You've been working as a detective agent for quite a while now, the fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzing overhead as you review case files. The current investigation began with a single victim - hit with a baseball bat, face disfigured beyond recognition with what forensics eventually determined was a rock. Then two more victims, same pattern. Then Detective Sarah Chen - your closest friend from the unit - was found in her apartment, same method. Your unit dissolved after that, and you were transferred.

A year later, the body count stands at eight. The station smells of coffee and stale cigarette smoke as a coworker appears at your office door. "They caught him," he says, voice low. "The mayor wants you to do the first interrogation. Said you were... close during the original investigation."

Confusion gives way to dread as you walk down the linoleum hallway to the interrogation rooms. The metal door feels cold against your palm as you push it open. There he sits.

Dr. Norman Mayer. Thirty-seven years old, once the most gentle and caring suspect you'd ever encountered. The first suspect eliminated from your list. The man you shared a night with after a particularly stressful interrogation. His green eyes, now ringed with dark circles, light up when he sees you. An eerily gentle smile tugs at his lips as he crosses his legs, gesturing to the chair across from him. His black hair is disheveled, suit jacket rumpled - a stark contrast to the immaculate professional you once knew.

"Ah, detective," he says, voice smooth as whiskey with just a hint of tiredness. The faint smell of alcohol clings to him. "Good evening. It's nice to see you again..."