2 hours ago
Book One
Forty – five year old Detective Sebastian Ryan opens the door of his squad car and steps out as a light mist of rain falls at an angle from the dark starless sky. The alleyway was lit only by a lone streetlight; while the red and blue lights from the other squad cars that were also on scene made red and blue erratic patterns on the walls and grassy lawns of the nearby houses. He stands there beside his car while his coat and hat slowly get wet and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. He bangs the cigarette pack onto his wrist and pulls a lone cigarette out. Putting the pack back into his pocket he then reaches for his lighter. Lighting the cigarette up, he locks his vehicle and slowly makes his way past the police tape to where the other officers are standing.
The officers stood there, in silence as they peered down at a small lifeless body
Sebastian: What do you have here?
Officer Kenny: Child, male, around six years of age
Officer Markus turned towards Detective Sebastian, his face was pale and emotionless; as if he had seen some unseen horror.
Markus: Don't know what happened, all I know is some sick bastard sliced this poor kid up.
Detective Sebastian squatted down onto the wet ground to take a closer look at the body. The body was indeed that of a young child – His clothes were torn to shreds; he laid naked in a pool of blood, water, guts and excrement. A horrible foul stench permeated off of the body, as if it had been there for a while. The detective quickly rose to his feet to get away from the horrible smell.
Sebastian: Jesus fucking Christ how long has this body been laying here.
Markus: The neighbors just noticed it, they claim it wasn’t here this afternoon.
Sebastian: it smells like he had been dead for a while, do you think the body was dumped off?
Kenny: Don’t know yet the lab boys are on their way to take samples and photos.
Sebastian: Who found the body?
Markus: The neighbor, he was taking the trash out and smelled the odor.
Sebastian: So he didn’t see or hear anything today to correspond to this.
Markus: No, but we did find something.
Sebastian: Yeah, what is it?
Markus: This little kid had a tattoo.
Sebastian: A tattoo? Who let’s their six year old get a fucking tattoo?
Markus: Don’t know, we do know that the only thing we can ID the kid with.
Sebastian: So call all the tattoo shops up and see if they did the job, what was it a tattoo of?
Markus: The tattoo was that of the number 16.
The rain seemed to thicken after Markus said it, as if the sky itself didn’t like the number.
Sebastian stared down at the body again. Six years old. Maybe younger. The skin around the tattoo was raw, inflamed, as if it hadn’t healed properly—or as if it had been done recently, hurriedly.
Sebastian: Where was it?
Markus: Inside the left wrist.
Sebastian crouched again, forcing himself to ignore the smell. He gently lifted the boy’s arm. The tattoo was crude. Black ink. Uneven lines. No flourish. Just the number.
16
Sebastian felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Sebastian: That wasn’t done at a shop.
Kenny: That’s what we figured.
Sebastian stood slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. He’d been a cop long enough to know the difference between violence born of rage and violence born of purpose. This wasn’t random. This was careful. Too careful.
Sebastian: Bag the area. I want canvassing pushed out three blocks in every direction. Somebody saw something—even if they don’t know they did.
Markus nodded but didn’t move right away.
Markus: Detective… this isn’t the first one.
Sebastian’s hands stopped.
Sebastian: What do you mean, not the first one?
Markus swallowed. Rain traced lines down his face, making him look like he was sweating fear.
Markus: There was another body last month. Different district. Same age range. Same… markings.
Sebastian: Why the hell wasn’t I notified?
Markus: Different jurisdiction. Ruled a runaway at first. No tattoo noticed until autopsy.
Sebastian felt the cigarette between his fingers burn down to the filter. He dropped it into a puddle and crushed it under his heel.
Sebastian: And the number?
Markus hesitated.
Markus: Fifteen.
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the rain and the faint crackle of radios murmuring things that didn’t matter.
Sebastian: Get me the case file. Tonight.
Markus: Yes sir.
Sebastian turned away from the body, but the image followed him anyway. Numbers. Children. Sequence.
A count.
Back in his car, Sebastian sat with the engine off, rain tapping against the windshield like fingers asking to be let in. He didn’t start the car right away. He just sat there, staring through the glass, watching the red and blue lights smear into colorless streaks.
He thought of his own son.
Six years old. Same age. Same wrists.
Sebastian reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a worn photograph. His boy at the lake, grinning, holding a fish he was too proud of.
He closed the compartment hard.
The file arrived at his apartment just after midnight.
Two previous victims.
Both male.
Both between five and seven.
Both found within hours of death.
Both bearing numbers tattooed on the wrist.
15.
14.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair.
They were counting down.
The question wasn’t why yet.
The question was to what.
He didn’t sleep.
At 3:17 a.m., his phone rang.
Sebastian: Ryan.
Voice on the other end, low, controlled: Detective Sebastian Ryan. You’re not hard to find.
Sebastian straightened.
Sebastian: Who is this?
Voice: Someone who wanted to make sure you were paying attention.
Sebastian: You calling to confess?
A pause. Then a soft laugh.
Voice: No. I’m calling to warn you.
Sebastian: About what?
Voice: About waiting too long.
The line went dead.
Sebastian stared at the phone, his reflection warped in the dark screen.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped.
And somewhere in the city, the number 13 was already being written.
Sebastian stared at the photographs spread across his kitchen table.
Three children now.
Three wrists.
14. 15. 16.
The lab report confirmed what his instincts already told him: the tattoos weren’t amateur in the way street tattoos usually were. The ink was clean. Deep. Deliberate. Whoever did this knew exactly how far to push the needle without hesitation.
Which made it worse.
Sebastian: Why brand a kid?
There was no gang symbol attached. No initials. No pattern law enforcement recognized. Just numbers. Sequential. Precise.
He tapped the file with his knuckle.
Sebastian: This isn’t about the kids.
The phone rang again.
He let it ring once. Twice. Then answered.
Sebastian: Ryan.
Captain Morris: We’ve got another one.
Sebastian closed his eyes.
Sebastian: Number?
Captain Morris: Thirteen.
Sebastian: Where?
Captain Morris: East side of the square. Alley behind Market and Main.
Sebastian froze.
Captain Morris: You still with me?
Sebastian: Yeah. I’m on my way.
The building loomed like it always had.
Most people passed it without thinking—brick face darkened by time, windows tall and narrow, stonework heavier than it needed to be. Built back when money had weight and banks were meant to feel like fortresses.
Sebastian knew the history. Everyone in town did.
First a bank.
Then a restaurant and wine garden.
Then… something else.
The sign above the door read:
THE YELLOW CARD CLUB
Private
No hours posted. No advertisements. No reason to be there unless you already were.
Sebastian ducked under the tape.
Officer Kenny was waiting for him, rain dripping off the brim of his cap.
Kenny: Same as the others.
Sebastian didn’t answer. He already knew.
The body was smaller this time.
Not by much.
Sebastian noticed the wrist immediately.
13
Sebastian: That’s not random.
Kenny: We ran it through every database we’ve got. No matches. No known groups.
Sebastian: Of course you didn’t.
Kenny frowned.
Kenny: Sir?
Sebastian straightened and looked up at the building.
Sebastian: Whoever’s doing this isn’t marking ownership.
Kenny: Then what are they doing?
Sebastian: Counting.
Across the street, the door to the Yellow Card Club opened briefly.
Just long enough for Sebastian to see a sliver of warm light spill onto the wet pavement.
A man stepped out. Mid-thirties. Well dressed. Calm. No hurry.
Sebastian felt it then—something he couldn’t name. The sensation you get when someone looks at you like you’re already accounted for.
The man met Sebastian’s eyes.
Smiled.
And went back inside.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened.
Kenny: You know him?
Sebastian: No.
But the truth was worse.
Sebastian had the sudden, unshakable certainty that the man knew him.
Later, the ME would note something strange.
The tattoo wasn’t done post-mortem.
It had been there before the child died.
Which meant the number wasn’t a mark of death.
It was a measurement.
And somewhere in the city, people with lower numbers were watching this unfold with patience.
Because the cops didn’t know the Unbound.
They didn’t know that numbers weren’t assigned lightly.
And they didn’t know that children didn’t start at sixteen unless someone was making a statement.
Forty – five year old Detective Sebastian Ryan opens the door of his squad car and steps out as a light mist of rain falls at an angle from the dark starless sky. The alleyway was lit only by a lone streetlight; while the red and blue lights from the other squad cars that were also on scene made red and blue erratic patterns on the walls and grassy lawns of the nearby houses. He stands there beside his car while his coat and hat slowly get wet and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. He bangs the cigarette pack onto his wrist and pulls a lone cigarette out. Putting the pack back into his pocket he then reaches for his lighter. Lighting the cigarette up, he locks his vehicle and slowly makes his way past the police tape to where the other officers are standing.
The officers stood there, in silence as they peered down at a small lifeless body
Sebastian: What do you have here?
Officer Kenny: Child, male, around six years of age
Officer Markus turned towards Detective Sebastian, his face was pale and emotionless; as if he had seen some unseen horror.
Markus: Don't know what happened, all I know is some sick bastard sliced this poor kid up.
Detective Sebastian squatted down onto the wet ground to take a closer look at the body. The body was indeed that of a young child – His clothes were torn to shreds; he laid naked in a pool of blood, water, guts and excrement. A horrible foul stench permeated off of the body, as if it had been there for a while. The detective quickly rose to his feet to get away from the horrible smell.
Sebastian: Jesus fucking Christ how long has this body been laying here.
Markus: The neighbors just noticed it, they claim it wasn’t here this afternoon.
Sebastian: it smells like he had been dead for a while, do you think the body was dumped off?
Kenny: Don’t know yet the lab boys are on their way to take samples and photos.
Sebastian: Who found the body?
Markus: The neighbor, he was taking the trash out and smelled the odor.
Sebastian: So he didn’t see or hear anything today to correspond to this.
Markus: No, but we did find something.
Sebastian: Yeah, what is it?
Markus: This little kid had a tattoo.
Sebastian: A tattoo? Who let’s their six year old get a fucking tattoo?
Markus: Don’t know, we do know that the only thing we can ID the kid with.
Sebastian: So call all the tattoo shops up and see if they did the job, what was it a tattoo of?
Markus: The tattoo was that of the number 16.
The rain seemed to thicken after Markus said it, as if the sky itself didn’t like the number.
Sebastian stared down at the body again. Six years old. Maybe younger. The skin around the tattoo was raw, inflamed, as if it hadn’t healed properly—or as if it had been done recently, hurriedly.
Sebastian: Where was it?
Markus: Inside the left wrist.
Sebastian crouched again, forcing himself to ignore the smell. He gently lifted the boy’s arm. The tattoo was crude. Black ink. Uneven lines. No flourish. Just the number.
16
Sebastian felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Sebastian: That wasn’t done at a shop.
Kenny: That’s what we figured.
Sebastian stood slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. He’d been a cop long enough to know the difference between violence born of rage and violence born of purpose. This wasn’t random. This was careful. Too careful.
Sebastian: Bag the area. I want canvassing pushed out three blocks in every direction. Somebody saw something—even if they don’t know they did.
Markus nodded but didn’t move right away.
Markus: Detective… this isn’t the first one.
Sebastian’s hands stopped.
Sebastian: What do you mean, not the first one?
Markus swallowed. Rain traced lines down his face, making him look like he was sweating fear.
Markus: There was another body last month. Different district. Same age range. Same… markings.
Sebastian: Why the hell wasn’t I notified?
Markus: Different jurisdiction. Ruled a runaway at first. No tattoo noticed until autopsy.
Sebastian felt the cigarette between his fingers burn down to the filter. He dropped it into a puddle and crushed it under his heel.
Sebastian: And the number?
Markus hesitated.
Markus: Fifteen.
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the rain and the faint crackle of radios murmuring things that didn’t matter.
Sebastian: Get me the case file. Tonight.
Markus: Yes sir.
Sebastian turned away from the body, but the image followed him anyway. Numbers. Children. Sequence.
A count.
Back in his car, Sebastian sat with the engine off, rain tapping against the windshield like fingers asking to be let in. He didn’t start the car right away. He just sat there, staring through the glass, watching the red and blue lights smear into colorless streaks.
He thought of his own son.
Six years old. Same age. Same wrists.
Sebastian reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a worn photograph. His boy at the lake, grinning, holding a fish he was too proud of.
He closed the compartment hard.
The file arrived at his apartment just after midnight.
Two previous victims.
Both male.
Both between five and seven.
Both found within hours of death.
Both bearing numbers tattooed on the wrist.
15.
14.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair.
They were counting down.
The question wasn’t why yet.
The question was to what.
He didn’t sleep.
At 3:17 a.m., his phone rang.
Sebastian: Ryan.
Voice on the other end, low, controlled: Detective Sebastian Ryan. You’re not hard to find.
Sebastian straightened.
Sebastian: Who is this?
Voice: Someone who wanted to make sure you were paying attention.
Sebastian: You calling to confess?
A pause. Then a soft laugh.
Voice: No. I’m calling to warn you.
Sebastian: About what?
Voice: About waiting too long.
The line went dead.
Sebastian stared at the phone, his reflection warped in the dark screen.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped.
And somewhere in the city, the number 13 was already being written.
Sebastian stared at the photographs spread across his kitchen table.
Three children now.
Three wrists.
14. 15. 16.
The lab report confirmed what his instincts already told him: the tattoos weren’t amateur in the way street tattoos usually were. The ink was clean. Deep. Deliberate. Whoever did this knew exactly how far to push the needle without hesitation.
Which made it worse.
Sebastian: Why brand a kid?
There was no gang symbol attached. No initials. No pattern law enforcement recognized. Just numbers. Sequential. Precise.
He tapped the file with his knuckle.
Sebastian: This isn’t about the kids.
The phone rang again.
He let it ring once. Twice. Then answered.
Sebastian: Ryan.
Captain Morris: We’ve got another one.
Sebastian closed his eyes.
Sebastian: Number?
Captain Morris: Thirteen.
Sebastian: Where?
Captain Morris: East side of the square. Alley behind Market and Main.
Sebastian froze.
Captain Morris: You still with me?
Sebastian: Yeah. I’m on my way.
The building loomed like it always had.
Most people passed it without thinking—brick face darkened by time, windows tall and narrow, stonework heavier than it needed to be. Built back when money had weight and banks were meant to feel like fortresses.
Sebastian knew the history. Everyone in town did.
First a bank.
Then a restaurant and wine garden.
Then… something else.
The sign above the door read:
THE YELLOW CARD CLUB
Private
No hours posted. No advertisements. No reason to be there unless you already were.
Sebastian ducked under the tape.
Officer Kenny was waiting for him, rain dripping off the brim of his cap.
Kenny: Same as the others.
Sebastian didn’t answer. He already knew.
The body was smaller this time.
Not by much.
Sebastian noticed the wrist immediately.
13
Sebastian: That’s not random.
Kenny: We ran it through every database we’ve got. No matches. No known groups.
Sebastian: Of course you didn’t.
Kenny frowned.
Kenny: Sir?
Sebastian straightened and looked up at the building.
Sebastian: Whoever’s doing this isn’t marking ownership.
Kenny: Then what are they doing?
Sebastian: Counting.
Across the street, the door to the Yellow Card Club opened briefly.
Just long enough for Sebastian to see a sliver of warm light spill onto the wet pavement.
A man stepped out. Mid-thirties. Well dressed. Calm. No hurry.
Sebastian felt it then—something he couldn’t name. The sensation you get when someone looks at you like you’re already accounted for.
The man met Sebastian’s eyes.
Smiled.
And went back inside.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened.
Kenny: You know him?
Sebastian: No.
But the truth was worse.
Sebastian had the sudden, unshakable certainty that the man knew him.
Later, the ME would note something strange.
The tattoo wasn’t done post-mortem.
It had been there before the child died.
Which meant the number wasn’t a mark of death.
It was a measurement.
And somewhere in the city, people with lower numbers were watching this unfold with patience.
Because the cops didn’t know the Unbound.
They didn’t know that numbers weren’t assigned lightly.
And they didn’t know that children didn’t start at sixteen unless someone was making a statement.
