The confessing codes within humanity need a master to handle them. They can not be interpreted by one who is an ameteur of the craft. Everybody confesses everything, their deepest crimes and fears in everyday language. For a code-breaker it is easy to follow the trail and expose them all. John was one of the linguists who could break them. Some saw what he did as magic, yet in truth he felt partnered with the positive universe, a tool of the divine force and saw nothing special in himself. It was as if his soul shone a black light and the criminals were marked in some invisible ink. He was the ultimate detective, the one sent to uncover the hidden world of vice, sent to restore true virtue.
He had been stuck on a specific case for a while now. A case so familiar yet so barbaric he had to internally assert himself to disregard the intrusive thoughts that told him to leave the occurrence cold. He knew how serial killers were, hollow inside and laughing even as they warp beyond recognition, but there was something about this instance that left him feeling discomposed. Every new piece of evidence felt uncannily intimate, as if he had seen it before, touched it before. He pushed the thoughts aside, reminding himself of the task at hand, he knew he couldn't let down the victims and their families; So he didn't, he picked himself up and made his way home for the evening.
Asleep.
Awoken, awoken by the saturated burgundy liquid that hung from his worn palm. Bewilderment slowly became an understatement as he rose from the uncomfortable position he had founded himself in. Neglecting his dampened hands, he let his eyes adjust to reality and allowed himself to observe his surroundings, falling upon a physique. Moving closer he began to connect with the numbing ambience that was radiating from the form that laid in the mud. The victims ivory skin had been splattered and face half submerged in the gritty muck. John was lost, his soul was not, his thoughts were pleasant yet harmful, his breathing calm yet full of sorrow, hands full of blood. His eyes looked for an answer that had already been solved, because he himself was the victim yet, he was guilty. John pleaded the answer was wrong. His mind raced with thoughts, realisation had hit him, the footsteps were his own, and every fingerprint belonged to himself. The search was over, he had succeeded, but also lost. For he was the code-breaker following his own trail only to end up exposing himself.
