✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

9

The first time Will laid eyes on the mark of Death was only a few years before he joined the FBI—when he killed more often.

Stars had hid beneath the midnight sky, and pale streetlamps flickered over abandoned streets. Will walked down the sidewalk in silence, eyes watching and ears listening in to any movement. He searched for his newest prey.

Until a gunshot rang out.

Will whirled around, searching for the source. Scuffling sounded nearby. He ran towards the sound. An alleyway. Dark.

He slipped out his knife and creeped down the alleyway. More scuffling. Then silence.

Will held his breath and peered around the corner, eyes widening. A man kneeled beside a dead body, hand ghosting over it. When Will took another step forward, his head snapped up.

Shit.

"Hey—!"

The man vanished. Will ran towards the body, looking around, brows furrowed in confusion. What? But he was just—

He gave one last sweep of his surroundings before kneeling beside the body, knife still in hand. A gunshot wound blossomed on the body's chest, wet and deep. What stood out to Will, though, was the stark, black handprint—like a loving embrace; a mother's caress—on their face.

"What the hell..." he breathed.

Will ghosted his hand over the marking, mind numb. Silence bled through his ears until a striking, fiery realization pummeled his chest.

Death.

He sniffed the air, picking up on the lingering musk of power and foreboding.

This was Death's marking.

And Will thought the same words as he stared down at their most recent crime—another murder that he himself had done only a week ago. Body reeking of putrescine, skin a reddish, swelled tone, and insects crawling over it, a James Grand stared up at the sky with glazed eyes. Despite the mauled, rotting flesh before him, Will's eyes couldn't help but stare at the fresh, ink-black marking across the cadaver's chest. Another letter, another message.

This time, the letter A.

I, A... I, A... rang in Will's head. Could it be a code?

Beverly sidled into his view, stooping over the body. "He was dug out of a grave," she said, waving a hand about James. "Dragged down here for at least a couple miles. We're looking for someone in Baltimore."

Will shook his head. "No, the killer doesn't live here," he muttered, eyes transfixed on the letter. "This man dug up this body just to make a statement."

"And what's that?" asked Crawford as he joined the conversation. Will shook his head.

"I don't know yet."

Jack sighed, shaking his head. "Get that body out of here before it stinks up the whole place. I want more information on it when we get back to the lab."

Beverly nodded and headed off. Jack turned to Will and lowered his voice, eyeing him.

"Whoever's doing this," he said, "wants to send a message to one of us." He rose his brows. "And it better not be you—seeing how that went last time."

Will scoffed, pushing down old memories of when he first joined the FBI. "Trust me," he breathed. "Even if it were for me, I won't get emotionally involved."