A Hunter Made from Shadows

8

Michael’s consciousness began to spread along the cold lines of the subway map.

Each route felt like a rushing river of emotions, carrying the traces of countless lives passing through. He could hear the exhaustion of office workers, the sweetness of lovers, the anticipation of travelers, and the quiet loneliness of drunk late-night passengers.

But none of it was what he was looking for.

He filtered through the noise, chasing only the core melody.

“Heart…”

He repeated the word silently.

All the lines, all the emotions, were converging toward a single center.

The birthplace of the city’s metro system.

The first station ever built.

People’s Square Station.

The moment the name surfaced in his mind, the wave of nostalgia reached its peak.

This was it. The “heart of the steel forest” was People’s Square Station.

But Michael did not open his eyes. His brows tightened slightly.

Something was wrong. It wasn’t enough.

He could feel it clearly, the murderer’s true pain and desire did not belong to the crowded, bright, modern People’s Square Station. The emotions there were too loud, too polished, too alive.

The murderer’s emotions were different. They were like dust hidden behind a glamorous curtain, buried in a forgotten corner.

Michael’s spiritual awareness sank deeper. He passed the bright platforms.

He passed the busy transfer halls.

He passed the glamorous emotional surface of the city.

And he descended further underground.

Into places ordinary people had forgotten.

Into spaces never marked on any map.

A cold, damp presence wrapped around his consciousness.

Here, time seemed frozen.

Only the steady drip of water echoed from broken pipes.

He saw it.

An abandoned track.

A platform sealed behind a brick wall.

The platform lay alone in darkness. The walls were peeling, the signs faded, and only a blurred number could still be made out.

Platform 7.

The ghost platform.

The moment his consciousness touched the brick wall, a violent surge of emotion exploded, ecstasy mixed with terror, the feeling after a first kill.

Michael knew that emotion well.

It did not belong to the murderer.

It belonged to himself.

Three years ago.

On the set of The Joker’s Monologue, the five-minute solo scene after the protagonist’s first murder had been filmed on this very ghost Platform 7, which the crew had temporarily rented.

Every clue suddenly connected.

The murderer, his fanatic admirer, had chosen the starting point of Michael’s most famous work as his final stage.

A perfect tribute. A deadly stage.

Michael opened his eyes.

The warmth and compassion in them vanished, leaving behind only razor-sharp clarity. The noise of the world rushed back. Ashley’s anxious face was right in front of him.

He spoke without hesitation. “People’s Square Metro Station.”

“Fourth underground level. Ghost Platform 7.”

Ashley froze.

So did every officer who heard him.

The answer was too precise, too specific, far beyond anything they could imagine.

Lorenzo blurted out instinctively, “That’s impossible! It was sealed decades ago. How could he even get in?!”

Michael looked at him.

That calm gaze made Lorenzo’s heart tighten for no reason.

“For someone who sees himself as a theater ghost,” Michael said quietly, “there is no backstage entrance he can’t find.”

Then he turned back to Ashley, his next words colder than the rain.

“He never wanted me to find hostages there.”

“Cynthia is just the ticket he sent.”

“What he really wants… is for me to go there alone.”

Michael’s voice was soft, but every word landed clearly in their ears.

“As the only audience member for his final performance.”

“This is his invitation.”

…

Inside the temporary headquarters of the municipal bureau, the atmosphere turned ice-cold and suffocating.

The smell of smoke and sweat hung thick in the air, making the room feel suffocating.

“I absolutely oppose this!”

Lorenzo glared at Michael, his thick finger almost jabbing into Michael’s face. His voice was rough with fury, echoing through the cramped conference room.

“You want a consultant, a civilian, to face a brutal kidnapper and murderer alone? Ashley, have you lost your mind? You’re sending him to his death!”

“We’re police officers! Our duty is to protect civilians, not push them toward a butcher’s knife!”

The detectives around them exchanged uneasy glances. No one spoke, but their expressions mirrored Lorenzo’s fear and anger.

The plan was insane.

Michael stood quietly in the center of the room, receiving their hostility without flinching. The calm, gentle air around him felt completely out of place in such a tense space, yet it created an invisible pressure of its own.

He did not look at the furious Lorenzo. His eyes remained fixed on Ashley.

Her face was pale. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and a fierce struggle was clearly tearing through her heart.

Michael finally spoke.

His voice was not loud, yet it easily cut through Lorenzo’s shouting.

“Captain Lorenzo, I understand your anger.”

His tone was soft, but carried a strange force that made Lorenzo’s rage falter.

“But you, and everyone here, don’t truly understand our opponent.”

He raised one finger and lightly tapped the profile photo of the murderer on the whiteboard.

“He is not a kidnapper chasing money. He is not a murderer trying to escape. He is a performance criminal, an artist who values ritual and rules more than his own life.”

“The stage is set. The audience is ready. The script is written. In his mind, this is a sacred performance.”

Michael’s eyes grew distant, as if he could see through time and space, straight into the darkness of the ghost platform where the murderer waited in anticipation.

“What do people like him value most? Rules. The rules of the game he created himself, rules that must never be violated.”

“He invited me, Michael. What he wants is an equal opponent. A final one-on-one confrontation. That is the core of his script, and his highest pursuit.”

“If we break the rules, if we send SWAT, if we try any tricks, then to him, that is blasphemy.”

Michael paused, and his voice turned cold.

“He will tear up the ticket without hesitation. He will destroy his perfect prop, Cynthia, and end the show in a way none of us can predict.”

“At that point, we gain nothing.”

The room fell silent, filled only with heavy breathing.

Every word Michael spoke precisely dissected a twisted criminal psychology they had never truly understood.

“Only if I go alone will he lower his guard. Only then will he believe the rules are being respected, and focus all his attention on me.”

“And only then will he expose his one and only weakness.”

“This is the only way to keep the hostage alive.”

“And the only chance we have to capture him.”

When his words ended, the entire room sank into absolute silence.