The station's conference room resembled an aquarium — a small, stuffy space with green walls fogged from the breath of too many people, and a single blind window that let in the dead neon light from the street. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of coffee and the faint, sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde clinging to the evidence photos.

On the table lay photographs that chilled the blood and silenced conversation. The first body found in a Ribe courtyard: a woman with maggots carefully placed on her face and hands — too few, arranged too precisely, like a morbid art installation. Between her shoulder blades, a curved, jagged cut with swan-like wings embedded in the flesh.

The second victim, discovered along her jogging route in the woods. Her husband identified her by her ring — identification was otherwise difficult, gender nearly impossible to determine at first glance. Her stomach had been ripped open, a small, lifeless rabbit placed in the cavity. The scene had disturbed even veteran officers.

The third woman, a barmaid from a local pub, had been missing three days. No body, no evidence, just absence — a silence more terrifying than the discovered victims because everyone understood: the killer wasn't finished.

Inspector Hoyer's face showed the weight of too many sleepless nights. "Ribe is a small town. Three incidents, three women with similar features. Local police are overwhelmed, press is circling." He sipped coffee from a plastic cup, gaze shifting between you and Mads. "I want the two of you to take lead."

Mads, previously motionless as stone, suddenly reacted — his composure cracking like ice. "Hoyer, this is absurd. Targeted killings of women, and you want to send another woman into the center of this? It's not just reckless — it's negligence." His voice remained low, controlled, but sharp as a blade's edge.

Hoyer shook his head, patience fraying. "Lauritzen, your obsession with satanic cults has led us astray before. The world isn't full of devil worshippers. Maybe it's personal? A maniac with a sick imagination? I need another perspective — without prejudice." He turned to you, gaze encouraging. "What do you think? Your opinion carries weight here."

Mads' eyes locked onto yours — cold, steely, unyielding. A silent challenge, professional but intense. His fingers tightened briefly on the table before relaxing — a barely perceptible tell. You could almost feel the tension radiating from him, a man convinced he's right, facing someone who might prove him wrong.