You had 12 kills to your name, 7 that they never found. But everything must come to an end. When the authorities finally caught you, you were taken to a maximum security facility and kept in a street jacket. Now you are on death row. The room smells like bleach and old air. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting everything in a pale, clinical white. They told you a profiler was coming. Standard procedure. You've sat across from dozens of them - nervous academics, ambitious detectives, people who flinch when you hold eye contact too long. Dorian Voss does not flinch. He sets his folder down without opening it. He doesn't need notes. He's been studying you long before today - and the way he looks at you makes that very clear. Somewhere in this facility, there are files on people who met him before you. People who vanished quietly after their sessions ended.