Chapter 1 - Letter "J"
Chapter 1
My moans filled the entire room as my fingers gripped the sheets tightly. So tightly, they could have torn.
"Oh my God... Oh my God... Nnngh... Ahhh!"
While Dylan Vane was an incredibly polite and gentle Captain in everyday life, he was anything but gentle when he was fucking me. He would grab my wrists, pin my hands above my head, and simply take what he wanted. Actually... I didn't hate it. Despite being a police officer, the most thrilling moments of my life were the ones I spent with him. His cock gave me far more excitement and satisfaction than even the rush of tracking down and catching killers.
"D-Dylan..." I said, placing my hand on his head and running my fingers through his black hair.
"Hmm?" he responded, his voice sounding deep and raw from arousal.
"This is the third round, isn't it? Come inside me one last time and then let’s finish. Otherwise, this will go on until morning."
He buried his face in my neck. After biting me several times and leaving bruises, he whispered against my skin.
"What if I want it to last until morning, my little cop?..."
I wiggled a bit to get out from under him, but it was impossible. He was heavy and powerful on top of me.
"I don’t know about you, but I have no intention of taking time off. I’m going to work tomorrow."
"In that case, let it be two more times, not one," he whispered against my lips. His low voice—or perhaps his cock still moving inside me—sent shivers down my spine. I wanted to scream.
"Mmmmghh.... Damn it... Go to hell..." I said breathlessly. Then, my lips crashed onto his. As if there were no tomorrow.
**
When I woke up the next morning, there was a terrible ache in my waist, just as I had predicted. I was covered in bruises, and my hole stung as if it had been torn last night.
I looked at Dylan beside me. He was sleeping, looking peaceful.
"Sure, easy for you to say..." I muttered as I sat up. Every movement caused pain.
I struggled to my feet. My gait was a bit strange, but I hoped no one would notice. As I showered, the sensations of last night were still swirling in my mind.
It looked like it was going to be a long day for me.
"I can't make any sense of all these new files, Tyler. It’s like all these people just... poof... vanish."
I sighed as I examined the papers in my hand. "Captain Dylan said he would personally handle these cases. He does what he says. I have no doubt he’ll solve it," I said, looking at my colleague and close friend Peter with tired eyes. I was hoping he wouldn't notice the bruises on my neck—which I had tried, and failed, to cover with plenty of concealer this morning. But of course... he noticed.
"What are those?" he asked, leaning in for a closer look. "You let Captain Vane fuck you again, didn't you?" He let out an teasing sigh. "It was obvious from the way you've been praising him for every damn thing."
"Hey! What do you—?"
"Okay, calm down. I have no objection to that," he cut me off. "But I don't trust him as much as you do. Anyway, apparently an FBI detective is being assigned to the case. It would be pointless to leave the whole investigation in Dylan's hands. I'm just saying it's a good thing to have more people looking into it when this many people are missing..." he added at the end, seeing my expression.
"I’ve already prepared the report to be given to the detective," he said, pulling a stack of papers from his desk drawer and handing them to me.
I began to read. He had documented the seven missing people the town had faced over the last two weeks—cases the police hadn't been able to solve yet—along with their times and dates of disappearance, biographies, and many other details.
The missing persons had nothing in common except for a few traits that could easily be considered coincidental. The youngest was seventeen, the oldest seventy-five. A veterinarian, a waiter, a library employee, someone unemployed and alcoholic, a drug addict, some living alone, some married or with families... seven missing people consisting of three women and four men, giving the impression of being completely randomly selected.
No matter how much we searched as the local police, we hadn't found a single trace of these people. Whether they were alive or dead was also unclear.
Security cameras failed to record where these people disappeared to. In their last captured footage, they all left their homes quite normally, then either walked into a back alley with a blind spot or entered an abandoned house or gas station and never came out again. And the strange part was, they were disappearing from places they had walked to entirely of their own volition. Their families, relatives, and friends generally said they showed no signs of tension and acted exactly as they always did in their daily lives, both on the day they disappeared and the days prior.
Even though I wasn't thrilled about an FBI detective coming—because I loved Dylan and didn't want him to fail a case he said he'd take on and solve—I made a few more additions to the report we had prepared for him. After all, we were talking about human lives. This shouldn't turn into a rivalry between local police and the FBI.
We spent the next few hours handling our work, and at least there were some encouraging developments: there had been no disappearances today. Maybe it was over, and we would only have to search for the seven people already missing... Was the risk finally gone?
In the evening, the office door was pushed open with such force it almost broke, and Dylan burst in, followed by four other officers. One of the officers held a small flash drive wrapped in a white handkerchief.
"What happened? Who sent that?"
"Turn on the computer," Dylan said. It was the first time I had seen him looking almost... agitated.
I quickly turned on the computer. The officer connected the flash drive.
There was only one file inside. A video file.
When the man looked at Dylan, Dylan immediately said, "Go on, open it." And the officer opened the video. Despite the disturbing static, the image was clear enough to make our blood run cold. The first person to go missing from town... twenty-five-year-old realtor Brine Evans, was sitting in a place resembling a small basement, tied with chains to a chair. His mouth was covered with black duct tape. But the muffled screams rising from his throat were still clear and audible.
Someone in a ski mask and a hood entered the frame and approached him. In his gloved hand was a long, sharp knife. And then... He began carving something into Brine's forehead with the tip of the knife. It looked like he was writing something. Brine was letting out the loudest screams he could manage, writhing and struggling despite the restraint of the chains.
After two deeply unsettling minutes, a large bloody letter "J" had formed on Brine’s forehead, stretching from his hairline to his eyebrows. His own blood was all over his face and body now.
"What does he mean by this?" I said, making sure my voice sounded brave.
I hadn't understood a thing, but finding Brine Evans' body the next day at the edge of the forest—with a "J" carved into his forehead and the long knife we saw in the video plunged deep into the center of his heart—wasn't much of a surprise, thanks to the notification the killer had sent us in advance.
