AMONG SHADOWS

TWO MONTHS LATER – NYPD, SPECIAL VIOLENCE UNIT

The morning haze hung low over the city, casting a pale gray tint across the windows of the SVU office. Files were stacked like weary soldiers on every desk. The kind of cases they'd been handling lately? Robbery-gone-wrong, domestic violence, drug-linked kidnappings—messy, but nothing compared to Damien Quinn's madness.

Scott stood by the whiteboard, arms folded, eyes fixed on a name circled in red: "The Puppeteer?"

"Two months, and not a goddamn whisper from the ghost behind Damien," he muttered under his breath.

Stephanie, leaning on the edge of the table with a mug of coffee, glanced up. "We flipped every stone. Not even a breadcrumb. Just silence."

Frank tapped away at his laptop. "I've run backdoor filters through every known alias connected to Damien's military and psychological records. Still zilch."

Ray tossed a file down on his desk with a grunt. "If this puppeteer guy's real, he's more shadow than man."

"Or we're looking in the wrong places," Scott replied flatly, his voice low but tense. "And he's watching us while we chase dust."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Each of them had been working overtime—half obsessed, half exhausted. No leads. No signs. No mistakes from the one pulling the strings.

CRIME SCENE – 47TH & ALBANY

Yellow tape flapped in the breeze. A crowd of onlookers stood in stunned silence, their cell phones up, faces pale. The suitcase sat at the edge of a graffiti-covered dumpster. The zipper was halfway torn, dried streaks of blood trailing down its edges like veins.

The body inside? Female. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Blindfolded with a silk scarf. Her hands were tied tight behind her back with nylon cable ties. Legs bent unnaturally, like she'd been crammed in with no care for bone or breath.

But what turned stomachs and shut down chatter?

Her head—brutally smashed in. Skull shattered, blood and hair matted across her once-straightened hairline. Whatever was used wasn't clean. Blunt-force trauma from something jagged. Something fueled by rage.

She was dressed like she'd just stepped out of a downtown high-rise. Crisp white blouse, pencil skirt, heels still on. Her appearance so sharp, it made the violence look theatrical.

"She looks like she was heading to a damn board meeting," one officer whispered.

"Jesus…" Stephanie breathed, covering her mouth, eyes locked on the broken form.

Scott crouched beside the suitcase, staring into the crimson mess. "This wasn't random."

Frank leaned in, snapping photos in silence. "Whoever did this knew her. Or hated her."

Scott rose slow, his voice grave. "They wanted her to look important—before destroying her."

The murmurs behind the barricade swelled. Horror. Panic. A ripple of fear threading through the already shaken city.

FORENSIC CENTER – MIDDAY

The air in the forensic center was sharp with the scent of antiseptics and steel. Bright ceiling lights reflected off stainless steel tables and medical instruments, casting sterile shadows. Inside Autopsy Room 3, a clinical chill clung to everything.

Scott stood by the observation window, dressed in his usual gray trench coat, slacks, and polished black boots. His eyes were heavy with wear, a subtle stubble marking the time he hadn't shaved. Ray stood beside him, wide-framed in his leather jacket and dark jeans, arms crossed over his chest like a bouncer waiting for trouble.

"Name's Olivier Mason," Ray said, tapping the case file in his hand. "Thirty-two. Real estate agent. Lives uptown, dresses like a corporate model, and now… dumped in a damn suitcase like a rag doll."

Scott narrowed his eyes through the glass.

"She looks like she walked straight outta a business meeting," he muttered.

Olivier's body lay on the table—her outfit eerily pristine for someone found in such a brutal state. A cream blazer with golden buttons, navy pencil skirt, sheer tights torn around the knees, and black pumps still strapped to her feet. But her face… it was unrecognizable. Wrapped in bloodied gauze. A clean silk blindfold had been tied over her eyes. Her hands were bound tightly behind her back with nylon cord.

"Jesus," Ray shook his head. "Who the hell does this?"

Behind the table stood Dr. Lucas Sophia, the coroner—sharp-boned, early forties, short silver-streaked hair tied back, glasses perched low on her nose. Her surgical scrubs were neat, clean, and professional. Her team of two assistants stood ready with surgical trays and suction tools.

"Starting now," she called out.

A blade glinted under the light as she made the Y-incision. The assistants carefully peeled back the skin, exposing layers of bruised muscle.

"Heavy internal bleeding," Lucas muttered. "Contusions around the skull… wait for it—"

She motioned toward the skull, then took a handheld saw.

"Brace yourselves."

The room buzzed with electric whine as she cut open the top of the skull. A soft crack followed by a wet pop, and she lifted the bone flap. Blood pooled in the cavity, thick and dark.

"Massive subdural hematoma," she said. "The skull's caved in on the right parietal lobe. Blunt-force trauma. Multiple strikes."

"Any clue on the weapon?" Scott asked, eyes fixed on the exposed brain.

Lucas wiped her gloves.

"My best guess? A straight claw hammer. One of those heavy-duty framing types. Not the cheap ones from the hardware store—the industrial kind. Heavy head, straight claw, designed to rip nails from two-by-fours."

Ray scoffed. "Well, that explains the crater in her skull."

Lucas leaned over, observing the injury again.

"Judging by the wound pattern, she wasn't hit once. She was hammered repeatedly… almost rhythmically. Like he was working through something."

"Or enjoying it," Scott added darkly.

Lucas looked up. "She was alive for most of it. Lost consciousness before the final blow, but it wasn't instant. She bled out fast though… very fast."

Scott's jaw tightened. "Time of death?"

Lucas looked at the assistant, who checked the internal lividity markers.

"Roughly thirty-six hours ago. Maybe more. It was planned. There's no signs of struggle. He blindfolded her. That suggests ritual… or shame."

Ray glanced over at Scott. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Scott didn't answer immediately. He stared at the woman's body like it held secrets she hadn't whispered yet.

"Yeah," he finally said. "And I don't like where it's leading."

They thanked Lucas, grabbed the report, and made their way out of the sterile white halls. As the autopsy room door shut behind them with a metallic thud, Ray exhaled deeply.

"From puppeteers to hammer freaks… just when you think you've hit rock bottom in this job, someone brings out a damn shovel," Ray muttered.

Scott gave a tired smirk. "Let's go dig."