing the photos from the crime scene was still open, and as he stared at the image of the victim's face—serene in death, mouth slightly open—something clicked.

The tongue.

His breath caught, but he didn't move, his mind scrambling to piece it together. The tongue wasn't just a grotesque flourish. It was symbolic. Specific. He thought of the poem again:Though I creep and I crawl, I'll still hear if you call…

"They took the tongue so he couldn't speak," Near muttered, half to himself.

"What?" Roger leaned forward.

Near's fingers flew across the tablet, pulling up the file containing the victim's personal notes. The last entry was hurried, scribbled—Room 917. Come tapped the words, zooming in until the letters filled the screen.

"He wasn't just told to come alone," Near said, his voice gaining momentum. "He was coerced. Threatened, maybe. But the killer didn't want him to speak about it. That's why they took the tongue. It's part of the message."

Roger was watching him now, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying?"

Near stood abruptly, his movements uncharacteristically sharp. "The killer knew him. Or knew someone close to him. This wasn't random. They didn't pick Ethan because he was convenient—they picked him because he mattered. Because his silence mattered."

Roger's frown deepened, but he didn't interrupt. Near's mind was already spinning ahead, weaving threads of possibility into something more concrete.

"If we find out why Ethan was chosen," Near said, his voice low, "we'll find the connection. And if we find the connection—"

"We'll find the killer," Roger finished, his tone cautious.

Near didn't respond. His gaze was distant, his thoughts racing ahead to the next step. The drink could wait. The patterns were forming, and for the first time, he could see the edges of something he could follow.

The game had changed. And now, it was his move.


The steady hiss of the shower filled the cramped studio apartment, drowning out the hum of the city beyond the window. Grace Madden leaned her forehead against the cool tile, watching water stream down her arms, mixing with the faint sheen of sweat she hadn't been able to shake all night.

It was nearly 3 a.m. Her insomnia had won again.

The studio apartment was small, suffocatingly so, but it suited her. A single bed tucked in the corner, a desk cluttered with case files, coffee mugs, and the occasional paperback. The kitchen barely earned its name, a stovetop and a sink squeezed into one corner, and a small fridge that hummed incessantly. The only luxury she afforded herself was the shower—a rainfall head she'd installed herself.

She tilted her head back, letting the water run over her face and down her neck, trying to wash away the static buzz in her head. It didn't work. It never did.

She hadn't been able to stop thinking about meeting L.

He wasn't what she'd expected. Not that she'd known what to expect. L was practically a myth in law enforcement circles—a ghost who solved impossible cases and disappeared without a trace. But meeting him earlier that day had been… unnerving.

He was younger than she'd imagined. Quiet. Detached in a way that didn't feel rehearsed but instinctive, like he had trained himself to stand outside of things, observing instead of participating.

And his eyes. She couldn't shake the way he'd looked at her. Like he was dissecting her in real time, peeling back the layers of her words and expressions to see what lay beneath.

Grace shut off the water, the abrupt silence amplifying the sound of her breathing. She reached for a towel, wrapping it around herself before stepping into the main room. Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror above the sink. Dark circles underlined her eyes, her damp hair clinging to her face. She looked as tired as she felt.

She grabbed a cigarette from the pack on her desk and lit it, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as she sat on the edge of her bed. The faint glow of the city lights seeped through the blinds, casting long shadows across the walls.

Her thoughts shifted, as they always did, to the murder.

Sarah Webber. Nineteen. Bright, promising. Found in her dorm room at Carver University. Grace had seen the photos. She wished she hadn't. The details were vivid enough to make her stomach turn, the signs of what had been done to her leaving no doubt about the killer's cold precision. It wasn't the first brutal crime Grace had worked, but something about this one gnawed at her.

The killer wasn't just violent—they were meticulous. Purposeful. There was a message in the details— the complete lack of any physical evidence confirmed it. This wasn't the usual opportunistic predator— it was a Spider spinning a web.

She tapped ash into the tray beside her, staring at the cigarette as it burned. Her mind circled back to L. He had barely spoken during the briefing, letting Near take the lead, but his presence had been unmistakable. Grace had watched him watch everyone else, his gaze darting from face to face like he was taking inventory.

She wondered what he'd made of her.

Grace took another drag, exhaling slowly as she leaned back against the wall. Her insomnia had been worse for the past three months, since she had been cleared by the state shrink to go back on active duty. What a struggle that had been, she thought, the performance of a lifetime.

She wanted to do something useful with all this loose time her fucked up mind had given her, but her thoughts too tangled to unravel. Thinking about a new murder case once would have given her focus, but she felt only the helplessness of chasing a shadow.

But there was something else, too. A faint, gnawing feeling in the back of her mind.

Whoever the killer was, they weren't just smart—they were confident. They had been careful enough to avoid leaving anything that would point directly to them. But that kind of confidence… it came with mistakes. No one was perfect.

Grace stubbed out the cigarette and stood, pacing the length of the room. Her wet hair clung to her neck, but she didn't care. The apartment felt stifling, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest.

She needed to get something done— to find the motherfucker who had plucked the eye out of that poor girls head and was even now preparing to probably do worse to someone else. Grace needed it more than she cared to admit, or perhaps even knew.


Near didn't sleep.

The temperature outside had risen and air in the room was stale, idly Near thought about opening a window to let a breeze in. Roger had gone to bed hours ago, but Near remained perched on the edge of the couch, his legs folded beneath him and his pen hovering over the edge of his notebook. His tablet sat on the coffee table, the screen dimmed to its lowest setting. The time glared faintly in the corner—4:32 AM.

He hadn't noticed how much time had passed. He rarely did.

The name "Sarah Webber" stared back at him from his notebook, underlined twice. Nineteen. A student at Carver University. Found mutilated in her dorm room, eyes missing, left leg severed at the knee. A show of decadent brutality to cover for an operation of pure calculate precision. No DNA evidence to speak of, other than that of the victim.

Near's pen moved in small, deliberate circles on the paper, a nervous tic. Sarah's case had bothered him, though he couldn't explain why. She had been the first. The start of whatever this was. But the patterns which had been established by its likeness with the state of second victim Ethan Beech— patterns of control, precision, and patience—weren't as clear in her death. Ethan had in some way known his killer, there had been some context linking them. But Sarah just seemed altogether random.

Why had she been the first?

He flipped through his notes on the other victim. Ethan Beech: twenty-five. Killed in a hotel room by the administering of a lethal injection, his tongue cut out postmortem, and left with that sick I creep and I crawl, I'll still hear if you call.

Near didn't like mysteries within mysteries. They always concealed something dangerous.

He opened Ethan's file again, skimming the scant details. No prior history of violence. A misdemeanor charge for marijuana possession four years ago, dismissed due to lack of evidence. A handful of speeding tickets. A man with no clear ties to Sarah or anyone who knew her.

Except…

Near's pen stopped moving. His gaze landed on the section detailing Ethan's family. He had an older brother, Daniel Beech, currently serving a ten-year sentence for drug trafficking. Daniel had been arrested two years ago for running a small-scale operation. From there it took Near only a few more minutes to find it.

Daniel had a small distribution network of dealers. Two of whom had been students of Carver College—Sarah Webber's school.

Interesting.

Near leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee as his fingers tapped against his lips. Ethan had never been charged with anything beyond the dismissed misdemeanor, but could he have been involved? Or worse—had he been overlooked?

Near shifted back to Sarah's file. Her phone records had been part of the initial investigation, but no one had flagged anything suspicious. He pulled them up now, scrolling through the logs from the weeks before her death. The same names appeared again and again: her parents, her roommate, a handful of classmates. All safe, predictable contacts.

Until he saw it.

The number was unregistered, used sporadically, and always late at night. It didn't belong to any of Sarah's close friends or family. Near opened Ethan's file again, cross-referencing his last known phone number. It wasn't an exact match—but the area code, the time stamps on the calls… it was close enough to make him pause.

What if it wasn't his phone? What if it was Daniel's?

The connection was tenuous, but it was there. Ethan's brother had been running a drug operation tangential to Carver College, and Sarah Webber had been a student at Carver. Near's pen started moving again, scribbling notes as his thoughts coalesced.

Sarah had been buying from Daniel. Or from Ethan. One of them. And the killer—whoever they were—had known about it.

He sat up straighter, scrolling back to Sarah's toxicology report. He had read it before, dismissed it, but now he saw it in a different light. Her bloodwork had tested negative for drugs, but the analysis hadn't included certain substances—prescription stimulants like Ritalin. It was a subtle omission, almost easy to miss, but it changed everything.

Near muttered aloud, the words quiet but firm. "She wasn't random. They knew her."

If Sarah had been buying from Daniel—or Ethan—then the killer could have used that connection. They could have posed as her dealer, lured her into a meeting under the guise of a routine exchange.

Near felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. It made sense. Too much sense. Ethan's phone hadn't been in his possession during his brother's arrest; it had been confiscated by law enforcement along with everything else. If the killer had somehow accessed it during that time…

The implications made his skin crawl.

The killer had used Sarah's connection to Ethan—or Daniel—as their opening move. And Ethan's death hadn't been random, either. It had been the next step in a carefully orchestrated plan.

The sound of Roger stirring in the adjoining room broke Near's concentration. He glanced at the clock—5:12 AM.

He rose from the couch, his legs stiff from sitting too long, and crossed the room to knock on Roger's door.

"What?" came the groggy reply.

Near opened the door just enough to lean in. "I need a full breakdown of Sarah Webber's phone records. And I need to know where Ethan Meyer's phone was two years ago when his brother was arrested."

Roger squinted at him, his tie slung over one shoulder. "You've been up all night."

"I know," Near said flatly. "So has the killer."

Roger's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Give me an hour."

"20 minutes— and call the local PD, we need a meeting with the Captain of whatever precinct Officer Grace Madden works in, the usual precautions applied." With that Near turned and swung shut the door to Roger's room.

As the door clicked shut, Near returned to his seat on the couch, his mind already racing ahead. The killer was patient, deliberate—but they weren't infallible.

Somewhere in these connections, in the choices they had made, was the clue he needed to stop them.

And Near wasn't going to stop until he found it.