The searing hot engine grumbled and shook like a wild beast barely containing its primal anger. The bike’s driver, keeping the vehicle on standstill with one foot on the pavement, glanced to her right, scanning the house numbers to make sure she was in the right place. Satisfied that she was, but shaking her head with disapproval, she killed the engine with a twist of the key. Just like that, the furious growling died and only the sound of rain spattering against the hard exterior of her helmet remained. She dismounted and disabled the vehicle’s front wheel with a disc lock that she produced from a small bag on the rear of the seat. Imperfect security, but it was better than nothing; either way she hadn’t planned on being gone for too long.

Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening – long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.

Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist – even just the janitor – bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. She’s doing this for Abigail. And only for her.

Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration – mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasn’t that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.

The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it – a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.

Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.

They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.

Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.

Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kid’s doodle – too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violator’s crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.

Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle – she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.

“Evening,” she muttered, “Shrink therapy, correct?”

She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors – a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.

While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, ‘obscure events’. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isn’t that right, old man?

Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.

Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspect’s body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in America’s tragic history.

“It’s on the sixth level, sir.”

John Dorman-Smith the Third leant back from the directory in the ground level of the family office block and nodded in the direction of his valet. “Thank you, Wilson,” he murmured, making his way to where his man held open the lift. “I’ll take it from here, lad. I’ll call you when we’re done.” Herb tapped the number six with his prosthetic right arm and leant back in the elevator as it dinged its way up the building. He didn’t often find himself this far up the city – a few events at the University, but that was about it. Idly he twisted his cane in his left, his real, hand; he really should get out more, why spend your life bottled up in a few square blocks on the south side if he was retired. The more time he spent down there the more time SEC would be able to draw connections between a thousand innocuous actions from people he’d never heard of and his vast fortune. He was blind, after all, not crippled… apart from the arm, anyway.

He saw himself sitting down next to a cute young thing with platinum blond hair minutes before he finally lumbered into the room. All bright and colours, another standard circle therapy. Herb didn’t know why his therapist insisted on this session in particular, but he didn’t care at this point. So he slowly lumbered down the dim hallway, trying to remember the doorway and ignore the whispers tugging at his ears.

Real voices indicated when he was in the right spot, and he tried to enter the therapy room as unobtrusively as possible. He could dimly make out three figures, the one with the bright shock of white obviously the young lass he saw earlier. “Apologies for my tardiness,” he said as he sat down, “I forget sometimes I can’t walk as briskly as I used to.”

This show really was for all genders and ages, wasn’t it? Trisha thought, watching John shuffle into the room. Not quite as elderly as the good doctor, perhaps, though not far away either. At least in his sixties. Expensive suit, no obvious signs of wear; must be new or almost. Clearly he’s got money. Good for him. Something wrong with the way he sat down – yes, the way he supported himself. Awkward right hand, reduced mobility. Crippled? Awkward facial expression too, now that she thought about it. Maybe he feels like he’s in the wrong place. That she could understand. Interesting man, more to him than meets the eye.

Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomer’s name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at least… at least they weren’t what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.

Take it away, doctor, she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real – or that he believed that they were real – but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, don’t focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasn’t quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didn’t make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.

Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around – it would be too obvious – but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only she’d paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.

Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.

And then the moment came where he asked his ‘patients’, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.

Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: “My name is Trisha Hayes. I’m in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.” Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friend’s, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her now…

“I’m working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. I’ll admit that it’s stressful. I guess that’s why I’m here.”

She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.

Shit shit shit shit shit. Running late.

David ran up the steps and frantically typed in the four-digit code to the office building. God dammit, first therapy session with a new shrink and he was late. What a good first impression he'd set, right? As he burst through the door and up the flights of stairs to Dr McCoy's office, he made sure his messenger bag (with camera and voice recorder still inside) was secured tightly to his back and wasn't bouncing around and hitting any walls. The rain had come at the least opportune time; catching him without an umbrella or a convenient mode of transport other than the irregular city buses that ran through the area. His jacket was soaked, so were his shoes and his jeans, but thankfully not his inner polo shirt, tank top or his bag, which was waterproof just for this sort of day.

His footsteps echoed loud in the relative silence of the stairwell. Earlier he'd seen someone else enter the building before him, but since he was still on the bus at the time, he knew he couldn't catch up. That being said, he also didn't want to be late. Thankfully the doctor's office wasn't too high up and as he approached the door, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn, crumpled napkin from the diner he'd had dinner at. David wiped his face and hair (mostly) dry with the square of paper before crumpling it and stuffing it back into his pocket. Then, making sure his bag was still there and his clothes were all straight and mostly dry, he pushed open the door.

He was immediately hit by the middle of a conversation. The older man in the white lab coat was clearly Dr McCoy, and the ring of individuals he was a part of were obviously his patients. That group therapy thing the letter had talked about, thought David, these must be the rest of the people that got roped in. With a sheepish smile and a wave, Sawyer shuffled his way past those seated near the door and found himself an empty space next to the man he'd heard identified as 'Mister Dreymund'. He sighed as his butt hit the chair, relaxing a little as he placed his bag on his lap and tried to cool himself off from the run upstairs.

"Sorry doc, bus ran late. Got caught in the downpour outside."

David took stock of the room he was in and the people within. A fairly well-stocked office, the man right next to him was a Mr Dreymund. Didn't look too bad, but from the way his clothes were also rather damp, he figured this was the man he'd seen enter the building right before he did. The others were varying in age; two women, one older lady who looked like she'd been through hell and back with the way her stare cut right through him, the other a young specimen who clearly wasn't pleased with what was going on and the whole therapy session she was in. Another larger, muscled fellow who had introduced himself as Joe and had been involved in cartel business, sat next to Dr McCoy. And last but not least was a man all too familiar to him.

John Dorman-Smith. Wow. Good to know even the rich and powerful still need to see a shrink every now and then.

He'd reported on the man's company before; a sparkling jewel amidst the churning sea of import-export companies that had earned the old man a lot of money. In his youth, he was reputedly a trader who ran on risk and always got what he came for. David wondered briefly what on earth a man of his stature was doing in a downtown shrink's office. Then he let his mind relax so he could listen to whatever else transpired in the room.

Some old fucker came into the room late, of course, he was nice enough to be loud enough to disturb the session and Alex's train of thought. The guy looked like he was going to kick it any second, but he was definitely looking her over - like a complete weirdo. Alex internally cringed at the thought and turned her gaze back to the younger-older man, the Doctor. He was simply having a coughing fit, something about his career smoking habits. The tissues in the garbage were bloody, gross the guy was probably going to die during the session. She just realized the old fucker who walked in was someone famous or something, maybe she just didn't keep up with famous old people but the name Dorman-Smith sounded important maybe familiar.

Then the other chick started to talk and Alex's face got whiter when she mentioned she was a cop. Fuck, to think that she'd be in the same room with one this ways across the country. Her jaw kinda dropped but she tried to play it off by covering her mouth with her hand. Then a bunch of people started coming in, another old dude but he didn't seem like a bucket of scum and then essentially the epitome of an NYC thug walked in too. Everyone from all walks of life just poured into the therapy session, essentially this was going to suck. Talking was cool but talking about stuff you didn't want to talk about wasn't - for the most part.

The thug, Joe started to talk. Escaping a cartel and hiding, maybe he wasn't as badass as she initially thought. Then the old man - the doc turned to her to ask. Still, in shock, the doc asked the question regardless - her story. "Oh uh, well. I'm Alex, and I'm an alcoholic a while ago my boyfriend Zach went missing. I have some crazy nightmares and the alcohol helps I guess." She starts to crack her fingers. "Losing someone is just traumatic is all, the anxiety that comes with it and the pain. Hopefully, it's not long-term and maybe talking about it will fix it. Fingers crossed."

She lets out a sigh, a huge weight felt like it was lifted off her chest in a figurative manner. She smiled afterward as if to display a sign of hope but in reality, she was scared. The cop was probably the scariest thing she could face right now, the pervert, thug and other guys seemed to pale in comparison. Her hands rested on her bare knees as she awaited a reply from the old 'wise' doctor, today was going to mark the start of a long six months.

Now this is quitethe eclectic bunch you’ve found yourself in, John. The familiar voice pulled at the back of his mind, formal and lilted like a public-school teacher from his youth. Rather at odds with its owner, a young Punjabi lass that had haunted his dreams for the past decade. The old man couldn’t help but agree; all ages and all walks of life. Hayes felt particularly… stonewall-ish, a black spot on a bright canvas. The young thug felt as tumultuous as his story sounded, the young blond girl saw earlier was… conflicted, probably another one of those lost university students who thought they were entitled to the world. Most interestingly was the force that which thelost projected himself – all encompassing, almost filling the room. Dreymund, the doctor said? Yesnoyes.

He stilled his shaking arm – his real arm – as Alex spoke, gripping the head of his cane tighter. Sometimes Herb almost wished that he had two prosthetic arms – after all he could afford the best. Nimble, accurate, never shook; but then he would watch the other unlucky ones who attended the clinic he owned cry over their lost limbs and the thought was banished. He smiled wistfully as Alex finished introducing herself, he had lost a lot of people we’re still with you and alcohol only lasted for a while. Then you move to something stronger and stronger, but eventually you find that nothing can remove the madness. If only alcoholism was the least of his worries.

“I do want to do an exercise,” the Doctor continued, after thanking Alex for her contribution. welove games – Herb, on the other hand, did not. He’d wait the doctor out, but if this is how sessions start it would prove to be an unproductive recommendation. The man seemed a little hurried – half the people in the room hadn’t even introduced themselves. What was the drive that kept him going? He frankly didn’t know, that’s half the reason why he came here. He could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers, but without the risk, without the challenge… his money was perpetually safe, tied up in hundreds of companies and squirreled away across the earth. He had as much as he could ever want… he just didn’t have the body to keep brokering the deals he used to. Maybe it’s time to go legit…

Lightly Herb tapped his thumb against his cane as he leant back in his chair and surveyed the group through dim eyes. Legitimately everything around his was dark, with pinpricks of light trying to pierce his clouded eyes – the doctor must have lit candles, there was a faint scent but nothing he could make out. What would the group expect him to say? Money? Possibly. Some trite shit about his kids? Live as long as I can to keep them away from doing damage to the world.

Pain shot down his right arm and he unconsciously clutched it. Phantom pain as severe as when he lost it – dimly he heard laughing in the back of his mind. Rubbing the join above his prosthetic he realised one of the few things that still brings him joy was seeing those that he was able to provide mobility to again. Legs for veterans, arms for car crash victims.

His mind was tickled with a cold splash as he submersed at the end of the slide.

The corner of her vision was peeled on Dorman-Smith – but it was Alex who reacted the most visibly to her introduction. Mouth slightly agape, but tried to cover it up. Could’ve sworn she lost some color too; hard to tell in the uncomfortable, fluorescent lamplight. A reaction of surprise. Shock? Perhaps a bad conscience. Probably no reason worth noting. Trisha figured that the girl maybe possessed and consumed Weed, possibly tried some harder stuff for kicks. Unlikely she was involved in any real crime. Herby, on the other hand, had some very real crimes on his conscience, but his face was unreadable. Figured.

Trisha was caught very much by surprise by the apparent popularity of McCoy’s little session. Just when she thought everybody had been accounted for, a throng of new people shuffled in, each apologizing for being late and citing some quickly-explained excuse.

The first of these was a certain Mr. Dreymund. A man she could only describe as being at odds with himself. His face and deliberate beard gave him an antiquated, but dignified appearance, befitting perhaps of an old gentleman from the colonial age. But his rain-soaked clothes were visibly dirty – more than dirty, they were muddy. The jacket had been on the floor outside. Something was awkward about his gait too. He hid it well, but he restricted movement of his torso very much, like somebody who felt pain if they moved in a wrong way. Suggestive of dull, not sharp, pain. Bludgeoning damage? Perhaps he’d been in a fight? Unlikely, judging by his appearance. Or, if he was, he lost. Badly. Man should’ve called the police or gone to a hospital instead of coming here. Why didn’t he? He looked quite nervous too. Or maybe just distracted by something. Trisha couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was off about him. Perhaps she would ask him later what happened to him.

The second man was something else. He had criminal written all over him. Ghetto-style clothing, tattoos, an intimidating physique and a bad attitude – or, at least, the pretension thereof. She had seen guys before who looked tough but were gentle giants. Of course, she’d seen those who were the real deal too. She wondered which of these Joe Toledano turned out to be. She eyed him cautiously, like an owl watches a fellow hunter pass by, until he was seated; right next to her. Coincidence or not? Had he noticed her unflinching gaze? Did he smell a cop? Or did he simply find her hot? Perhaps she read too much into it.

McCoy urged the newcomer to continue the introductory round right away. Surprisingly he complied without protest; cooperation was not a trait she thought him to have. Impressions could deceive, but not always. Admitting to a criminal past with the ‘cartels’ – whichever ones he was referring to – he at least affirmed that he fit his stereotype. Looked like he’d seen enough though and wanted to pull out. Poor Joe; pulling out doesn’t undo your crimes. She wondered just what he was guilty of. At this point, he could have been anything, from a mere drug pusher to a murderer. Or worse. And Trisha figured he didn’t need those muscles to sell crack to a few kids. Joe bothered her, but she reminded herself that, no matter his crimes, he could never be as bad as him. And since he was the standard by which she measured evil, almost anyone could pass for a half decent person.

The rounded moved on to Alex Fusco, the only other female in the room. As her story went, her boyfriend went missing a while ago and she comforted herself with alcohol. It was exceedingly rare to find an alcoholic who was willing to admit to being one. Doubly so for young people. But if it was true – and Trisha had no reason to believe otherwise – then Alex should seek help now, and not from a pseudo-scientific group session like the one she was in. Of course, one detail still remained unexplained: why the distraught reaction to Trisha’s outing as a cop? She said her boyfriend went missing. If anything, she should be glad to meet a detective; they’re the sort of people she needs right now. Why the opposite reaction? Feelings of guilt? Survivor’s guilt? Or something more sinister? Perhaps an unfortunate accident. At any rate, she hoped the police was on the case. Although if he went missing long enough ago that she had time to develop a dependency on alcohol, then Trisha did not rate his chances of being alive very highly. People don’t go missing for a few months only to turn up fine. She pitied the girl, and the boy whose life was most likely spent. They were both too young to go through something like this. She would lend the girl an ear if she needed it.

While Alex told her story, another person – again, slick with rain – entered the room with an apology. After a wordless welcome from McCoy, he found himself a seat next to Dreymund. He was difficult to read, and that was a good thing. There were enough troublemakers as it stood. He looked relatively average: reasonably well groomed, clothing that saw regular washing and was picked with a modicum of care for appearance. No obvious quirks, just a bit of exhaustion. Did he take the staircase? He was probably in a hurry not to be late. She wondered if the elevator wouldn’t have been quicker regardless. She had nothing to pin on him at the moment, but she knew that his looks deceived her. After all, he would not have been here if there wasn’t something that ate him up from the inside.

It was McCoy’s turn to speak up again; instead of letting the rest introduce themselves, he decided to change it up, going so far as to putting the dreaded word ‘game’ in his mouth. Trisha inwardly cringed. If this turned out to become a circus, she would have no shame in leaving. She was an adult, a busy one at that. She had no time – or patience – for games.

“𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊n𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 about 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝,” he began. Boy, oh, boy, doctor. She’d rather not. Of course, now that he prompted her, she could not stop herself from opening the lid on those dreadful memories. The girl in the playground was one of those that hurt the most. Arms tied around the supporting chains of a swing, body bent over it. Needless to speculate why she was in such a position. Broad daylight, children had been laughing in this place hours before. She wanted to plunge a knife into the man’s black, rotten heart. But how had nobody, neither child nor adult, noticed anything until after the fact? How had nobody stopped him? Hell, how did nobody even see the suspect at all? None of it made any god damn sense!

She clutched her fist; knuckles became white. Her face remained calm, a mask of stone. She had well trained restraint. What was the source of her will to go on? Hell if she could give it a name. A sense of justice? No, something rawer. Vengeance? The anger of a wolf mother?

No. But all of those played their part as well. There was something else she could not deny: she felt awful. Every single time she found a dead girl, she felt like she had personally failed the kid. Every other victim was only permitted because she had failed to catch him yet. Her dalliance was costing children – and their families – their lives and happiness. The Violator was incapable of feeling shame or guilt.

So Trisha felt it for him.

Melancholy had almost taken over enough of her senses to momentarily blind her to the world, but a peculiar smell brought her back and urged her to close the lid on that dark chasm. That was bad. He had probably intended for them to lose themselves in thought, while he had not only dimmed the lights, but ignited a bunch of candles she had neglected to notice. Careless! She felt like she deserved a slap in the face for being so inattentive. Bunch of colors, circular – or haphazard – arrangement. She did not like it, but not because of the occult connotation. It was the strange smells, incense most likely. Could be it was entirely harmless, or offensively smelling at best. But what if it wasn’t? What if there was some kind of deliriant that made the mind more pliable? Or an incapacitating agent? No, the latter was somewhat unlikely. After all, McCoy was not immune. Drugs were not out of the realm of possibility, however. She had to speak up.

“Mr. McCoy, do you mind if I ask about the candles? I’m not the incense type. Is this strictly necessary? And what’s in them?”

In spite of her state of mild alarm, her voice was as calm as ever, even stoic. Her intense eyes found his own, even in the dim light; the dark could not hide him from her iron gaze.

As the lights dimmed and David took in Dr McCoy's words, his hands unconsciously drifted to his messenger bag and the camera within. His job...no, his life was contained within that camera. Every high, every low and every in-between. Photography. Writing. Telling stories. That was his life, his dream and his passion. What made him happy, sad, disgusted and amazed with humanity all at the same time. David traced the outline of the camera in his bag and sighed. How many stories out there were untold because journalists like him weren't hard at work, documenting everything that could be recorded into human history?

In the brief moment that the lights dimmed, David caught a whiff of the candles he saw illuminated in the dark. The smell was...strange, but oddly familiar. He searched his mind for memories of a similar scent and came to realise that it smelled similar to the incense he'd once bought in a market he'd taken pictures of in India, but the smell was off, not quite the same. As to why the good doctor was using scented candles in this icebreaking session was beyond him, but he kept quiet about the whole deal. Maybe it was to help them relax even more?

Speaking of the room, David took another moment to scan around him, just taking in the faces and expressions of the people seated in the room, their faces lit by the candles at their feet. He was very, very tempted to pull out his camera and take pictures of the room, just because the expressions of thought and wonder of the various individuals at their happiest memories...it evoked that same sense of wonder in him. However, unlike the times when he'd felt pure, unadulterated awe and wonder, this felt different. He saw Dr McCoy light the last few of the candles and disappear out of the room before he could raise a hand to get his attention and wondered why would the good doctor do something like that? Now that sense of wonder was replaced by a low, creeping dread, the same feeling he had whenever he was going to experience a bout of paranoia.

He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, remembering the words of his previous shrink.

Take a few deep breaths, long and slow, and calm down. Remember why you're here. Keep calm, just follow the exercise Dr McCoy set you. Relax.

David closed his eyes and imagined that picture of a water park, him at the top of a long, long water slide. As he let go of the handle above the lip of the slide, he pictured his descent into the cold, running water in the center of the giant hard plastic tube, the waves drifting over his bare chest as he released himself to the water's flow. Within the slide, plastered to the walls, were the best pictures he'd ever taken in his career; a picture of a troop of Japanese macaques bathing in a hot spring during the middle of winter, a herd of elephants on the African savannah. A clash between protesters and riot police in Berlin. The sight of a lone child staring into his camera lens, wrapped in a cloak, his blue eyes seeming to pierce his very being. All those and more decorated the sides of the imaginary slide as he kept going through his memories and right near the middle, that's where he found his source of happiness: his camera, a simple DSLR wrapped in a waterproof bag that hung on the side of the slide. David grabbed onto it and held it tightly in his arms, even as he knew that the end of the slide loomed near. More and more photos appeared in his vision until it seemed like the slide was made of all the photographs he'd ever taken in his life.

And then, the splash. The cold pool engulfing him at the end of the water slide.

Then something he didn't expect to hear: a loud, metallic clanging noise, as if someone was rummaging through drawers and tables looking for something. That startled him out of his almost trance-like state. He opened his eyes again and looked around the room, slowly slipping a hand into his messenger bag to retrieve his camera.

"Uh..."

That’s the last place I want to immerse myself in, McCoy. She watched the psychiatrist with great suspicion, seeing him become uncharacteristically hasty and nervous as he lit the candles and, seemingly distraught, realized he had run out of matches to light. It was Trisha’s job to see and identify people who were guilty of something; and the doctor looked very much like he was up to no good, and that he knew this. A man like him should have been able to hide his disposition better, but whatever urged him to do whatever it was he was doing, had him shaken up enough to make him lower his guard. Just when Trisha had just about enough of his act, he excused himself and hurried out of the room, no explanation given. For a while, all was quiet, save for the uneasy breathing of those gathered and the omnipresent sputtering of rain against the side of the building.

“Yo, where the fuck is he going? This is weird, homes,” Joe muttered. The detective agreed; whether or not something concerning was going on or not, she just about had it of this session. Besides, it was late. If she went home right now, Abigail would already be asleep.

“For damn sure, ‘home’,” Trisha snarled back at Joe, getting up from her chair. As she did, she remembered to cast a glance towards the spot behind her that McCoy had been staring at earlier. Although the lighting was poor, she could see nothing extraordinary there, just a desk at the far end. She shrugged and turned back to face the circle.

“I’m sorry folks; this gig isn’t for me,” she dispassionately announced, making sure not to speak the whole truth. After all, she would not want to discourage people with bigger problems than her own by stating outright that McCoy seemed like an amateur and that his therapy was a waste of time. When she took her first steps towards the exit, she noticed that the floor was unusually dusty; but she did not have the awareness – or the interest – at the moment to discover the pattern within. She had barely taken four steps when the light went dark and plunged the room into uneasy twilight. She froze.

That just about sealed it. Trisha had no idea what McCoy’s game was, but his mannerism and the timing of the blackout – just after his disappearance – could hardly be called a coincidence. She could not discern his motive; too bizarre the circumstances. Hard to imagine what he was hoping to gain by this, but it was clear that he was doing something, and she would be damned if she were to just play along.

The blackout had caused multiple people to react. Some might have begun speaking up. Trisha, with the authority she had grown accustomed to having, spoke louder:

“Okay, everybody. Here’s the deal: First, everybody stay calm.” Her voice was severe but well-meaning, like that of a stern teacher. “Nobody’s a fan of what’s happening and neither am I.”

As she was close to the door, she tried flipping the light switch, just to make sure. Of course, nothing happened.

“McCoy is being neither professional nor helpful, his behavior is suspect if nothing else, and I still don’t trust those candles not to have a hallucinogenic agent of some kind.” While she spoke, she pulled her smart phone out of her pocket and turned on its flashlight mode. Holding it on front of her, she used its halfway useful beam of light to illuminate the middle of the circle. “Those of you who want to leave can come with me. The rest of you can-“

A loud, dissonant noise from down the hallway cut her off. What now, she thought. Sounded like somebody rummaging through metallic drawers, and they were in a rush, frantic even. Could not have been anyone other than McCoy; what had him so upset? Was he on meds or drugs and forgot to take his dose? Wouldn’t be amiss on his profile, at least.

“Right, then. The rest of you can stay here if you really want. If we come across the doctor, I might ask him some uncomfortable questions, too.”

She eyed every one of those gathered with a steely mien. The events were unusual and suspect, but far from unsettling. She had stared into the dead, tortured eyes of children. A bit of darkness and rattling in the distance was nothing.

Insane.

The doctor seemed absouletly fucked no one really wants to believe what he was saying was true so a lot of people were just saying shit because they could say shit it was weird because you have all these people from all these different places and they're getting pulled apart now because of some kind of psychology that no one really understands. Alex kind of scratched her head and just looked around but then she started to realize that the doctor was actually right somewhat scared her the cop was the first one to start really talking out about it so just tell everyone how they need to get out and to stay calm.

That's when the sound from outside started to Echo it didn't sound like the doctor at all it seemed like something that wasn't really supposed to be there and that's what got Alex scared was the unknown. Once again it could be the police could be someone breaking in, it might as well be the doctor but it was stikl the unknow. There was a wave of anxiety that washed over her but it's soon subsided because she realized she was with a group of people from different walks of life a cop, a criminal and various older gentleman for some reason that calmed her and wasn't she wasn't quite sure why.

She got up and looked around the room and then kicked up at Salt line for a bit so not really knowing what to do but her full attention was dedicated to the police officer that was essentially in command of the group in that moment she looked up and faked the smile maybe things were going to be okay but a tingle of fear struck through her body - maybe things weren't going to be okay.