"Breathe."

Bodie's deep voice cut through the deafening buzz in Zayne's head. It was a balm to his fracturing mind. His thoughts quieted and his body froze. The young detective said the word again. And again. Each time his voice sank deeper into Zayne's psyche. That simple word repeated with unexpected understanding held such a soothing warmth that Zayne couldn't believe it was spoken by a man who seemed as cold as a living ice sculpture.

His feet refused to listen to the screaming voices in his head telling him to get out of there. Even if they had, he doubted he would've been able to get past the man standing in front of him. When Bodie started guiding him through his breaths, the only thing Zayne's heart wanted was to keep listening to the detective's comforting tone. He wanted to lose himself in that breathy voice, never to be found again.

But it wasn't just Bodie's voice that had Zayne frozen and unable to move. The detective's golden eyes staring back at him held unspoken words of compassion and conviction.

Concentrating on the even intonation of Bodie's commands, Zayne approached the long table where Captain Harris had laid out the glossy photos. Yet not once did his eyes leave the young detective's intense gaze.

For some inexplicable reason, Bodie's sole focus on him lessened his anxiety. Even though Zayne protested the detective's presence at first, he now found himself unwilling to go through this without the young man by his side. Which is why, when Bodie silently asked for permission to come closer, Zayne nodded with relief. He closed his eyes and heard the baritone voice behind him murmur 'breathe' again. Without a moment's hesitation, Zayne obeyed.

And then he opened his eyes.

Zayne stifled the scream tearing out of his throat with his fist. His teeth bit down on his flesh so hard it left marks. Tears welled up in his eyes and he fought to blink them away. He could not do this in front of the officers, in front of Bodie. Once he got back to the safety of his apartment, then he would allow his emotions to consume him until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

But not here. Never here.

His exhausted body shook as he briefly glanced over the photos one by one. He was physically torn between his obligation to help and his revulsion at what he was seeing. When his eyes landed on the fifth picture, Zayne couldn't stop the whimpered gasp that slipped between his pale lips.

It was too much. He needed to get out of there.

As soon as he took a step back, Harris and Porter instinctively moved closer to him.

Why wouldn't they leave him alone? Why wouldn't they let him leave?

Zayne knew the answer. It wasn't that the two senior officers were preventing him from leaving, it was that they didn't want him hurting himself. Not again. Their guilt drove them to protect him, to watch over him. But Zayne hated their protection. It was suffocating and made him feel even more helpless than he already felt.

Gathering what remained of his sanity, Zayne took another look at the photos. He needed to understand whatever clue the killer had left for him so he could wake up from this endless nightmare he was trapped in.

The woman in the photo was Miss Stanton's roommate who went missing a few days ago. There wasn't a single bruise or cut on her body aside from the wound on her left arm. The skin from her elbow to her wrist had been expertly sliced into thin strips and delicately peeled backwards. The murderer had folded, twisted, and sewn the skin into the shape of a flower.

A corsage. A red rose.

Zayne felt the burn in his chest as his stomach turned inside out. He placed his hands flat against the desk, his head hung low. He shoved that photo off the desk to look at the next one. This one was of the woman's eyes. They were stitched open and covered with liquid mercury. He gagged on the bile surging up his throat and turned away.

This wasn't the first victim to have silver eyes. The initial victim with mutilated eyes was a young asian man with similar facial features to Zayne. He was found in his apartment just outside city limits a few months ago. His landlord had received a call to fix a leak and found the man lying in bed as if he had simply fallen asleep.

As soon as Detective Porter had seen the victim, he realized the game had changed. Somehow, the killer had learned that Zayne was assisting with the case and, for reasons unknown to them, the sick fuck was luring the sketch artist deeper into their bloody darkness. It was around the same time that Zayne's visions of the murderer suddenly became more frequent and detailed. That night, everyone was forced to accept the fact that there was no turning back for Zayne.

"Breathe."

Bodie's voice pulled Zayne back from the precipice of madness he was about to fall into. The young detective came and stood beside him, his presence strangely calming.

"Breathe."

Zayne did as Bodie said, unable to resist the voice that offered him serenity. He listened to every syllable, every inflection of the word the young man kept repeating. He concentrated on the tone of Bodie's voice. His mind imagined how the detective's lips came together to form the "B" sound and his tongue and teeth worked together to end in the softest "th" whisper.

Closing his eyes, Zayne ignored all his senses except the one that begged to hear the young detective say that uncomplicated command over and over again. In fact, he shut out every sound around him except Bodie's hypnotic voice. It was a technique Zayne had self-taught himself whenever he was having a panic attack.

However, until now, no one else had come close to understanding the paralyzing complexity of Zayne's crazed mind. Yet here was a young man whom he had never met that seemed to know exactly what his soul needed.

Zayne stiffened as Bodie leaned in closer until their arms touched. He felt the detective's warm steadiness and looked up at the young detective's face.

How could Bodie look at these pictures and still maintain his indifferent expression? He was looking at the same images Zayne was staring at so why was there not even an eye twitch or clenched jaw line on the detective's young face? Had Bodie detached himself so much from his emotions that he felt nothing when presented with horrors like this?

Zayne found himself resting against the detective, hungering for the stability this man possessed.

"Mr. Matthews, can you tell me what that is?" Bodie asked quietly.

"What what is?"

"Those letters. Carved into her fingernails. See?"

Bodie singled out the photo in which the top of the woman's right hand was easily seen. He pointed specifically to her broken and dirty fingernails.

Zayne slid the picture in front of him. He leaned over it, his longer hair falling into his eyes. Brushing the strands out of his way, he took a closer look at the image but still couldn't see what the young detective was drawing his attention to.

"Hold on." Captain Harris said before rushing out of the conference room. In seconds, he was back holding a magnifying glass that looked like it had seen its fair share of police work along with its owner.

"What can I say? I'm old fashioned," he answered with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

Using the glass to enlarge the woman's fingertips in the photo, Bodie and Zayne leaned in together for a better view. Etched into her thumb and fingers were tiny, faint letters. They were pressed haphazardly into the bright nail polish she wore, possibly by either a sharp object or the killer's own nails.

Bodie looked around until he found a blank piece of paper. Tracing his own hand, he copied the letters onto his corresponding fingers on the paper.

Thumb: 3 E's

Pointer: 3 G's

Middle: 4 A's

Pinky: 2 C's

"How did you...?" Zayne asked, lifting his head to look at the man next to him.

With a tilt of his head, Bodie answered, "I'm good at what I do."

For a second, Zayne thought he saw a faint smile on the young detective's lips. But when he blinked, it was gone. That is, if it was ever there at all.

Now, all four men huddled around the drawing, trying to put the letters in some sort of order that made sense. Zayne blinked back tears that were still threatening to spill over. This was something new. Something he had not noticed before. Something no one had noticed. Why would the coroner not say anything? Or was this a new tactic of the killer?

"I can't figure it out," Detective Porter barked in frustration.

"Why are there no letters on her ring finger?" Harris wondered.

"Were these markings on other victims?" Bodie asked.

"Not that we know of," replied the Captain. "But I'll have our coroner go back over our records immediately and double check."

While the three police officers stepped away from the table to talk quietly amongst themselves, Zayne fumbled through the rest of the pictures. Before he finished looking at all of them, however, his eyes glazed over and there was a faint ringing in his ears.

A vision was coming. And coming fast.

Damnit!

Stopping it was out of the question. He never could.

Reaching out blindly, he whispered, "Captain."

The chief spun on his heels just in time to catch a stumbling Zayne. Detective Porter shoved Bodie out of the way so the two older men could safely push Zayne into one of the black office chairs at the table. They both crouched on either side of their sketch artist, keeping him upright and murmuring encouraging words in his ear.

Bodie's face flooded with confusion. He watched as Zayne was backed into the nearest seat by his two senior officers. A paralyzing helplessness came crashing down on him as he watched the musician practically collapse in the older men's arms. He stared in shock as the sketch artist's eyes suddenly became blank and unaware. Bodie's entire body shook, his heart so heavy in his chest he could not find his next breath.

"Water. Now!" Detective Porter snapped at him.

Not knowing what was happening or what else to do, Bodie darted out of the room and raced to the kitchen. By the time he returned, Zayne was once again alert and leaning back in the chair with the heels of his hands covering his eyes.

"Drink," Bodie said, offering the water to the unsteady musician.

Zayne's shaky hands fell from his head. He lifted his right hand and took the cup from the young detective. The cold liquid felt good on his dry throat. He was exhausted. Too tired to care anymore. He sat up, hunched over, and stared at the floor. Deep breaths kept the bile in his stomach but they didn't help his turbulent emotions.

Captain Harris placed a hand on Zayne's shoulder. "We'll see if any of the other victims might have had similar letters on their hands. If we find anything, we'll let you know. For now, go home and get some rest."

Zayne nodded and stood. It was a mechanical motion that Bodie had seen before in traumatized victims. He watched the musician, whose bloodshot eyes never looked up, make his way towards the door with sluggish steps.

"Sir, shouldn't someone drive him home? He doesn't look good," the young detective pointed out. His eyes followed Zayne until the piano player disappeared from his view.

Detective Porter sighed deeply. "He'll be fine."

"But sir, he..."

"He just needs time, Detective Hale." Harris said, his words laced with a warning to stay away from the sketch artist.

You're wrong, Bodie thought. He's running out of time.

"The quickest way to run out of time is to think you have enough of it." - Stewart Stafford