The sun had barely begun its shy ascent over the Paris skyline when Isabelle found herself back at the precinct. The streets still wore their shadows like nightclothes, dew beading on the windows and the sharp scent of rain lingering, heavy and damp. There was no room for sleep—not with the pace at which the investigation was accelerating. Not with the way the killer had dragged her sister's name back into the light, as though to taunt her.
The small interrogation room was colder than usual, lit only by the blue hue of the old desk lamp. Estelle Girard sat hunched over a spread of files, her dark hair pinned back, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of her nose. She didn't even glance up when Isabelle walked in, too absorbed in the pages.
"I was right," Estelle murmured, sliding a photo across the table as Isabelle sat down. "Or at least, I think I am."
The photo was grainy, black and white. An old, unsolved case file from nearly five years prior. Another woman. Another disappearance. The pattern was almost identical to the recent victims, only this time the name was unfamiliar to Isabelle.
"Lena Moreau," Estelle explained. "A literature student from Lyon. She disappeared the same week her name surfaced in an underground zine. Back then, no one paid attention to the story because the writing read like experimental fiction. But the narrative fits the same structure as the ones we've been studying."
Isabelle sat back, her mind connecting the dots. The pattern went deeper than they had thought. Longer. Maybe even decades long.
"Whoever's behind this," Estelle said, tapping her pen against the folder, "has always followed the same cycle. Publicly pre-written fates. Private disappearances. The stories are written like someone chronicling an act of divine intervention."
Her gaze sharpened. "They're playing God."
The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Isabelle had felt it too, long before Estelle ever put it to paper. The way the abductions had been staged. The notes, the orchestrated scenes, the meticulous symbolism. Each victim wasn't just chosen — they were drafted into a play. A performance. And the director? He believed himself to be judge, jury, and redeemer.
But the timing. The precision. The ease with which the killer stayed ahead. That took more than planning; it took obsession.
"Estelle," Isabelle began, her voice low and guarded. "You said something once — about killers who rewrite their own narrative. Projecting their sins onto others. Are we looking for someone who thinks they're... cleansing them?"
Estelle nodded. "Or saving them from something worse. Maybe even saving them from themselves. The ritualistic nature of this all suggests an internal struggle—a need to control or correct what they believe is broken. It could be personal."
Isabelle's pulse quickened. Personal. That word slid beneath her skin and rooted itself deep in her bones. Was this about her? Or Vivienne?
The profiler pulled another page from her notes, this one scrawled over in looping handwriting: sketches of patterns, words repeated over and over.
One phrase caught Isabelle's attention:
"Redemption, not revenge."
Estelle saw the look in her eyes. "It's the signature line on several anonymous blog posts, buried under different usernames. It's also a recurring line in the handwritten notes we've recovered."
Redemption, not revenge.
The person behind the mask wasn't driven by hatred. They believed they were purifying the world. That terrified Isabelle more than the idea of a killer driven by rage. Righteousness was harder to predict. Harder to stop.
Before the conversation could dig deeper, the shrill ring of Isabelle's phone pierced the quiet room.
It was dispatch.
"Detective Laurent," the officer on the other end sounded tight, clipped. "You're needed at Église Saint-Roch. It's urgent."
The church loomed out of the fog, gothic and weatherworn, as though time itself had been eroding its stones one confession at a time. Isabelle stepped out of her car and immediately caught sight of two patrol vehicles parked askew outside the entrance, their blue lights washing the church's facade in cold pulses.
Estelle had followed her in silence, trailing closely as the pair entered the nave.
The scent hit her first. Smoke. Old, bitter, and unmistakable.
A pair of officers stood at the foot of the chancel, their expressions carved from stone. Isabelle's stomach sank as her gaze lifted upward, following theirs.
There, hanging above the confessionals, was an enormous oil painting. Once, it must have been beautiful — an idyllic scene depicting saints clustered beneath divine light, brushstrokes of centuries-old craftsmanship preserving the serenity of a long-dead artist's faith.
But now that serenity was broken.
A blackened, scorched ring had been burned into the canvas — a perfect halo, the charred edges still smudged with soot. And beneath it, staring directly out from the painting, was a face.
Vivienne.
Isabelle staggered forward, the air choking her lungs. The resemblance was impossible to deny. Someone had defaced the original painting, meticulously altering the features until Vivienne's likeness stared back at her, woven into the sacred tableau like an imposter saint.
Estelle's gloved hand lightly gripped her shoulder, steadying her. Neither woman spoke for a long moment, both struggling to process the grotesque message.
At the base of the painting, tucked carefully into the folds of an old hymnal stand, sat a note. Folded. Unmarked.
Estelle retrieved it, unfolding the brittle paper with surgical precision. The writing inside was the same haunting hand that had bled into every corner of this case:
"The chosen wear their crowns in silence. The witness knows the story. One more act, and the curtain falls."
The words tasted like iron in Isabelle's mouth.
The witness.
The curtain.
And one more act.
The performance wasn't over. It was approaching its climax.
And Isabelle was still center stage.
Before she could fully process the weight of the note, her phone vibrated against her coat once more. This time, the message was chillingly simple.
Unknown Number:
"Ready for your final scene?"
To be continued...