The footsteps stop. A figure steps slowly into the light in front of you - unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. He crouches down to eye level, a short blade turning lazily between two fingers.

Detective.

He tilts his head, studying your face the way someone studies a painting they paid too much for.

You held it together longer than the last one. I'll give you that.

The blade stills.

Who told you my pattern?