I'm the serial killer's next target

Quinn pushed open her apartment door, Jax right behind her. His hands were already on her hips, pulling her close as the door clicked shut. She kicked off her shoes and turned, lips crashing into his.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, her shirt hit the floor first, then his and fell onto the bed, her on top.

"Fuck me," she whispered, voice rough from the day's grind. Being a detective isn't easy, let alone a homicide detective.

Jax gripped her from behind, guiding her down. She sank onto him, inch by inch, moaning as he filled her. "Don't worry, detective Hale... I'll fuck all the stress out of you." 

She rode him hard, hips rolling, breasts bouncing. His hands roamed her body, thumbs brushing her nipples. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, but she ignored it, chasing the heat building inside.

It rang again, vibrating louder. Jax thrusts deeper, smirking. "Someone wants you bad." Quinn leaned forward, kissing him to shut him up. The third ring cut through, insistent.

Jax's hands spread her cheeks, fingers teasing her as he pounded deeper. She gasped, grinding down, her clit rubbing against him. The pleasure crested, her body shaking as she climaxed.

The phone rang again. She knew it was important.

She reached for it, screen lighting up with her boss's name. "Hale," she answered. "Quinn, we got a body downtown. Get your ass here now." The line clicked dead.

With a quiet sigh, she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and pushed herself up. "Get out", she commanded Jax.

"What? After all that-", Jax replied, but Quinn cut him off mid sentence: "Do I look like I give a fuck? Get out."

He got dressed and left in seconds, as Quinn got into her car.

The drive across the city felt longer than usual. The roads were mostly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that made everything feel distant and unreal.

By the time she reached the Blackwood estate, the silence had been replaced with flashing red and blue lights cutting through the darkness. The property itself was impossible to miss. Tall gates, wide driveway, the kind of place built to be noticed.

Quinn stepped out of the car and paused for a moment, taking it in. It didn’t feel like a home.

An officer standing near the entrance straightened slightly when he saw her approach.

“Hale,” he said, giving her a short nod. “Didn’t think you’d make it this fast.”

“I had to, you called me a billion times” Quinn replied, ducking under the tape without slowing. “What do we have?”

“Owner’s inside, Victor Blackwood. Staff found him about an hour ago. No signs of forced entry.”

Quinn glanced toward the house again, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the structure, the lighting, the stillness.

“They always say that,” she muttered.

The officer didn’t argue.

Inside, the air felt different. Not colder, just… wrong. The kind of silence that made even small sounds feel louder than they should be. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor as she followed the officer down a long hallway lined with expensive artwork she didn’t bother looking at twice.

“Anyone else inside?” she asked.

“Staff,” the officer said. Then after a small pause, “And one other guy.”

Quinn slowed slightly. “What other guy?”

“Says he’s consulting.”

She glanced at him. “Consulting what?”

The officer gave a small, uncertain shrug.

That wasn’t an answer she liked.

By the time they reached the study, Quinn was already on edge, though she wouldn’t have said why. The door stood partially open, a thin slice of light spilling into the hallway.

She pushed it open without hesitation.

The room looked exactly like she expected. Dark wood, expensive furniture, everything arranged with deliberate precision. It would have looked almost perfect if not for the man behind the desk.

Victor Blackwood sat slumped in his chair, his body angled slightly to one side, his expression frozen somewhere between surprise and something worse. His eyes were open, unfocused, as if whatever he had seen in his final moments had caught him off guard.

Quinn stepped closer, her attention narrowing as she took in the details.

No blood or visible wounds. The crime was too clean and organized.

Her gaze moved slowly across the desk. A glass sat near his hand, half-finished. Papers were stacked neatly, a pen placed carefully beside them. Nothing out of place, which in itself felt wrong.

“There’s a note,” the officer said, handing it to Quinn.

She took it, her eyes scanning quickly before something made her pause.

A small heart had been drawn in dark ink, almost carefully attached to the corner was a white rose, fresh, untouched.

For a second, the room around her faded, the noise, the movement, all of it slipping into the background as something cold settled in her chest.

"This looks just like the rose that grows in my city..." she murmured to herself. It felt like the note wasn’t written for the victim, it was written for her to notice it.

She leaned in slightly, studying the position of the victim's hands, the angle of his body.

And then she felt it, that quiet, familiar shift in awareness. The sense that she wasn’t alone in the room. Quinn straightened slowly, turning her head. That was when she saw him.

He stood near the window, partially in shadow, like he had been there long before she arrived and saw no reason to move. He wasn’t dressed like law enforcement. He was simply watching.

Their eyes met.

Quinn held his gaze for a second longer than necessary before breaking it, turning back toward the desk.

“You’re not with the police,” she said, her tone flat but controlled.

“No,” he replied.

“Then you shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not,” he said.

Quinn studied him more carefully this time, taking in the details she had ignored at first glance. The way he stood, relaxed but aware. The lack of tension in his posture. The fact that he looked completely out of place and yet entirely comfortable.

She turned fully toward him now. “Start explaining,” she said. “Before I have someone remove you.”

For a moment, he just looked at her, like he was considering how much to say.

Then, finally, “Damian.” He said it like it was enough for Quinn to figure out who he was.

In one smooth motion, she reached for her gun and drew it, the movement precise and practiced as she lifted it and aimed straight at him, the faint light catching along the metal as the room seemed to still around them.

“Wrong answer.”

Her voice was calm, but there was no room for negotiation in it. The gun remained steady, pointed directly at his head.