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He tilted his head, admiring the unique mottling of her skin. Like a rare bird, plucked from its aerie. Her wide eyes were the pale blue of a spring sky. And her hair - cornsilk strands that shone in the dim light of the room. Exquisite.
He turned away and knelt before the wooden box in the corner. Lifting the lid revealed rows of jars, each containing a single feather. His collection. With reverent hands he selected three - a glossy raven's plume, a dove's downy tuft, and a canary's sunny flare.
Returning to the girl's side, he held them up before her face. "Aren't they beautiful?" he murmured. She did not reply, only renewed her fruitless struggle against the ropes binding her limbs.
Ignoring her protests, he crossed the room and unlocked a cabinet along the far wall. Inside, shining implements gleamed. Scalpels, shears, needles. His tools. Now, to begin his work of art.
The girl's screams echoed through the empty warehouse, but no one was close enough to hear. The man returned to the girl, scalpel in hand. She thrashed against her bindings, pleas spilling from her lips.
"Please, let me go! I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Hush now. You should feel honored to be part of my collection."
She wrenched her face from his grip. "You're insane! People are looking for me. My friends, my family-"
"No one is coming for you," he said coldly. "Not here. This place is remote. Hidden. Just like a bird's nest."
He trailed the scalpel down her arm, not enough to cut, only threaten. She shivered.
"The FBI tore my old place apart. But they won't find this one. I'm always one wingbeat ahead."
"Please, let me go," the girl sobbed, her voice barely audible. She had given up on struggling against her restraints, her body slumped in defeat.
"Enough!" he barked, his anger flaring up. "Do you not understand how special you are? How carefully I chose you?" He stepped closer, his movements sharp and deliberate. The room seemed to shrink around them as he towered over her. "You should be honored."
"Please," she whispered again, her voice breaking. "I have a family. Parents. They'll be worried about me."
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It's always the same, isn't it?" He paced around the dimly lit room, the concrete cold under his feet. "Your cries for help are worthless here. This place is far removed from the prying eyes of the world." A bitter laugh escaped him. "The FBI thought they had me when they raided my house. But just like a bird, I am always one step ahead, never lingering in one place for too long."
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening in horror as she watched him retrieve a leather roll from a nearby shelf, its contents glinting menacingly in the low light. He unrolled it with great care, revealing an assortment of taxidermy tools – needles, thread, scalpels, and more.
"No, no, please," she whimpered, her voice rising into a scream as he picked up a scalpel and tested its sharpness with his thumb. "You don't have to do this!"
His gaze flicked back to her. "Oh, but I do," he murmured, a twisted smile curling at the corners of his lips. "You are the key to my masterpiece, the final piece of my grand vision."
As he approached her, the scalpel glinting in his hand, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the inevitable pain. But he paused, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered into her ear, "I've waited so long for this moment, my dear. I won't be rushed."
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The low hum of computers filled the dimly lit room as Morgan stood at the helm, watching her team's fingers dance across keyboards in a desperate search for clues. The night was creeping in through the blinds of the FBI headquarters, casting long shadows on the faces of the agents hunched over their screens. Morgan's dark hair, streaked with gray, framed her tired but determined face as she addressed the team.
"Remember, Adam Sallow is targeting people with unique attributes," she reminded them, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to stay vigilant for any missing person reports that fit that description."
Derik shared her sense of urgency as he scanned the digital maps on his own computer screen. His green eyes flickered with stress, making the dark circles beneath them even more pronounced. He looked up from his work, catching Morgan's eye.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, gesturing towards a quiet corner of the room.
"Of course," she replied, following him away from the hive of activity.
As they stepped into the secluded spot, Morgan leaned against the wall, rubbing her temples. Her tattoos seemed to writhe like living things under her skin, a physical manifestation of her anxiety.
"Derik, I'm scared we won't find him in time," she confessed, her voice cracking. "He must have seen us raiding his house. He's out there somewhere, hunting again... And when killers feel cornered, they tend to act out."
"I know, Morgan," Derik said softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "But we're doing everything we can. We've got our best people on this."
She looked into his eyes, searching for a trace of doubt or uncertainty, but found none. The trust between them was unbreakable, forged through countless cases and life-threatening situations.
"Thank you, Derik," she said, her voice steadier now. "I just can't shake the feeling that we're running out of time."
