The next morning, London woke beneath a blanket of pale gray fog. The streets outside were damp, and the distant sound of traffic carried through the cold air like a muted echo. Inside the apartment, Murphy Lawden sat near the window with several files spread across the table. He had barely slept. Every report, every photo, every timeline was arranged carefully in front of him.
Dr. Alexander stepped out from the small kitchen carrying two cups of tea. He noticed Murphy's eyes fixed on the same page for several minutes.
"You have been staring at that report since dawn," Alexander said, placing one cup beside him.
Murphy took the tea without looking away. "Because something here is wrong."
"The taxi driver?"
Murphy finally lifted his eyes. "No. The person who paid him."
Alexander sat down. "You already know he did it for money. His children needed treatment, rent, food. That part is clear."
Murphy slowly shook his head. "No one pays a desperate driver large money for random murders without purpose."
He slid one photograph across the table. It showed one of the dead victims entering a station two nights before death.
"Look at this."
Alexander leaned closer. "What am I supposed to see?"
"The same black coat appears in all three victim timelines."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. In the background, near the station entrance, a dark figure stood partially hidden.
"You think that is the person who hired him?"
Murphy nodded once. "Maybe. Or someone watching."
A knock came at the apartment door.
Alexander opened it and found two police officers outside.
"Mr. Lawden?" one officer asked. "Inspector Reeve wants to see you immediately."
Murphy stood up without surprise. "Another death?"
The officer hesitated. "Yes."
The location was near the Thames, beneath an old bridge where fog gathered thick above the river. Police lights flashed against the wet stone walls. Officers stood in uneasy silence around the scene.
A fourth body.
This time the victim was a young man, sitting upright against the wall as if resting, eyes open, expression frozen in terror. No wound. No visible injury. His hands were placed neatly on his knees.
Murphy crouched beside the body without speaking.
Inspector Reeve approached. "This happened less than two hours ago."
Murphy studied the victim's fingers. "No struggle again."
"Same conclusion?" Reeve asked bitterly. "Another suicide?"
Murphy touched the cold stone beside the body. His eyes narrowed.
"No."
Alexander stepped closer. "What is it?"
Murphy pointed at the ground. A faint chalk line, almost invisible in the damp surface, circled the body.
"This was prepared."
Reeve frowned. "Prepared?"
"Someone positioned him here after death."
One officer suddenly called out from nearby. "Sir, CCTV camera across the bridge."
Murphy looked up immediately. "Get me the footage."
Half an hour later they were inside a small control office reviewing the recording.
At first the bridge remained empty. Then, at 2:13 a.m., a taxi stopped briefly.
Alexander leaned forward. "The same driver?"
Murphy watched carefully. The same vehicle. Same plate number.
The victim stepped out alone. The taxi remained there for twelve seconds. Then another figure entered the frame. Tall. Black coat. Face hidden beneath a hood.
The footage flickered.
Then suddenly the screen distorted.
When the image returned, the victim was already sitting dead against the wall, and the hooded figure was gone.
No one in the room spoke for several seconds.
Reeve broke the silence first. "That's impossible."
Murphy kept staring at the frozen frame. "Pause."
The image stopped.
Murphy moved closer to the screen. In the reflection of the river water beside the bridge, something faint appeared behind the hooded figure—another shape, almost human, almost unreal.
Alexander noticed it too. "What is that?"
Murphy's expression hardened. "Someone else was there."
"Another person?"
Murphy did not answer immediately.
"No," he said at last. "Not exactly."
Outside the station, rain began falling lightly. Murphy stepped into the street and looked toward the river.
Alexander followed. "You think Anafabula?"
Murphy remained silent.
Then he spoke quietly. "No. Anafabula wants attention. This is cleaner than her methods."
"Then who?"
Murphy looked at the fog ahead.
"The one behind her."
They returned to the apartment late in the afternoon. Murphy placed the taxi records beside the new case file.
"The driver picked up all four victims," Alexander said.
"Yes."
"But each death happened differently."
Murphy nodded. "Because he only delivers them."
Alexander frowned. "Then why does he continue?"
Murphy looked at the file showing the driver's children in hospital records.
"Fear," he said.
That evening Murphy insisted they go out again.
"To where?" Alexander asked while putting on his coat.
"The taxi route."
They stood near a narrow road in South London for almost forty minutes before Murphy finally saw the taxi again.
This time he did not chase immediately.
He waited.
The taxi stopped outside an apartment building. A man entered.
Murphy followed on foot, staying across the street.
Alexander whispered, "Now?"
"Not yet."
The taxi moved again through several streets until it stopped near an old warehouse district.
The passenger stepped out. But before he could take three steps, a black-coated figure appeared from the darkness beside the warehouse wall.
Alexander froze. "There!"
Murphy moved instantly.
He crossed the street fast, but before reaching them, the black figure vanished into the fog as if swallowed by air itself.
The passenger collapsed to his knees, shaking violently but still alive.
Murphy caught him before he hit the ground.
"Look at me," Murphy ordered. "What did you see?"
The man's lips trembled. "A face… no face… it was nothing… standing there…"
Then he lost consciousness.
The taxi driver stepped out of his vehicle, terrified.
"I didn't do anything! I swear, I only drove him here!"
Murphy looked directly at him. "Who pays you?"
The driver's face turned pale.
"I don't know his name."
"Describe him."
"He calls from different numbers… leaves money under my seat… says if I stop, my children die."
Alexander stared. "You never saw his face?"
"Only once… black coat… gloves… voice like…"
He stopped suddenly.
"Like what?" Murphy asked.
The driver swallowed hard.
"Like someone speaking behind him."
Murphy's eyes sharpened.
Behind him.
That detail mattered.
A sound echoed from the warehouse roof above them.
Murphy looked up instantly.
For one brief second, a pale figure stood there watching.
Anafabula.
Her eyes reflected the streetlight like glass.
Then she smiled and disappeared into darkness again.
Alexander whispered, "She's mocking us."
Murphy looked at the roof long after she vanished.
"No," he said quietly. "She wants us to look up… because the real answer is somewhere else."
The rain became heavier.
Back at the apartment, Murphy opened the city map again.
He placed four pins into four murder sites.
Then he drew lines between them.
Alexander watched in silence.
The lines formed something strange.
A symbol.
Murphy leaned back slowly.
"This was never random."
"What symbol is that?" Alexander asked.
Murphy stared at it for several seconds before answering.
"A message."
"For who?"
Murphy looked toward the dark window.
"For me."