Chapter 2
2
rule number one
Some murders were easy to read.
A body dumped in a dark alley, a convenience store holdup gone sideways, a gang rivalry ending in blood.
Random. Messy. Predictable.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
I crouched on a low rooftop across from the crime scene, muscles tense as I watched the cops work beneath the flickering glow of a busted streetlamp.
Two bodies. A man and a woman.
Arranged .
That was the part that made my stomach tighten. They weren’t just left here—they were positioned with intent. Their bodies curved toward each other, heads nearly touching, their arms and legs bent at careful angles.
A heart.
A twisted, grotesque heart.
My jaw locked. This whole thing was a clear warning I couldn’t shake. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. The cops milling around down there weren’t going to find any missing wallets or jewelry.
I watched as the forensic team methodically did their thing, marking evidence, snapping pictures, murmuring theories.
Studying it from my bird’s eye view, I clocked the thick black zip ties binding their wrists and ankles, and the small, heart-shaped doily pinned to the dirt with a knife.
Thin white lace soaked in red.
Next to it, propped carefully against the woman’s arm, a Valentine’s Day card. Vintage, from the looks of it.
I exhaled slowly. This was bigger than tonight’s victims. I was sure of it.
Shifting my weight, I honed in on the detectives standing over the bodies. The wind carried their voices, but not well enough.
I dropped down from the rooftop, landing light on the fire escape before scaling lower. It was quick, with my muscles reacting faster than they should have—a byproduct of the mission that changed everything.
Strength, speed, reflexes—I had all of it in spades.
But hearing?
Not so much.
Would’ve been nice, considering my entire job relied on staying two steps ahead.
Still, I’d take what I could get.
I settled into the shadows just outside the crime scene perimeter, close enough now to make out every word.
“You seeing this?” a detective muttered, pointing toward the bodies with his pen.
Specifically, pointing to the thick, black zip ties the killer had used to bind them.
His younger partner crouched for a better look. “Yeah. Tell me I’m seeing it wrong.”
“You’re not,” the older one grunted.
My arms folded against my chest, irritation flickering low in my ribs. I already knew where this was going.
The younger detective sighed. “Well, that’s convenient. Who else in this city uses these?”
And, there it is.
I bit back a dry laugh, shaking my head.
Right. Because I spend my nights tracking down criminals just to start murdering people and posing them like Valentine’s Day decorations.
Brilliant police work. Really.
The uniformed officer standing nearby shifted uncomfortably. “So… you think it’s him?”
The older detective didn’t answer right away, just studied the zip ties with a skeptical tilt of his head. “Not sure. But I can tell you one thing—this city’s a mess, and the last thing we need is that vigilante making things worse.”
A muscle ticked in my jaw.
Making things worse?
Yeah. That checked out.
The longer I did this, the clearer it became that people didn’t know what to do with me. Half the city was terrified of The Blade. The other half thought I was useful but still a problem.
Well, that wasn’t true. I also had some fans. They were cool—if not mildly irritating with their dramatics.
But what bugged me most was that the cops—the ones who were supposed to be the good guys—couldn’t get a handle on the crime problem, and yet some of them still treated me like I was the issue.
What did they think I was doing out here? Trying to get a movie deal?
If my life had to be ruined—if I had to be this freakshow now—then at least it made sense to do something good with it.
Wasn’t that the logical thing to do?
But no. Some cops still looked at me like I was one bad day away from snapping.
I exhaled, steadying my breathing.
Let them think whatever they wanted. I didn’t do this for them.
And I sure wasn’t sticking around to listen to more of their idiotic theories. If I stood there any longer, I might’ve done something stupid—like step out of the shadows and correct them.
Instead, I slipped up the side of the building and away from the scene, moving across the rooftops as I took the long way home.
My plan was simple—get back to my apartment, crawl the dark web, scan forums, check for anything that might hint at what I was dealing with. Killers like this—ones who staged scenes, left calling cards, and turned their crimes into a spectacle? They didn’t usually operate in a vacuum.
They wanted to be seen.
Somewhere out there, someone knew something. I just had to find the right thread to pull.
I touched down in an alley a few blocks from home, adjusting the hood of my jacket as I walked. I hadn’t worn my swords to check out the crime scene—no need for full battle gear while eavesdropping on the police.
I looked perfectly average as I kept my pace even, becoming just another guy on the street at night, heading home.
At least, that was the look I was going for.
A familiar storefront came into view as I crossed the street.
Wilde Brew.
I slowed, shoving my hands into my pockets.
It was closed, obviously. Late enough that the chairs inside were stacked, the espresso machine powered down, the shop locked up tight.
Didn’t stop me from wishing it weren’t.
I could’ve grabbed a coffee, set up at my usual spot, and dug into this case. There was something about the place that made it easier to think than the quiet of my apartment—probably the weird mix of warmth and quirkiness that filled it.
Or… maybe it was the owner.
Luna Wilde.
Beautiful, brightly-colored, and in my mind? Nothing but a frustratingly persistent distraction.
Distractions got people hurt, and I didn’t have a rule book for my crime-fighting crusade, but if I did, that would be rule number one.
I should’ve ignored her at the bank the other day. I should’ve been entirely focused on taking down the threats like I usually was. Instead, I’d made time to notice the way she joked through her fear, like it wasn’t even an option for her to bow down to it.
I hated how much that impressed me.
She should’ve been shaken. In a situation like that, most people were.
But one thing I’d learned after months of using her coffee shop for my research? Luna wasn’t most people.
And during that heist-gone-wrong (thanks to me), she’d made jokes. Kept her wits about her. Brought light into a situation that should’ve been nothing but dark.
It bugged me.
Okay, not because she did it—but because I’d noticed, or cared.
I pushed out a long breath and forced my feet to keep moving.
Tomorrow, I’d find my lead. I’d figure out who this killer was and how to stop him before he did this again.
And, no matter what, I’d do it without thinking about Luna Wilde.