Detective Riley Kane’s hands trembled slightly as he chambered a round into his Glock. The forest around him was unnaturally silent, the kind of quiet that pressed in on you like a vice, broken only by the relentless patter of rain on his hood. He had been tracking Elias Crowe for weeks. Crowe, the ghost who had gutted his partner, Sarah Mills, in a dingy alley behind the precinct. The case had been straightforward at first—fingerprints, CCTV grainy but identifiable, witnesses who saw a man matching Crowe’s description fleeing the scene. But Riley knew better. Crowe was no ordinary killer. He was a phantom, always one step ahead, leaving taunting notes at crime scenes, notes that felt personal, like they were written for Riley alone.
Riley pushed through the underbrush, his boots sinking into the mud. The cabin was just ahead, a dilapidated structure half-swallowed by vines and shadow. Intelligence from an anonymous tip had led him here, to the edge of Blackwood Preserve, a place where cell signals died and search parties rarely ventured. ‘Perfect for a rat to hide,’ Riley muttered to himself. His heart pounded with a mix of rage and anticipation. Sarah’s face flashed in his mind—her laugh, her unwavering trust in him as her partner. Tonight, vengeance.
As he approached, a twig snapped behind him. Riley spun, gun raised, sweeping the darkness. Nothing. Just the wind, he told himself. Paranoia was part of the job, but lately, it had been gnawing at him. Strange phone calls at 3 a.m.—breathing, then a click. Notes slipped under his apartment door: ‘Who’s hunting who?’ He had reported them, but brass dismissed it as Crowe playing mind games. Riley circled the cabin, peering through grimy windows. Empty? No, a flicker of movement inside.
He kicked the door in, the wood splintering with a satisfying crack. The interior was musty, lit by a single lantern swinging from a beam. Papers scattered the floor—maps, photos of Riley himself pinned to a corkboard. ‘Bastard,’ Riley growled, stepping closer. One photo showed him and Sarah at the precinct Christmas party. A red X slashed across her face. Rage boiled over. He cleared the rooms methodically: kitchen empty, bedroom bare, bathroom with a dripping faucet echoing like a metronome of madness.
Then, the basement door, padlocked. Riley shot the lock off, the bang deafening in the confined space. Stairs creaked under his weight as he descended into pitch black. His flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing chains on the wall, bloodstains long dried. At the far end, a figure huddled in the corner—Elias Crowe, hands bound, head bowed.
‘Game over, you son of a bitch,’ Riley snarled, advancing. Crowe looked up slowly, his face gaunt, eyes hollow but gleaming with something unreadable. No fear. Riley’s gut twisted. Too easy.
‘You finally made it,’ Crowe rasped, voice like gravel. ‘I’ve been waiting.’
Riley pressed the gun to Crowe’s forehead. ‘Where’s the knife you used on Sarah? Confess, and maybe I’ll make it quick.’
Crowe chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. ‘Sarah? Oh, Riley. You still don’t remember.’
The words hung in the air. Riley’s finger tightened on the trigger. But something in Crowe’s eyes—pity?—stayed his hand. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘The notes, the calls. They were for you. To bring you here. To make you see.’ Crowe nodded toward a metal box on a shelf. ‘Open it.’
Against his better judgment, Riley kicked the box open. Inside: a video cassette, labeled ‘Riley – Session 1.’ No VCR in sight, but a dusty player sat nearby. He inserted it, the screen flickering to life.
Grainy footage: Riley, strapped to a chair in what looked like this very basement. A doctor in white—Dr. Harlan, Riley recognized the name from old files—speaking calmly. ‘Riley, you killed her. In a blackout rage. Dissociative episode. We’ve been treating you for months, but the alter is strong. This hunt is the final test—to see if you can confront yourself.’
Riley’s world tilted. The video showed him wielding the knife, Sarah’s pleas, blood spraying. His hands. His face, twisted in fury.
‘No,’ Riley whispered, backing away. Crowe—no, not Crowe. The man unbound his hands effortlessly. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Elias Crowe, your handler. Undercover psychiatrist assigned to your case. The department covered it up—cop kills partner, scandal. They sent you on this ‘hunt’ to trap the monster inside.’
Riley’s mind reeled. Flashes: blackouts, waking with blood on his hands, dismissed as stress. The paranoia, the claustrophobia of his own skin. The cabin walls seemed to close in, the air thick, suffocating.
‘You lied. All of it.’
‘Necessary. To save lives. Yours included. Put the gun down, Riley.’
But the alter surged, rage blinding. Riley fired. The bullet grazed Crowe, who dove behind crates. Chaos erupted—alarms blaring, reinforcements? No, recorded sounds. Riley fled upstairs, heart hammering, every shadow a threat.
Outside, the storm raged. Branches clawed at him like fingers. He ran, but the forest was a maze, paths looping back. Headlights pierced the night—backup? No, black SUVs, men in tactical gear. The department’s clean-up crew.
Bullets whizzed past. Riley dove into underbrush, breath ragged. Calculated. They had planned every move. He was the prey, herded here.
Circling back to the cabin? No choice. Crowe was there, bandaging his arm. ‘Fight it, Riley. Remember who you are.’
Riley hesitated. A memory: Sarah confronting him about anger issues, therapy sessions hidden. The knife in his hand.
SWAT breached the door. ‘Freeze!’
In that instant, Riley turned the gun on Crowe—no. On himself? No. He lunged at the intruders, firing wildly. Chaos. Bodies fell. Crowe shouted, ‘Sedate him!’
A dart hit Riley’s neck. Vision blurred. Falling, he saw the truth: he was the hunter no more. The hunted, caged by his own darkness.
As blackness claimed him, Riley smiled faintly. Resolution, at last. The cycle broken, even if in chains.