LEWIS looked at Julian Mercer and finally accepted the truth. Yesterday, Mercer had been lying in a hospital bed, looking weak and tired. Now he was standing in a secret basement with four jars on a shelf, each one holding a human heart. There was no question left in Lewis’ mind.

He thought back to when Stevens first told him he knew who the killer was.

=====

They had left the lab quickly, the conversation cut short the moment Stevens made that claim. Lewis had not questioned him there. He could not do that in front of outsiders.

The moment they reached his car, he turned to him. "What do you mean you know who the killer is?"

Stevens settled into his seat, calm as ever. "The killer is Julian Mercer."

Lewis stared at him. "What?"

"Julian Mercer," Stevens repeated.

"That’s not possible," Lewis said, his voice rising. "He’s a victim. I found him half-dead. How did you even arrive at that conclusion?"

Stevens did not react to his tone. "It’s the name he used to rent the device. Georg Giese."

Lewis frowned. "What about it?"

"It’s not random," Stevens said. "Georg Giese was a merchant from ancient Earth. There’s a famous painting based on him called ’The Younger.’ It stood out to me because it felt deliberate, not something someone would pick without meaning."

Lewis stared at him, clearly not following. "And that leads you to Mercer how?"

"Just look at it from an etymological angle," Stevens said. "Names carry meanings. ’Julian’ comes from a word associated with youth or being youthful. ’Mercer’ is a term for a merchant. When you break it down, ’Julian Mercer’ translates closely to ’young merchant.’"

Lewis frowned deeper, trying to process it.

"The alias and his real name point to the same idea," Stevens continued. "That kind of parallel is not a coincidence. It suggests the person chose an alias that reflects himself, which is something organized offenders tend to do when they think no one is looking closely enough."

Lewis let out a slow breath. "You’re telling me we’re basing this on name meanings?"

"No," Stevens said. "I’m telling you it’s a pattern. Someone who plans this carefully does not leave things like that without reason."

Lewis leaned back slightly, still not convinced. "Even if that’s true, Mercer is still a victim. He almost died."

"Almost," Stevens said. "The wound could be self-inflicted."

Lewis looked at him sharply. "You’re serious."

"Think about it," Stevens continued. "The body found at the old water treatment plant did not die on the day it was discovered. It was preserved, then thawed using that remote. We already know the culprit used Hale to thaw the body. Creating a believable ’attack’ is not out of reach."

Lewis stayed quiet for a moment. Then he remembered what Vargas had said before, about how something in Mercer’s wound did not look right.

He pulled out his Terminal and started a video call. Vargas appeared on screen, looking slightly confused at the sudden contact.

Lewis turned his attention to Vargas. "I need you to check something for me. Look at Mercer’s wound again. Is there any possibility that he could have done it to himself?"

She frowned at first, clearly surprised by the question. Then her expression shifted as she thought about it.

"...Wait," she said slowly.

Lewis watched as realization settled on her face.

"Yes," she said. "Actually, that would explain it. The angle and depth were slightly inconsistent with the others. I couldn’t place it before, but if he did it himself, that would make sense."

Lewis felt something tighten in his chest.

"Alright," he said, then ended the call.

He looked at Stevens.

"The chief won’t approve this," Lewis said. "Not with what we have. In his mind, Hale is already the killer."

"Then we don’t tell him," Stevens replied. "Not yet."

Lewis frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We confirm it first," Stevens said. "We draw him out."

Lewis crossed his arms. "And how do we do that?"

Stevens smiled slightly. "We make him believe we’re close. Close enough to threaten what matters to him."

Lewis watched him, waiting for further explanation.

"He won’t believe it immediately," Stevens continued. "He’s careful. But his condition will not let him ignore the possibility. He will need to check."

Lewis nodded, slowly understanding where Stevens was leading up to. "So we push him."

Stevens nodded. "We give him just enough information. Vague, but specific in the right way. You can even visit him in the hospital to show that we really know something. Then we wait."

Lewis thought about it, then asked, "And while we wait?"

"We prepare," Stevens said. "We study the structure around his residence. Not inside. If he has any way of monitoring it, we cannot risk alerting him. We look for alternate exits, hidden access points, anything that allows him to move without being seen."

Lewis exhaled slowly. "And when he moves..."

"We follow," Stevens finished.

=====

Lewis’ mind returned to the present.

Everything had unfolded just as Stevens said it would.

Checking the building layout around Mercer’s residence had paid off. They found the hidden exit, the path that led to the underground space. When Mercer left the hospital, they were already waiting.

They had followed the car that came out of that exit. It had led them straight here.

Lewis looked at the glass containers, then turned back to Julian Mercer. The anger he had been holding back finally surfaced.

"Julian Mercer," he said, his voice firm. "You’re under arrest for the murders of Miranda Kessler, Adrian Calder, Naomi Rivas, and Marcus Doyle."

***

Lewis stood in front of the one-way glass, his gaze fixed on the man seated inside the interrogation room.

Julian Mercer sat with his hands resting on the table, his posture relaxed and his face showing no strong emotion. He did not look scared or angry. There was no tension in his shoulders, no tightness in his jaw. If anything, he looked like a person waiting for a scheduled meeting, not someone who had just been accused of killing several people.

The chief stood beside Lewis, arms crossed, his expression dark.

"What the hell were you thinking?" the chief said in a sharp voice. "You go off on your own, build a whole plan behind my back, and only tell me after you already caught the guy? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble that could have caused?"

Lewis kept his eyes on Mercer and stayed silent.

"You bypass protocol, you risk the entire case, and for what?" the chief continued. "If that plan of yours failed, we would have nothing. No suspect, no case, and I’d have to answer to people who don’t care about your instincts or your ’gut feeling.’ They’d just see a detective who screwed up a high-profile investigation."

He let out a breath, clearly holding back more things he wanted to complain about.

"And don’t even get me started on the part where you tailed a suspect without proper backup and set up a trap without authorization. That’s not how we do things, Lewis. You don’t get to make those calls on your own."

Lewis nodded slightly. "I know that, sir."

The chief stared at him for a moment longer, then exhaled, the tone of his voice shifting a bit. "...But you got the right man."

Lewis did not visibly react, but his shoulders eased slightly. Because he knew the scolding was ending.

"You pulled it off," the chief continued, though there was still a trace of reluctance in his voice. "So I will not tear you apart for it. At least not today."

He pointed toward the interrogation room.

"Now go in there and get me a confession that no lawyer can poke holes in. I want this case locked down."

Lewis nodded. "I will."

Beside him, Stevens spoke. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit in."

Lewis glanced at him, surprised. This was the first time Stevens had asked to be part of an interrogation. Then he suddenly understood. Stevens wanted to observe Mercer up close.

Lewis gave a quick nod. "Alright."

The two of them entered the room.

Mercer looked up as they stepped in. His gaze lingered on Lewis for a moment, then shifted to Stevens, before settling back into that same indifferent expression.

Lewis took the seat across from him. "Julian Mercer. Why did you do it?"

Mercer did not hesitate to answer. "I wanted to see if I could get away with it."

The answer came out flat, almost casual. Something in Lewis snapped hearing that.

"You killed four people," he said, his voice rising despite himself. "You took their lives just because you wanted to see if you could get away with it?"

Mercer shrugged slightly. "It’s not like they would be missed. They were all alone. No family, no real connections. If anything, they should feel flattered that I chose them for my little experiment."

Lewis felt his jaw tighten.

There was a pressure building in his chest, something close to anger and something heavier beneath it. He thought of the victims, their files, the quiet lives they had been trying to hold together. They were not important to Mercer, but they had been real people.

And this man reduced them to nothing.

"You don’t get to decide that," Lewis said, his voice tight. "You don’t get to decide who matters and who doesn’t."

Mercer did not respond.

Stevens spoke then. "Interesting. So aside from Schizo-Obsessive Disorder, you also show clear signs of psychopathy. A lack of empathy, shallow affect, and a tendency to treat people as objects. I’m surprised that never made it into your records."

Mercer glanced at him. "I’m an excellent actor. You must be the reason they caught me so quickly. I heard you were good at your field. I just didn’t expect you to be good at this as well."

Stevens ignored the remark. "Why the hearts?" he asked. "Why keep them?"

Mercer tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "They’re the most important part. Everything else is just... structure. The heart is what keeps a person alive. Taking it is like taking the core of them. Keeping it means I still have that control, even after they’re gone."

Lewis frowned, unsettled by how easily he said it. Then he asked, "Why aren’t you denying any of this?"

Mercer looked at him, almost amused. "You caught me in the middle of admiring my work. There’s no point pretending otherwise." He leaned back slightly. "Besides, I’m not exactly normal. Anyone can see that. At worst, they will lock me up in some high security place away from everyone else. That is not much different from how I have always lived."

Lewis could hear what Mercer was leaving out. That a doctor might say he was not mentally fit to stand trial. That even if he went to court, he would still be sent to a facility instead of a real prison. That the punishment might not fit what he had done.

The thought sat heavy in his chest. Four people were dead. And this might be how it ended.

It felt wrong. It felt like nothing close to justice.

Stevens leaned slightly toward Mercer. "You might think what happens next doesn’t matter," he said quietly. "But you should understand one thing. This was your game, and you lost."

For the first time, Mercer’s expression changed. His eyes widened slightly. "You..." he started, then stopped. Realization seemed to settle on his face. Then he laughed. "Of course," he said. "So it was you."

Lewis exhaled slowly and pushed his chair back, the tension in the room settling into something quieter but no less heavy.

He gave Mercer one last look before turning away.

There was nothing more he could get from him for now.

Without another word, he stepped out of the interrogation room, Stevens following behind him.

Once the door closed behind them, Lewis turned to Stevens. "What was that about?"

Stevens adjusted his sleeve slightly. "He saw this as a game. I simply clarified that he didn’t win."

Lewis frowned, still not entirely satisfied with the answer, but still let the topic go.

Stevens turned to him and extended his hand. "It was a pleasure working with you on this case, Detective."

Lewis took it and shook it firmly. "Likewise. Thank you for your help."

Stevens gave a faint smile. "If anything, I should be the one expressing appreciation. This has been... quite engaging."

Lewis narrowed his eyes slightly. Before he could ask what he meant, Stevens had already stepped back.

"Goodbye, Detective," he said.

Then he turned and walked away. Lewis watched him go, a strange feeling settling in his chest. He couldn’t explain it. But it felt like that was the last time he would see him.

***

A Terminal screen lit up in the dim light, the chat log already open.

heartstealer: Do you think someone can keep killing and never get caught?

drshadow: Most people get caught because they’re sloppy or emotional. If you’re neither, then yes.

heartstealer: What do you mean by emotional?

drshadow: Guilt. Panic. The need to rush. Those are weaknesses. If you feel any of that, you’ve already lost.

heartstealer: And if I don’t?

drshadow: Then you’re already ahead of everyone else who tried.

heartstealer: Careful how?

drshadow: You plan everything before you act. You don’t improvise unless you have to.

heartstealer: That sounds easy enough.

drshadow: It isn’t. You also need patience. You wait for the right moment, even if it takes days. Weeks. Most fail because they can’t wait.

heartstealer: So it’s like a game?

drshadow: If that’s how you want to see it.

heartstealer: Then I’ll win.

The date of that last message was months back. Then a new message suddenly appeared in the chat log.

drshadow: You lost.

The screen stayed still for a moment before the view shifted back.

Stevens sat in front of the Terminal, his face calm and unreadable. There was no sign of emotion in his eyes as he looked at the message he had just sent.

He closed the Terminal and stood up.

Without looking back, he walked forward, blending into the crowd moving through the spaceport. People passed by him without a second glance, their voices mixing into a dull noise.

The camera pulled back, widening the view until he was just another figure among many.

Then the screen went black.