You do not need to live in the sky to be a god. Sometimes, standing right in the middle of hell with a high-vis vest on you and pruning shears in your hand is enough. Yekta felt exactly like this as he entered through the massive iron gates of the Bozyaka Provincial Police Headquarters. While the whole city, the Izmir police, helicopters, and patrol vehicles were desperately searching every corner for a dead boy; the real monster was walking right into the heart of the Homicide Bureau on his own two feet, just to prune the overgrown boxwoods in the courtyard of the Police Headquarters. He was on the routine landscaping team of the Izmir Metropolitan Municipality. The guards at the gate simply checked Yekta's ID, looked with pity at that pathetic, exhausted worker posture on his shoulders, and opened the barrier. When Yekta stepped into the courtyard of the Police Headquarters with his tool bag—which contained that bloody crescent pocketknife and the match to Defne's pearl earring—butterflies were fluttering in his stomach. This was not fear; it was that pure, morbid pleasure brought by a flawless arrogance. It was noon. Yekta was mowing the lawn with the motorized string trimmer in his hand, right in front of the ground floor windows of the Homicide Bureau. Just behind the glass, he could see Chief Inspector Aylin's scattered desk, her shouting fervently on the phone, and those "Elite Killer" diagrams she had pinned to the board. While wiping his sweat on this side of the glass, Yekta was bursting with laughter inside. Aylin's arrogant mind had become so blind that she couldn't even hear the sound of the trimmer right under her nose. He turned off the motor and put the trimmer on the ground. Taking the curved branch shears from his tool bag, he began to prune the red roses next to the main entrance stairs of the Police Headquarters. Right at that moment, the automatic glass doors of the Police Headquarters slid open. Yekta's hands froze on the thorny stem of the rose. The woman coming down the stairs was the absolute embodiment of perfection. The Press and Public Relations Officer of the Police Headquarters, Deputy Inspector Hale... Her chestnut hair fell sharply to her shoulders; her pointed jawline and cold, green eyes gave her a statuesque elegance. Even the crisp, perfectly ironed navy-blue police uniform on her could not hide her mesmerizing aura. Holding a file in her hand, she was descending the stairs with quick and authoritative steps. Yekta's eyes locked onto the woman's neck, onto that smooth, swan-like white skin visible from the collar of her uniform. His mind had instantly started drawing that bloody, aesthetic half-moon cut on that skin. The rarest of orchids had bloomed not in his own junkyard, but right in the enemy's fortress. As Hale walked down the stairs in her high-heeled boots, the wind lifted the woman's hair. Yekta took a step forward under the spell of that moment. As Hale passed by him, she was absentmindedly about to step into the wet mud right next to the rosebushes Yekta was pruning. "Be careful, chief." Yekta's rough, exhausted, but equally calm voice stopped Hale's step mid-air. Hale paused and turned her head. Right beside her stood an ordinary municipal worker with a bandaged neck, holding pruning shears. Yekta slightly bowed his head, respectfully lowering his eyes to the ground. He was displaying a flawless act of submissiveness. "The soil is very slippery," said Yekta, pointing at the mud puddle on the ground with the shears in his hand. "Let those beautiful boots of yours not get dirty." Hale smiled slightly at this thoughtful warning of the man. This smile blooming on that cold, formal face absolutely drove the dark artist inside Yekta crazy. "Thank you," Hale said, in a polite but distant voice. "Have a good shift." Hale walked around without stepping in the mud and continued walking towards the police vehicles. As Yekta watched the woman leave, he slowly straightened up. That pathetic worker posture he had lowered his head into disappeared. That void in his eyes was replaced by a predatory, bottomless darkness. He was holding the pruning shears in his hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The steel blades of the shears slowly opened and closed with the rhythm of Hale's footsteps. "You are welcome, chief," Yekta whispered, behind the woman's back. Behind the glass, Aylin was getting ready to jump from her desk and rush outside with the latest "Cem Taşkın spotted" dispatch coming from the radio. While the entire department was chasing the fake ghost Yekta had created, Yekta stood in the garden of the Police Headquarters, having already chosen his next masterpiece. The risk was incredible. It was even suicide. Targeting the press spokesperson of the homicide bureau meant taking on the entire state. But Yekta was no longer just a serial killer; he was a god in love with his own invincibility. And gods do not take risks, they write fate. The new "harvest" had begun. Moreover, this time the hunting ground was directly inside the lion's den. 1234 copyright protection25ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0M9hvBnhnY 尼

216.73.216.48