Chapter 2
It was only my third day at Abyssal Metropolitan University when the first corpse turned up.
At five in the morning, a sanitation worker found a black trash bag at the dumpster behind Abyssal Metropolitan University.
When he opened it, he called the cops.
By the time I got there, the crime scene tape was already up.
I stood in the crowd, watching the forensic team crouched down, collecting evidence from a distance.
No one paid me any attention.
Everyone else was staring at the body, but I was watching the expressions on the crowd's faces.
Fear, curiosity, excitement, apathy.
I let my gaze sweep over each face, searching for the one who should be anxious, but looked perfectly calm.
Killers would usually come back to the scene, not to confess, but to savor the thrill of control all over again.
A guy in a dark hoodie stood at the edge of the crowd, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression perfectly calm.
His calmness was a stark contrast to the nervousness of everyone else.
I made a mental note of his face.
But I couldn't draw any conclusions yet.
Because real serial killers are usually the most inconspicuous ones.
That afternoon, the police released some information.
The victim was a junior at Abyssal Metropolitan University who had gone missing two weeks earlier. Cause of death: mechanical asphyxiation.
Time of death was estimated to be about five days ago.
Which meant the killer had held onto the body for five days.
This was exactly the same as the last two cases.
The task force set up a temporary command center in an abandoned residential building right next to Abyssal Metropolitan University.
I got in as a "criminal psychology intern," and nobody doubted me.
After all, the person who vouched for me was the deputy chief of the provincial police.
On the whiteboard in the command center, there were photos of the three victims.
They were all beautiful.
Long hair, egg-shaped faces, slim bodies.
"The killer definitely has a type," I said, standing in front of the whiteboard, keeping my voice low. "He goes after girls with long hair, pretty faces, and slim bodies. That means he's probably had some bad run-ins with girls like this in real life.
"Maybe he got rejected, maybe he was ignored for ages, or maybe a girl like this hurt him when it really mattered.
"His cycle lasts seven days. He keeps the victim under his control for the first four, spending time with them, then spends the last three days handling and getting rid of the body."
Chase Horton, the seasoned cop on the task force, glanced over at me.
"Can you sketch out his psychological profile?" he asked.
"Sure," I said.
I grabbed a marker and scribbled a few lines on the whiteboard.
Male, between 22 and 28 years old.
Lives alone, or has a place where he can be by himself.
Blends in easily, looks normal, nothing about him raises any red flags.
Probably went through serious neglect or abuse growing up.
Has a strong urge to control women, and carries a lot of resentment toward them.
Highly intelligent, methodical, and has strong counter-surveillance instincts.
Most likely has experience working or studying at Abyssal Metropolitan University or somewhere nearby.
Chase stared at the whiteboard for a while.
"That's all?" he asked.
"One more thing," I said. "He'll pick his next victim within seven days. After dumping the last body, he needs a new thrill."
The room went quiet for a few seconds.
"Can you find him?" Chase asked.
"Yeah," I said. "But he'll come looking for me."
By the time I got back to my dorm, it was already nine at night.
Zara and Sorcha weren't around.
I turned on my desk lamp, opened my notebook, and started organizing my observations from the past three days.
The singing in the hallway.
The crowd gathered at the dumpster.
There was something else that bothered me.
On my first day at Abyssal Metropolitan University, someone had gone through my luggage.
Nothing was missing, but everything had been rearranged.
I always stash my notebook at the very bottom of my backpack before heading out, but when I got back, it had been moved to the middle layer.
I found an extra strand of hair in my closet.
Mine was straight and black, but this one was curly and brown. Definitely not mine.
So someone came into Room 306 while I was gone.
And whoever it was, they had a key.
There were only four keys to the dorm: mine, Zara's, Sorcha's, and one with the dorm lady.
I closed my notebook and glanced out the window.
Across from me was an abandoned lab building, all its windows sealed up with wooden boards.
But on the third floor, the third window from the left had a crack in the boards.
Someone was watching me from behind that crack.
I'd had this feeling ever since my first day at Abyssal Metropolitan University.
I didn't close the curtains.
Because I wanted him to see me.
A weak, totally unguarded girl, alone in her dorm room.
That was the perfect bait.
The next morning, I deliberately went alone down the path by the back gate of Abyssal Metropolitan University.
The path led to the dump site, flanked by abandoned factories on both sides. Hardly anyone ever walked there.
I strolled along slowly, book in hand, looking like I was just out for a walk.
After walking about 200 yards, I heard footsteps behind me.
It wasn't just one person.
I kept walking, acting like I didn't notice a thing.