CHAPTER 2 - Madeline
I've worked here for almost a year now, and I'll probably never fully adjust to the creeps this place gives me.
It's the start of my night shift, and I already have a feeling this night won't go easy on me. I sit in my office. It looks more like a reception desk, but it gives me a perfect view of the main hall through the large glass wall.
It's not that I enjoy looking around. In fact, I'm convinced there are countless souls trapped in this cold building. Sometimes, I can practically feel their eyes on me.
Many strange things have happened since I started working here, but I always find a way to rationalize them. I can't afford to be a believer in spirits; I would go insane in a place like this.
When I turn the computer on to check tonight's schedule, a loud alarm piercing the silence goes off. It's the notification of a new body arriving at the sanitary ramp.
My whole body flinches at the sound. Every. Single. Time. It's the exact same reaction you have every morning when that annoying alarm clock goes off, destroying your precious sleep. Can't they make it a little quieter for the sake of my mental health?
I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away as I switch into professional mode. I'm interrupted when I glance at the monitor to check if it's really the delivery and not an intruder. I always check.
My best friend Lucy is waving at the security camera, her smile as wide as ever. She is an incredibly smart woman, but she has the soul of a little child. I love that about her; it's the perfect balance to my own calm, mostly serious personality.
That might be the main reason we get along so well. I smile to myself at the sight of her as I head toward the elevator.
The mortuary looks exactly like people imagine it. Sterile White walls. Floors covered in large, cold, grey tiles. Everything is perfectly disinfected and clean. This is my little territory.
I'm paranoid sometimes, but I truly adore my job. Not many people would choose this career voluntarily, and I don't blame them. It takes a lot of strength.
I can't say that I was dreaming about doing autopsies as a child, but I knew from an early age that darkness like this always somehow attracted me. Not in a weird way, but it fascinates me.
When I reach the lowest floor, I slide my card to open the back door for my friend. I met Lucy a while ago, and I knew from the start we would become best friends.
"Hey Mali, got a new package for ya," she says, sounding almost excited.
She always makes these kinds of dark jokes. I think it's her way of coping. She has seen some pretty fucked up stuff throughout her career, and I understand that completely. But she isn't the only one.
In my time as a forensic pathologist, I've seen things that would make most people's hearts stop. But my career isn't typical. Working in the high-end, private mortuary means my tables aren't usually filled with natural deaths or common accidents.
My work focuses on the shadow side of the Elite.
Murderers, "accidental" overdoses of the wealthy, and the brutal remains of mafia power struggles.
I've looked into the vacant eyes of powerful men who thought they were untouchable and traced the cold traces of executions that were meant to stay hidden.
It's a weight you carry, a gallery of ghosts from the city's most dangerous circles that follows you home. You learn to compartmentalize, to see the body as a high-stakes puzzle rather than a person, but some nights, the secrets of the underworld bleed into your dreams.
She slides a large trolley with a body bag on it out of the ambulance.
"Missed you, Lucy," I say with a warm smile before turning to the covered body.
"What is it this time?"
My hands wrap around the cold metal as I help her guide the trolley toward the doors.
"The Arbiter again," she almost whispers, like it's a forbidden name. There is a hint of worry in her hazel eyes.
"Another mafia member. A really important one, according to the police. It's already all over the news. He hasn't made a move in a month, and now he's back," she continues.
My mind goes into analysis mode immediately. I try to put pieces together, knowing I've examined his victims before.
We walk to the autopsy room, where she hands me the papers with the descriptions I need. I unzip the bag and take my first look. The silence is broken by Lucy's words again as my eyes trace the victim's cuts and bruises.
"He was found buried in the forest behind the lake on the other side of the town. Police said the crime scene looked almost amateur for The Arbiter, but the victim profile gave it away. He's been hunting this mafia for a while, and this isn't his first victim from their group."
Her words grow quieter, and the noise in my head gets louder.
I was waiting for this. For him to strike again. He is one of the most interesting killers I have ever encountered. Well, metaphorically speaking. I only get his "art" on my table.
He is usually so precise with his work. But this? This seems almost… Rushed. Not amateur, but hurried. I've seen too many of his bodies to underestimate him, but this was done under pressure.
Even though I'm not a cop, I want to find out why. Why was he so reckless this time? My curiosity will probably end up with me on one of these tables one day, but I can't help it.
After our talk, Lucy gets a call to head back to her station. I'd be lying if I said we only talked about the case; we are girls, after all.
I go back to my office and study the papers. There isn't much information, but it's enough to start. The silence in this place is almost unbearable. Only the hum of those horrendous fluorescent lights fills the hall along with my racing thoughts.
Suddenly, my intuition spikes. I check the cameras. The system was updated recently because of intruders.
Then, my computer shuts down along with the cameras and all the lights. I'm trapped in total darkness.
I call Bryan in security, and he assures me he's fixing the power. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, the silence feels like it's pressing against my ribs.
I turn away from the glass that now shows me only a dark hallway. I try not to look for shadows, but I'm desperately waiting for the lights to come back.
I feel eyes on my back. A cold, uncomfortable crawl runs down my spine, alerting me of danger hiding behind me. Mali, calm down.
Before I can even reach for my flashlight, the lights flicker back on. I take a relieved breath and try to fix my posture.
After cursing at myself for being scared of the dark, I walk back to the autopsy room to continue my work. But I freeze at the door. The lights inside are already on. They are motion-triggered.
"Hello?"
I call out, trying to hide the fear growing inside me.
No answer. Why would there be? If someone really is here, they wouldn't reveal themselves. Focus, Madeline.
Someone is definitely here. I can feel it in my bones. The air in the morgue has grown thick, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and something else… something sharp and alive. My heart is pounding so fast I'm afraid it will jump right out of my chest.
The man beneath my hands was a victim of haste, I’m sure of it. I find myself wishing the dead would just magically wake up, if only for a second, to whisper who The Arbiter really is. What does a ghost look like? How does a man leave no trace after years of hunting in the heart of this city?
The police found nothing. No hair, no fiber, not a single smudge of a fingerprint. Just a trail of bodies and a name that tastes like copper on the tongue.
I step closer to the body. The overhead lights hum, shining bright on his naked, pale figure. Maybe the killer is here. Or was. Maybe the lights didn’t glitch, maybe they were silenced. Either way, the internal examination can’t wait. My duty is to the dead, even if it puts the living at risk.
The cause of death is clear: a large slit across the neck.
But he didn't actually die from the blade.
His neck is bruised in a way that shows someone used incredible, calculated strength.
He was choked to death first. The wound was just an afterthought.
A signature, or a precaution. This man has major trust issues.
My fingers wrap around the scalpel. The cold metal feels like an extension of my own fear. I listen, holding my breath, searching for any sound that doesn’t belong in a room full of corpses. Silence. Absolute and suffocating.
I perform the V-cut, dragging the blade down the chest. The skin parts like wet paper. But then, I stop.
Something is wrong. I look at his right palm. It’s burned. A fresh chemical burn, still weeping. It wasn’t there when the body arrived. I’m certain. I did the scan of fingerprints myself. I always do.
I leaf through the papers on the cart, looking for anything I might have missed. Not in a panic, but with frantic, focused energy. I check once, then twice. Not a single mention of a chemical burn. It's impossible.
Unless someone was here.
Someone broke in while the lights were out, hiding a trace right under my nose. And now, he knows I’m the one uncovering his secrets. I’ve just put a target on my back. A perfect, surgical target.
A thousand terrible scenarios flash through my mind, but I won’t let them paralyze me.
If he is watching from the shadows of the cooling units, I’ll show him exactly who he’s messing with.
It’s a bad idea. The kind of stupid confidence that gets girls killed in movies. But my voice finds its way out anyway.
"Really smart, buddy," I say, my voice echoing off the tiled walls, sounding smaller than I feel.
A long, agonizing pause follows. The cooling units hum. A drop of water hits the floor.
"But not smart enough," I state, my tone dropping into a cold, serious edge.
The second those words leave my mouth, the air shifts. The pressure in the room changes, like a storm about to break. I know I'm no longer alone. I wasn't alone in the first place. But now?
Now the silence is no longer empty. It’s watching me back.
Did I just criticize a serial killer? What is wrong with me? I'm convinced I can feel his eyes now. The Arbiter's eyes. He's probably planning how to dismantle me piece by piece.
I tilt my head, turning slowly toward the darkness behind the glass.
I've been studying his crimes for six months; I feel like I’ve crawled inside his brain.
The bodies he leaves me tell a story. A gruesome, rhythmic masterpiece.
And I'm afraid that my curiosity is about to become the final chapter.
I stare at the dark observation window. I'm not looking for shadows anymore; I'm looking for one in particular. I take one last look at the files and shake my head, my hands trembling as I close the folder. Finally, my self-preservation kicks in, and I practically bolt from the room.
Back in my office, the smell of cigarette smoke hits me. Someone was definitely smoking in my mortuary. The audacity of it, the sheer, arrogant disrespect, makes me as angry as it makes me scared.
I check the cameras again. Nothing. No trace of movement. The corridors are as still and grey as the bodies they house. I tell myself it's the ventilation, or perhaps some lingering scent from the first floor, but the lie tastes metallic in my mouth.
I pull the victim's file closer, trying to focus on the black-and-white data, but my eyes keep drifting to the dark main hall. The glass is a black mirror now, reflecting only my own pale, haunted face and the clinical glow of the desk lamp.
I reach for my coffee, but my hand freezes mid-air. There, on the very edge of my desk, right next to the internal phone, is something that wasn't there before.
A small, perfectly folded piece of silver foil.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and unfold it. It's still warm. My breath hitches. He didn't just break in. He sat here. In my chair.
I look back at the black window, and for a split second, I don't see my reflection anymore. I see a silhouette of a man standing on the other side of the glass, his eyes dark and expectant, waiting for me to realize that the doors were never actually locked.
The lights overhead flicker once, twice, and then settle into a low, humming buzz. The hunt hasn't just started. It's already over.
And I'm the only one who doesn't know the ending yet.