The bullpen erupted into chaos—calls to protect family, SWAT deployment, a frantic scramble. But Cross was already moving, his mind racing ahead. He grabbed his service weapon and ran for the door, Sampson at his heels.

Captain Raymond looked up from his cluttered desk, his face a mask of bureaucratic anxiety. “The Deputy Mayor is breathing down my neck, Cross. The press is calling him ‘The Artisan Killer.’ I need a miracle, or this case goes to the FBI.”

As the sirens wailed through the D.C. night, Cross made a silent promise: Step six would be Ethan’s last. One way or another, the judgment was coming home.

The old precinct was a tomb of peeling paint and shattered glass. The victim was a former MPC internal affairs captain—the man who had buried evidence in a police brutality case a decade ago. But this time, the killer had left something new.

Suddenly, the emergency lights flickered. A single red bulb began to pulse. Then Cross’s phone rang—a blocked number. He answered.

Scrawled on the wall in the victim’s own blood were the words:

A chill ran through the room. Cross stared at the image. The killer wasn’t just challenging the MPC; he was mocking their failure to protect the innocent.