The Darkest Hour

Chapter 5: The Baited Trap

The plan was simple: I'd go back to my old apartment, a place the killer would expect me to feel safe. Damon would stay nearby, keeping watch from the shadows, waiting for any sign that we'd caught the killer's attention. It was risky, but I'd done worse with less. As the rain pelted down on the darkened city, I could almost feel the air crackling with anticipation.

Damon pulled up to the building in his car, parking around the corner. He cut the engine and looked over at me, his expression unreadable. "You're sure about this?" he asked, the hint of doubt in his voice grating more than I'd like to admit.

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you having second thoughts, Damon? Because I'm not." My voice was firm, steady, even if my heart was pounding.

"Just checking." He smirked, the streetlights casting sharp angles across his face. "You know, you're not exactly the picture of 'vulnerable.' This guy's going to have to be really obsessed to fall for this."

"Lucky for us, he's proven he is," I shot back, grabbing my coat and stepping out of the car before he could say anything else. "You stay close, and when he shows, don't blow it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured as I walked toward the building, feeling his eyes on me until I disappeared from sight.

Inside, the apartment was as I'd left it, quiet and empty. I clicked on the lights, scanning the room for anything out of place. As part of our plan, I'd left a few clues around, evidence that I was "digging into my past." A couple of old case files, a notebook left open with random scribbles, newspaper clippings—all designed to look like a vulnerable agent unraveling. It felt ridiculous, like I was staging my own life, but if it lured this psycho out of hiding, I was willing to play the part.

I slipped off my coat, letting it fall on the chair, and moved to the window. Damon's car was out of sight, but I knew he was nearby. I tried to ignore the part of me that wished he was in the room. The silence felt heavier than usual, pressing in on all sides, but I forced myself to relax, to play along.

Minutes turned into an hour, and then two. I'd been sitting by the window, going through the files and pretending to be engrossed in my own past. Every creak and groan of the building seemed louder, but nothing happened. No shadows outside the window, no movement, just silence.

I leaned back, frustrated, and was about to grab my phone to check in with Damon when I heard it: the quiet slide of a lock picking tool. I froze, my heartbeat thudding loudly in my ears. Someone was at the door, careful, cautious. This was it.

I flicked my gaze to the front door as it eased open. A shadow moved inside, inching forward, the figure half-hidden in darkness. I couldn't make out any details, but I knew he was watching me. I held my breath, keeping perfectly still, pretending not to notice.

The figure stepped closer, and I could see the glint of something metallic in his hand—a knife, long and thin, designed for precision. He took another step forward, his footsteps soft, calculated.

Damon's voice crackled in my earpiece, almost silent but enough for me to hear. "Got him. Stay calm. I'm moving in."

I fought the urge to turn, my every instinct screaming to confront the intruder head-on. But I stayed seated, playing my part, waiting for Damon to make his move. The figure took another step, then another, until he was directly behind me. I felt his breath, shallow and sharp, sending a chill down my spine.

Just as his arm lifted, Damon burst into the room, his gun drawn, voice sharp and commanding. "Freeze!"

The figure lunged, his knife flashing in the dim light, but Damon was faster. He tackled the intruder to the ground, pinning him with a practiced ease, disarming him with a twist of his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor as the man let out a low, furious growl.

I stood up, adrenaline surging, moving to where Damon had the intruder restrained. The man glared up at me, his eyes cold, full of hate. He was older than I expected, with gray hair and a worn, weathered face, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made my blood run cold.

"So," I said, looking down at him, my voice steady. "You remember me, do you?"

The man sneered, his voice a harsh whisper. "You don't remember me, Agent Malone. But you should. I'm the one who got away."

I glanced at Damon, who held him tightly, his gaze hard. "Get him out of here," I said, the weight of the situation settling in. "We're taking him in."

As Damon dragged him out of the apartment, the man's words echoed in my mind. I'm the one who got away. The phrase stuck like a barb, digging deeper with every replay. I didn't recognize him, not really. But there was something unsettlingly familiar in his gaze, something I couldn't quite place.

And I knew one thing for sure: this was only the beginning. Whoever he was, this man was just one piece of the puzzle. The real game hadn't even started yet.