The buzzing of his cell phone was a jackhammer cutting through Zayne's hungover brain. He mindlessly hit the small device several times pleading with it to stop but it wouldn't listen. His fingers couldn't seem to find the off button so he ended up throwing the damn thing across the room to make it stop. After lying in bed a few minutes cursing himself and his current situation, he sat up to find his phone. That's when the world began its nauseating spin and the contents of his stomach began their ascent. Quickly stumbling into the bathroom, he worshiped the porcelain god.

Twice.

Crawling into the shower on his hands and knees, Zayne turned the water on and sat down under its cold waterfall. He breathed heavily trying to will his body back to sobriety as he lifted his head to accept his punishment. Once the fog began lifting and his mind started clearing, he stood sluggishly and removed his wet clothes.

He looked at them puddled at the back of the shower floor, suddenly realizing they were the same clothes he had on last night when he left his apartment.

How did I get home? What the hell happened?

So many questions jostled inside his throbbing head as he finished washing the liquor from last night and the vomit from this morning off his aching body. He thanked whatever deity was listening that it was summer and there were no children for him to teach today.

His body numb and thoughts clear, he turned the shower off and toweled himself dry before collapsing back in bed. Pulling the red sheets and black comforter over his chilled naked body, he drifted back to sleep in a matter of seconds.

When he awoke the second time, Zayne looked at the nightstand in search of his phone. But, instead of laying eyes on what he thought was there, he saw things that should not have been there.

A bottle of water, a pack of electrolyte drink tablets, and a box of crackers all sat neatly arranged on top of the cluttered table. There was a small piece of paper tucked under the bottle of water that simply read 'Please'. Zayne looked around his room and listened for signs of another person in his apartment but everything was still and silent. Just like it always was.

He had to make sure, though, so he called out hesitantly.

"Hello?"

Only the sound of midtown traffic and the low hum of his air conditioning answered back. Figuring one of his friends had helped him home, he made a promise to thank them the next time they met and plopped one of the tablets into the water. He drank slowly, testing his stomach's acceptance of the liquid concoction. Next, he opened the box of wheat crackers, put one to his mouth, and started nibbling on it.

As he nursed himself, he saw his phone lying on the floor by his closet. Moving slowly, Zayne retrieved his now forgiven device and immediately returned to his nest of rumpled bed coverings. He lifted the phone and waited for facial recognition.

"Twenty-seven messages? What the hell?!"

And it wasn't just his messaging app that had numbers next to it. Clicking on the phone icon, he quickly realized that Chris had called him four times before resorting to text messages. Most of the texts were from Chris but there were others scattered in as well. As he scrolled through the list, he began to put the pieces of last night's puzzle together.

His friends were not the ones who brought him home.

Did you make it home ok?

Just hit any key to let me know you're still alive.

Hey Sketch, come on. I'm really worried. Send me something, please.

That guy better not have done anything to you or he's going to have the whole force on his ass!

That guy? What guy?

Zayne shook his head, trying to jog his memory. It wasn't helpful. In fact, it was a grievous mistake. Pain pierced his still throbbing head and his hands shot up to his temples. He groaned, hating himself for being so stupid last night. But he had accomplished exactly what he had wanted to do.

He had forgotten. Apparently, more than he thought.

Zayne struggled to remember something, anything. He tried replaying the events from start to finish. He definitely remembered playing the piano and rolled his eyes at himself for being a showoff. Leaving the bar was fuzzy and walking outside was disjointed and riddled with holes. He had no memory of where he and the others ended up. Colored lights and loud music were the only things his mind was kind enough to share with him.

This was bad.

What had happened that Chris was so worried about him? Who did he leave with? And who left the tablets and crackers for him?

At least he was still dressed when he woke up. Maybe someone the guys knew helped him back. No. If they had known him, Chris would not have texted asking about "that guy".

Chris's messages stopped at around 3 am and Zayne assumed the poor guy must have finally fallen asleep or passed out himself. Unsure if his friend was working, he decided to keep his response short.

Alive.

Going back to his message list, Zayne's thumb hovered over one number in particular. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it as he clicked on the familiar number.

Come to the precinct as soon as you get this message.

Zayne tossed his phone onto the bed and held his head. His long fingers wove through his thick black hair, pulling on the strands with anguish. Tears burned their way through his clenched eyelids. His chest tightened until it was too hard to breathe.

Hundreds of images flashed through his mind. Images that twisted his insides and warped his mind. Images of victims who had been turned into personal messages from the killer. Messages sent by a psychopath that seemed fascinated with him and his gift. Messages that were meant only for Zayne to decipher.

Yet despite all his horrifying visions and gruesome clues left by the murderer, he had yet to solve any of the puzzles created for him out of innocent people. People who were strangers to him until they became another name on their list. Six months and Zayne still had no idea why this connection had formed between him and the killer or how to stop the madman from plaguing the city.

He wanted to scream and never stop. He wanted to run away and never be found. He wanted to hide and never come out.

But all these things were impossible.

So, Zayne did the only thing he could. He got dressed and headed downtown towards the police station.

When he arrived, Detective Porter and Captain Harris were conducting another meeting for the second shift of officers that would be on patrol that evening. Zayne watched from outside, unwilling to be the center of attention again. His bloodshot eyes searched for the young officers from the previous night. But when he failed to find even one of them, he assumed they were already out serving the community or had the day off.

Why wasn't he lucky enough to get the day off?

The crackers he had eaten an hour ago were already a distant memory to his poisoned stomach. Zayne still felt queasy and the ibuprofen tablets he took two hours ago were already beginning to wear off.

His gray eyes moved aimlessly over the attentive officer's faces in the room. He recognized most of them, of course. Yet, there was someone in the back of the room he did not know. That officer was dressed in street clothes which usually signified a higher rank. But he was so young that Zayne wondered what his rank could possibly be. He couldn't have been more than a third year.

The man's head was down, blocking Zayne's view of his face. He was holding his phone in his hand but didn't seem to be using it in any way. He was just staring at the screen. A part of Zayne desperately wanted to see who this person was who sat as still as a statue. Something deep within him forced his hand to reach out and turn the doorknob. He pushed the door open slowly so he could get a better look at the man in the worn leather jacket.

All eyes fell on him yet Zayne failed to notice. His focus was centered entirely on the man that called to his soul. The man who slowly lifted his head and looked directly at him with the most stunning golden eyes. Zayne stopped and turned away under the intensity of the gaze aimed at him.

"In order to help us track down this maniac," Captain Harris continued. "We've asked Detective Bodie Hale from D.C. to assist us,"

Two dozen heads turned to look at the young man in the back who gave everyone a simple nod of acknowledgement. His face remained expressionless, even when his eyes found Zayne staring at him again.

"Now, I know what you're all thinking," Detective Porter continued. "Yes, he's young for a detective. But let me tell you. In the past six years, this man has helped the police in D.C. catch two serial killers in addition to one in New York City. He's helped other various precincts in the northeast apprehend five multiple victim murderers. He knows how they think, what makes them tick. I asked him to take a look at our case and he graciously agreed. So please, give him anything he needs, answer any questions he has, and make him feel like one of our team."

"Meeting dismissed," Captain Harris announced somewhat abruptly.

Zayne knew that meant everyone but him so he stayed in place until everyone left the conference room. Everyone, that is, except for Detective Hale.

The young man remained sitting in the back, his unreadable expression puzzling to Zayne. The detective looked as if he would shoot anyone who tried to make friends with him. Or even talk to him, for that matter. When Detective Hale stood and started walking towards the front of the room, Zayne's heart stuttered in his chest. The way the detective walked was fluid beauty. He exuded a dominating confidence that Zayne was inexplicably drawn to.

"Both of you. My office," Detective Porter ordered.

Zayne was confused. Why was the young detective also coming along? Shouldn't he be out talking to the other officers, gathering information on the killer? If Detective Porter and Captain Harris were going to show him what he suspected, no one had ever been in the room with them before. It was unsettling for Zayne.

What if he had a vision? It happened before, multiple times. And there was no way he was going to expose his talent to a cold-hearted brat who would probably dismiss his visions as "fake" or "crazy".

At the click of the door closing behind them, Zayne glared at Bodie, then turned to the two men in charge of the investigation.

"Why is he here? Does he have to be here? I don't want him present if you're going to show me photos. I don't want him to see..."

"Hold your horses, Matthews," Detective Porter said calmly. "Detective Hale is here because, from now on, whatever you see, he sees. Whatever you draw, he looks at first. Whatever you know, he knows."

Zayne's jaw dropped. "I-I don't understand. We agreed..."

"That was before we knew what kind of monster we were dealing with. Now, we need all the help we can get. And he's it."

Zayne glanced over at the youngest detective he had ever seen. He looked into those topaz eyes that, for some reason, softened his anger. They flickered warm then cold and he wondered how one man could feel such opposite emotions at one time.

"I don't want him here. I refuse to look at anything until he leaves," Zayne demanded emphatically. He crossed his arms and huffed, not caring that he was acting like a spoiled toddler in front of grown men.

Bodie walked over to where Zayne stood, their toes almost touching. He was slightly shorter than the sketch artist but his shoulders were broader, his body more muscular, giving him the appearance of being the bigger man.

With a lift of an eyebrow and a cock of his head, Bodie replied, "What you want doesn't matter anymore, Mr. Matthews. What matters is catching this psychopath before they kill again. I don't know what you have against me being here but I'm not leaving. In fact, from now on, I'm your personal shadow. So, I suggest you put on your big girl panties and suck it up, buttercup. Because, whether you like it or not, we're partners."

"Did you ever stop to think that even if I am a monster, I might be your soulmate anyway?" – Julie Johnson