AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Dark web’s buzzing more and more about it these days. Building a reputation for himself. Some psycho live-streamed torturing that man. Haven’t been able to find the video, though. Guy covered his tracks good.
Roseline’s pulse quickened,though she kept her message even.
Impressive work, from what I hear. Know anything about who was behind it?
No one seems to know. But he’s already building a reputation. Calling himself the Game Master, apparently.
Game Master.Roseline committed the name to memory. If this killer was looking to make a name for himself, she would make sure he only became famous for getting caught.
Thanks for the info.
Gotta keep us interested people updated. Keep an eye out. I’ve heard that he already has his next show planned, with another special guest.
Roseline leanedback in her chair, rubbing her temples as she tried to process everything she had learned. Or rather, how little she had actually uncovered. Days of tireless searching had yielded barely a whisper about the shadowy figure that called itself the Game Master. It was as if he had materialized from thin air solely to orchestrate the murder of Mani Alto.
Which meant two deeply unsettling things. One—that the live-streamed killing was likely the Game Master’s first. And two—that if her anonymous contact was to be believed, there were more murders being planned at this very moment.
Roseline felt her stomach twist at the thought. She glanced at the clock—nearly 3 a.m. The NOPD headquarters was deserted and silent around her, the occasional echo of a faraway door the only sign of life. It was just her alone in the small haven of light cast by her desk lamp, surrounded by endless shadows.
How many people were still awake out there in the city, she wondered? New Orleans never truly slept, especially not at her seedier corners. Places where lives could be snuffed out quickly and quietly while the rest of the world slumbered.
A shiver ran through Roseline, and she quickly sat up straighter, shaking off the dark thoughts. She couldn’t afford to be tired or unfocused right now. Not when a depraved killer was somewhere preparing for his next performance.
Turning back to her computer, Roseline opened up the browser history from her deep web searches. The Game Master had covered his tracks well when it came to his identity and location. But the nature of his crime offered some hints about his motives and psychology. She just had to dig deeper.
The live stream itself was the biggest clue. The Game Master wanted an audience, needed people to witness his handiwork. He had disguised the origin but left the video feed accessible. This was as much about spectacle as it was about murder.
Roseline clenched her jaw. She couldn’t let emotion cloud her focus. Pushing back the anguish of being unable to save that victim, she tried to profile the type of monster capable of such cruelty.
The elaborate planning indicated patience and high intelligence. The lack of forensic evidence or online presence pointed to extreme caution. The theatricality of the live stream suggested a narcissistic need for recognition. This was someone who felt marginalized or powerless and was using murder to gain infamy and control.
Jotting down notes, Roseline outlined these insights. But the bigger mystery still remained—where and how would the Game Master strike again? Her anonymous contact offered little beyond a chilling promise of another show.
Leaning forward, Roseline followed the digital breadcrumbs once more. The Game Master had gone to great lengths to prevent the authorities from finding him, but he still wanted to build his reputation among his twisted audience. That meant he would likely drop hints or teasers in the darker corners of the web, interacting with those who shared his morbid fascinations.
Her best chance of stopping him was staying vigilant for any whispers or clues, then tracing them back to their source. It was a long shot, but right now, her only one. She had to find the thread that could unravel this web of shadows before the Game Master claimed another life.
The hours wore on as Roseline scoured hacking forums, hidden chat rooms, anywhere someone might boast of depraved exploits. But as dawn broke over the city, she was no closer to finding the Game Master or his potential victim. Only the same ominous thought echoed in her mind:
The show is about to begin. And this time, you get a front-row seat.
CHAPTER THREE
Callan stepped through the worn entrance of the police station headquarters, the morning bustle already in full swing. Officers shuffled case files, witnesses filled out forms, phones rang incessantly. He nodded to the sergeant manning the front desk as he headed toward the detective bullpen, the nerve center of the station’s investigative operations.
Though he’d been with the New Orleans Police Department for over six months now, the imposing red brick building still felt foreign to him at times. This wasn’t his station house in Boston, where he’d come up through the ranks. Here in the Big Easy, he was still an outsider in many ways, a Yankee transplant trying to find his footing.
When Commander Lincoln Beckner recruited him, poaching him from the BPD to help strengthen the NOPD’s investigative bureau, Callan welcomed the change of scenery. The muggy heat of Louisiana was a far cry from the nor’easters of his native New England, but he was determined to make his mark on the force.
As he entered the bullpen and headed toward his shared desk, Callan thought back to those first uneasy weeks on the job. Some of the old guard cops had given him the cold shoulder, distrustful of the new guy shipped down to shake up their good ole boy system. But he’d kept his head down, worked long hours, and tried to learn the ebb and flow of the city.
And slowly, as he proved himself capable during a string of grueling homicide cases, the ice had begun to thaw. He’d earned a grudging respect from even the crustiest veterans on the force. Though there were still moments of friction, the overt hazing had faded away.
“Morning, Hemlock,” Officer Ricky Woodrow called out as he passed, waving a case folder. “Heard you caught a real doozy last night.”
“Just another day on the job,” Callan replied wryly. In truth, it had been a long one—a late-night triple homicide in the Ninth Ward that had kept him interviewing witnesses until nearly dawn.
As he reached his desk, he saw that his partner and friend hadn’t yet arrived. Not that he could blame Brandon Turner for running behind. The NOPD captain had worked just as many hours as Callan himself lately, both of them pushing hard to clear the backlog of cases.
