Arthur Pendelton's study had become a ghost station, an analogue island in a digital sea. Printouts of evidence were taped over the bookshelves, covering titles on Roman history with the grim faces of the recently deceased. Two non-networked laptops, brought in by Harris, sat on the dead headmaster's mahogany desk, powered by a portable generator that hummed a low, constant drone from the hallway—a sound that did nothing to disturb the oppressive quiet of the house.
DI Miles Corbin paced the worn Persian rug, a path already becoming visible from his relentless circuits. The entire setup felt absurd, like something from a Cold War spy film. He was a suspended senior officer leading a team of two: a loyal DC who kept nervously glancing at the door as if expecting uniformed officers to burst in, and an academic who seemed more interested in Arthur's pottery collection than the five murders they were supposed to be solving.
"Anything?" Corbin asked, stopping his pacing to look at Harris.
"Still digging, Guv," Harris replied, not looking up from his screen. "Trying to find a new link between the vics that's appeared since Julian Croft's death six months ago. So far? Nothing. It's like they all fell off a cliff on the same day."
Dr. Evelyn Reed looked up from a pottery shard she was examining. "That's because you're looking in the wrong direction, Inspector. You're searching for the next chapter when you haven't fully understood the last one."
Corbin felt a prickle of irritation but held it in check. He needed her. "Alright, Evelyn. The floor is yours. We've established Julian Croft was the blueprint, not the vessel. We know he died six months ago. The question remains: what the hell are they building this 'perfect soul' in?"
"Let's start with a simpler question," she said, setting the shard down carefully. "Why didn't The Architect simply crush Alani Costa's skull? Why the elaborate, brutal breaking of her limbs? Why did The Pathfinder hunt Ben Carter for hours when he could have killed him at the start of the trail?"
"The showcase," Corbin answered immediately. "The artistry. To demonstrate their skill."
"Precisely," Reed said, her eyes glinting. "Their skill. You're focusing on the what—the harvested trait—but you're underestimating the importance of the how. The performance. When a Renaissance master decided to paint his magnum opus, a grand altarpiece, did he just start painting? No. He spent years on preliminary work. He'd make dozens of charcoal studies of a hand, a fold of cloth, a facial expression. Each sketch was a rehearsal, a perfecting of a single, crucial element before attempting it on the final canvas."
She let the metaphor hang in the air. Harris had stopped typing and was listening intently.
"You've been assuming that each murder was solely for the purpose of harvesting a trait," she continued. "But what if that was only half the reason? What if each murder was also a rehearsal?"
The pieces began to fall into place in Corbin's mind, forming a picture far more monstrous than he had imagined.
"The Oculist didn't just take an eye," Reed pressed, her voice low and intense. "He perfected the art of taking an eye with a specific, antique surgical knife. The Architect wasn't just breaking bones; he was mastering the deconstruction of a flawless physical form. The Pathfinder was honing his ability to inspire pure, primal terror. The Echo, the erasure of an identity. The Puppeteer, the complete subjugation of a formidable will. They were all in training."
Miles walked to the wall where they had pinned the five victims' photos. He looked at their faces, no longer seeing them as just victims, but as ingredients. Studies. Sketches. He felt a wave of nausea.
"Practice for what, Evelyn?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "What's the final canvas?"
Dr. Reed's expression was graver than he had ever seen it. She stood up and walked over to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on the five faces.
"They've gathered their components. They've perfected their individual methods. There is no 'Plan B', Inspector. Julian Croft's death wasn't a setback; it was the starting gun for the final phase of the project."
She turned to look at him.
"They're preparing to perform all five 'harvests' at once, or in sequence. They are not building a soul in something. They are preparing to build it from someone."
She paused, letting the final, terrible conclusion land with the weight of a tombstone.
"They are going to create their perfect being by deconstructing a single, living person."