When the human body becomes a message board, every missing piece tells a story you’ll wish you never read. Dare to finish it?
Flash Fiction Prompt:
The room reeked of metal and roses—the scent of death dressed for company.
He examined the body. Her ring finger was sliced off, the same as the previous five dead women. But this time, the cut was neater. Cleaner. Almost… practiced.
A note rested where the finger once was, folded into a crimson square. He slipped on gloves and opened it. “I’m learning,” it read. “You’ll see perfection soon.”
The handwriting sent a jolt through him—it was his own.
He froze, his pulse pounding in his ears. In the corner, a camera lens blinked once, like an eye winking in the dark. The detective turned, scanning the shadows, but the faintest whisper reached him first.
“Don’t be late for your own turn, detective.”
Reader Question:
If you were the detective, and you saw your own handwriting on that note… what would you do next?
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