On the rooftop of an old textile warehouse, the city sprawled below like a circuit board of light and shadow. The wind carried the smell of wet concrete and diesel fuel.

Somewhere down there, a door would soon open. A light would flicker on. A man would pour himself a drink, settle into his chair, and never notice the shape moving through the dark outside his window.

The black flower weighed almost nothing in the pocket of a dark coat.

The city had a name for its ghost. The Black Dahlia. Three years of silence. Thirty-one victims. Zero evidence.

Tonight would make thirty-two.

Below, a sedan pulled into the driveway of a modest house on Meridian Lane. The engine cut. A man in a wrinkled suit stepped out, briefcase in hand, rubbing his temples like the day had cost him something.

Dr. Elias Crane. Therapist. Trusted confidant to the powerful. Knew where the bodies were buried—sometimes literally.

He paused at his front door, key in hand, and glanced over his shoulder.

For a moment, he stared directly up at the rooftop.

Just a shadow against the skyline. Nothing more.

He went inside.

The rain continued to fall.