I, detective Leo, sat at my desk in the cluttered police station. The aroma of coffee filled the air, but my focus was on the newspaper before me. My eyes scanned the front page, and my heart sank. Slamming my fist on the table, I muttered bitterly, "Another victim."

I got up, grabbed my leather jacket, and went intently towards Alex's desk.

"Come on, Alex," I said, my voice filled with urgency. "We need to go to the crime scene. We need to gather some clues and information."

Alex got up and followed me. To our worst luck, the car didn't work. So we had to walk to the crime scene. What a nuisance..

We started walking to the crime scene. Alex was quiet on the way there, typical. He always was. "You are still quiet. Hm." I commented. As expected, no reply. I chuckled slightly at my foolishness to think I'd get a reply.

Soon we reached the crime scene, the officers guarding the place so other people won't get in. We showed our badges and were let in. The body wasn't a gruesome sight to see but.. For some reason it sent a shiver down my spine.

The body of a male was cut into pieces, the mouth split towards the ears as a permanent grin, and.. A smiling yellow ball, the one you use as a stress ball or a toy. But the thing was, it was blood-stained.I gestured Alex to check the surroundings while I looked at the body.

I couldnt find.. Anything. What the hell...

No fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, no indication the victim fought back. The room looked nearly undisturbed — as if the man had just accepted his fate. Only the sickening sight of his mutilated body shattered the calm. The mouth carved into a wide smile, his eyes frozen wide, staring at something only the dead could now see.

And then, of course, the goddamned smile ball.

I crouched next to it. A yellow ball, simple, soft, cheerful — or it would've been, if not for the blood smeared across its surface. It was positioned right in front of the body. Like a signature. Like a joke.

I glanced over my shoulder at Alex.

He stood in the corner, eyes scanning the floor, walls, furniture — silent as always. His face unreadable. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to disappear. Most days I chalked it up to social anxiety. But standing there, watching him, something about his stillness felt… different.

"You find anything?" I called.

He shook his head slowly. "Nothing. Just… normal stuff. Dust. Footprints, but probably from the victim. No break-in. No struggle."

I stood and walked over to him. "You seem unusually focused today," I muttered. "Creeps you out too, doesn't it?"

Alex didn't answer. Just nodded.

We left the room, stepping back into the hallway of the small apartment building. Officers moved past us, bagging evidence, securing the scene. Neighbors peeked from behind half-closed doors. I hated this part. The gawkers. The whispers. Like we were part of some macabre TV show.

I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Alex stood beside me, still silent.

"Third victim this week," I said, exhaling smoke. "No connection between them. First was a teacher. Then a bus driver. Now an insurance clerk. Random. Messy. Smart."

Alex tilted his head slightly. "Or… not random. Maybe it's something else. Not the victims. The act."

I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Maybe the killer doesn't care who dies. Maybe it's about how."

That stuck with me. I didn't like it. Not because it was wrong — but because it made too much sense.

Back at the precinct, I pinned the crime scene photo on the board in our shared office. Three photos. Three corpses. Three smiling balls.

The first ball was clean, almost untouched, placed on a bookshelf. The second had been stuffed into the victim's mouth. And this third one — blood-streaked and placed deliberately in front of the victim like a final audience to the horror.

Alex sat at the corner desk, typing quietly on his laptop. I turned to him.

"Did you ever play with stress balls as a kid?"

He looked up, surprised. "No."

"Me neither," I muttered. "We couldn't afford that kind of crap. But this guy," I gestured at the photos, "he has a fixation. Something personal. It's like a signature, but not for us. For himself."

Alex nodded slowly. "Or to taunt."

"Yeah. That too." I sat down, rubbing my temples. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly. Outside, thunder rumbled. Rain tapped against the windows. It was going to be a long night.

I leaned back. "We need to go back to the first crime scene tomorrow. Maybe we missed something. Something small."

"Okay."

We fell into silence again. The room felt colder. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was the photo of the third victim's grin — stretched unnaturally, violently, like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight.

I finally broke the silence. "You ever think about how people snap? Like… what it takes to turn a person into something like that?"

Alex stared at his screen. "All the time."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Later that evening, I stayed behind. Alex had gone home. Or at least that's what he said.

I kept staring at the board. My coffee had gone cold hours ago. My eyes burned from exhaustion, but my brain wouldn't shut off.

I replayed every detail in my head — the crime scenes, the order of events, the positions of the bodies, the placement of the smile balls. I tried to find a thread, some kind of pattern.

But it was chaos.

And that's what disturbed me the most.

I took the photo of the third victim down and studied it up close. Something about the blood smears on the ball — not random. It looked… deliberate. Not just splattered. Smeared.

I walked over to the evidence locker and requested the physical ball from the third scene.

A young tech retrieved it, handing it over carefully, gloved. "Be careful. Still drying."

I examined it under the light.

There were fingerprints — or at least, what looked like them — but they were too smeared to get a clean lift. Not enough to be useful.

But then something caught my eye. A faint mark on the underside of the ball. Not blood. Ink. A barely visible line — like a scratch, or a letter? I squinted. No, not a letter. A curve. Part of something.

A symbol?

I looked at the other balls again. Photos only. But now I wanted to see the real things. Tomorrow, I'd get them all together. Compare. Examine.

Something told me they weren't just toys.

At home, I couldn't sleep. I poured myself a whiskey and stood by the window, watching the rain. Thunder cracked the sky, and I remembered the victim's face. That smile.

It wasn't just the brutality. It was the message. The same message burned into my brain from years ago, from a case I could never close. A case that had started almost the same way — a single death, random, inexplicable. And then another. Until the killer simply… stopped.

Or had he?

I tried to dismiss the thought, but it clawed its way back up. What if this wasn't a new killer?

What if he'd just been waiting?

I picked up my phone. Dialed Alex.

It rang twice before he picked up. His voice was soft, groggy. "Leo?"

"You okay?"

"…Yeah. Just tired."

"I want you to come in early tomorrow. We're digging deep. Real deep. Old cases. Cold ones. From six years back. You up for it?"

"…Yeah. I'll be there."

"Good."

I hesitated. Then added, "You're a good partner, Alex. Quiet as hell, but reliable."

There was a pause. "Thanks. That… means a lot."

We hung up.

And for a moment, I felt something odd. Not warmth. Not comfort.

Something colder.

Something crawling.

I shook it off. Just fatigue. That's all. And then went to sleep.

The rain hadn't stopped.

By morning, the streets were slick and gray, and the air hung heavy with that wet, metallic scent of a city trying to wash itself clean — and failing. I walked into the precinct, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. The smell of burned coffee and damp coats hit me instantly.

Alex was already at his desk, head down, flipping through a thick file. He didn't look up.

"You sleep at all?" I asked, dropping my soaked jacket on the back of my chair.

"A little," he replied. "I started compiling the old case files you mentioned."

"Good," I said. "We'll hit those later. First, we're going to look at the evidence again. I want those smile balls in front of me. All three."

We moved to the evidence room. Officer Traynor was already expecting us. She eyed me with mild suspicion — I didn't blame her. I'd come early in the morning asking for a bloodied toy ball. Not exactly textbook procedure.

She handed us the boxes.

We took them to one of the lab tables. I put on gloves, opened the first box, and removed the ball from the first murder. It was pristine. No visible blood. Almost cheerful in its simplicity — a perfectly round yellow ball, maybe two inches in diameter, with a red smile painted on.

Then the second. Slightly squashed, faint traces of blood along the edge. The smile was distorted from being shoved into the victim's mouth.

Finally, the third. The most disturbing one. Dried blood streaked across the curve of the smile. It felt heavier somehow, like it held a deeper message I hadn't yet understood.

"Look at this," I said, pointing at the bottom of the third ball. "This one has markings. Ink. Maybe a pen?"

Alex leaned in. "Still looks like part of a shape. A curve. Not a full symbol."

"Exactly. What if each ball has a piece of something? Like a puzzle?"

He nodded, taking the first ball and rotating it under the lab light. "This one… here." He paused. "Tiny mark. Barely noticeable."

We did the same with the second.

There. Another faint stroke of black ink, almost invisible against the yellow rubber.

Three pieces of a larger whole.

I grabbed a notebook and sketched them side by side, carefully recreating the shapes from each ball.

"Looks like part of a circle," I muttered. "Maybe a spiral. But not enough to tell."

Alex was already ahead of me. "If this continues, each new victim gives us more of the symbol. It's deliberate."

"So the killer's building something," I said. "Not just a body count. A message."

Back in the office, we pinned new notes to the board.

Symbol? Three parts?

Why the smile?

Victims: unrelated.

Method: inconsistent.

Clue: smile ball.

I rubbed my chin. "Let's go back to the first victim."

Marjorie Langston. Retired schoolteacher. Found in her study, neck broken, eyes gouged out. Smile ball placed on a bookshelf behind her, almost like an ornament.

"Why a schoolteacher?" I asked. "No enemies. Lived alone. No history of abuse. It doesn't make sense."

Alex pulled her phone records and digital footprint. Nothing unusual.

"Check social media?" I asked.

"She didn't have any," he replied.

"Convenient."

Next up was Victor Renn, a 44-year-old bus driver. Died from blunt force trauma to the head. No signs of struggle. The smile ball stuffed in his mouth.

A little more aggressive. A little.. more personal.

Still no connection to Marjorie.

And now Jacob Ng, the insurance clerk. Dismembered. Body posed. Smile carved into his face with surgical precision. Ball placed in front of him like an offering.

The violence was escalating. The presentation was getting more theatrical.

"Three victims," I said. "Three different methods. No weapon consistency. No physical evidence. No surveillance. But the balls…" I stared at the drawings. "They're what tie it all together."

Alex flipped through a new file. "I cross-referenced similar cases from six years ago like you said. There's one… but the M.O. was different. No smile ball. Just a staged body."

"Show me."

He handed it over.

Name: Daniel Weiss.

Occupation: College professor.

Cause of Death: Exsanguination(bleeding to death). Body found seated, hands folded, eyes open. No sign of struggle. Mouth sewn into a faint smile.

"No ball," I noted. "But the smile. The staging. Could be an early kill. Pre-signature."

I tapped the photo. "Where did it happen?"

"Riverfront District," Alex answered.

That made me pause.

"So far," I said slowly, "we have victims in Westside, South Ridge, and Midpoint. And now a cold case in Riverfront. That's four different parts of the city."

"Almost like the killer's circling something," Alex said.

I stood up and grabbed a city map from the drawer. We marked the four locations.

Sure enough — when connected, they formed a loose arc. Almost a circle.

"What if this symbol," I pointed at the sketches from the balls, "isn't just an artistic message. What if it's a map? A path?"

"You think he's moving in a pattern?"

"Not in the victims. In the geography."

Alex traced the shape with his finger. "Then the next strike… would be northeast."

We exchanged a glance.

"That narrows it down," I said. "Not much, but it's a start."

We spent the next few hours combing through the northeast precinct reports — recent disturbances, suspicious activity, missing persons.

Most of it was noise. Domestic calls. Petty theft. Drug busts.

But one entry caught my eye.

A noise complaint called in two nights ago. No response from the residents. Officers knocked, no answer. Lights were on. Filed as non-urgent and forgotten.

"Let's check it out," I said.

The apartment building was older, three stories, cracked paint peeling from the walls like old skin. The hallway reeked of mildew and cigarette smoke. The reported apartment was 2B.

I knocked.

No answer.

Alex jiggled the handle. Locked.

I picked it easily. Old lock. Cheap.

We stepped inside And froze.

The smell hit us first. Metallic, coppery. The stench of rot.

The lights were off. Curtains drawn.

Alex found the switch and the room lit up.

A body lay slumped against the far wall — a woman in her twenties, eyes open, mouth slack. Her wrists were bound, but there were no wounds. No blood.

I approached carefully.

"She's been dead maybe a day," I said. "No signs of violence."

"Overdose?" Alex asked.

"No. Look at her lips."

They were tinted… blue.

I checked her throat.

"No bruising," I muttered. "No signs of strangulation. But no pulse. No breath. It's like…"

I paused.

Alex had stepped toward a nearby table. "Leo."

There it was.

A smile ball, sitting neatly on a silver tray. This one was green — a new color — with a darker red smile. The ink marking was clearer now, forming a crescent.

"Fourth piece," I whispered.

I bent to examine the ball. The smile was different this time. Wider. Crooked.

"She wasn't dismembered. She wasn't even posed," I said. "This one… it's like the killer got bored."

"Or wanted a change."

"No, this was deliberate. Still calculated. Still part of the pattern. But…"

I looked around.

Something was off.

"There's no chaos here. No mess. This wasn't improvisation. This was transition." I muttered.

Alex took a step back. "You think he's evolving?"

"No," I muttered. "He's perfecting."

I stood up and looked around the room. "Search everything. Furniture. Bathroom. Closet. Anything that doesn't belong."

We swept the apartment for thirty minutes. Found nothing. Not a hair. Not a fiber.

Just a corpse and a smile.

Back at the precinct, the ball joined the others. Four pieces. Now, the symbol was beginning to take shape — a spiral, curling inward.

I stared at it for a long time.

"This isn't just a signature," I said. "It's a countdown."

"To what?" Alex asked quietly.

I didn't have an answer.

But I knew this wasn't random anymore.

It never was.

"We should go home for now and rest. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow." I replied. Alex nodded and left, "See you tomorrow then." Alex said before leaving.

I went to my own home with my thoughts and slept in the bedroom.